The San Diego Chicken: it shoulda been me

Note: I cannot divulge how I came across this story, but as far as I know, it is perhaps true. This is the tale of The Little Rock Rooster, in his own words…

You have heard of The San Diego Chicken? Or The Famous Chicken as he is sometimes referred to?

Well, I refer to him as something else. And by that, I mean something unprintable. You think he’s a lovable goof? The most famous mascot in all the world? The one who spurred the mascot explosion you see through all of professional sports 40 years later? He’s a fraud.

And that should have been me. This is my story.

I was born the only son of a poor poultry farmer in southern Pulaski County, Arkansas. My mom’s last words were “aw shucks, there’s my little chicken nugget” before passing away shortly after my birth. My first playpen was an oversized egg incubator. To say I was hen-pecked as a child would be an understatement. They were my first babysitters. And I’d say boy, my first hero was Foghorn Leghorn.

I was a worrisome child, hence my first nickname: Chicken Little. Other monikers I had to endure were Chickenhead (I wasn’t too smart), Chicken Legs (I was very skinny) and The Red Rooster (I have red hair). And those were the nice ones. I was a forgetful child as well, and my grandma used to tell me, “You’d lose Car w ash w it h pu rcha se Service your head if you were a chicken.” My baseball coach told me too bad I had a weak “chicken wing” every year when he cut me from the team. I had no natural athletic ability, save swinging an axe when it came to slaughtering season, although at a school talent show I once juggled four eggs at once before losing my balance and literally winding up with egg on my face. My dad quickly put an end to the juggling when he found out that each day I was using up one-half of our gross daily product trying to work up an act to impress Little Miss Pullet Pulaski County from down the road.

One day, I had a birdbrained idea. I was tired of always being made fun of just because I grew up with chickens. So with the help of my grandma, I made a superhero costume out of chicken feathers, complete with a comb, beak and even a cape. I called myself The Little Rock Rooster and spouted out a lot of cool facts about chickens, like that they’re the closest living relative to the T-Rex.

At the homecoming football game my senior year, I wore my costume out in public for the first time, eager to show everybody how cool I was. Much to my dismay, nobody took my seriously. They laughed me off the field in shame. But I was determined. I showed up again at the next game, and I got so angry when the other team ridiculed me, I grabbed one of their helmets and hurled it across the field and then furiously kicked dirt at their coach. And all of a sudden… what was that? Do I hear cheering? And nonderisive laughter? Yes, yes, yes, it was!

Each week I would think of something to do to entertain the crowd. One week, I walked back and forth behind the opposing coach, imitating his jiggling potbelly. Another week, I did belly flops into mud puddles. Another time, I tackled a pyramid of cheerleaders. That got me a week’s eggs-pulsion, but the adoration of my schoolmates. Not that it was easy being me. It hurts to get feathers plucked from your butt, and one this time, the other team’s pitcher threw what he later claimed was a wild pitch and drilled me in the beak. But it was worth it. Finally, I was egg-cepted.

I took my act with me to Pulaski County Technical College where I perfected it for two years, even working a few jokes into it. (Q: What do you get when you cross a chick and an alley cat? A: A peeping tom. Buk, buk!) After PCTC, I transferred to San Diego State University, to be close to my grandma, who had moved to the West Coast due to a late-blooming poultry allergy. I put away the costume for a time to keep up with my studies, but I regaled my roommate with stories. I had big plans to take my act to the big leagues after I finished college.

And imagine my surprise, when one night, I turned on the local news to see this goofy-looking chicken mugging for the crowd at a San Diego Padres game. And then there was the late night when I caught my roommate slinking in the door, the big goofy chicken head tucked under his arm. Let’s just say the feathers flew.

The next night, I donned The Little Rock Rooster costume once again and showed up at the Padres game, eager to confront my now nemesis. Footage of the incident has since been destroyed, but let’s just say I got locked up for a period of time. While in the pen, I wrote all the other major league baseball teams about becoming their mascot. I even sent plans for a new bird suit. I made it green. That color suited my mood. But every team told me the same thing, another Chicken wouldn’t fly.

Imagine my surprise when the Philadelphia organization stole my idea to create The Phillie Phanatic. From that day on, I spent my time hatching plans for revenge. On the day I was released, I put my plan into motion, luring both the Chicken and the Phanatic to an old Tyson factory where I lay in wait with a carving knife. Unfortunately, someone sensed there was a fox in the henhouse.

At the hearing, the judge called me a “hard-boiled” criminal who should be salted away for a long, long time. So here I sit on the other side of this chicken wire, telling my story. I still crow about how I could have been The San Diego Chicken, appearing in Wrestlemania, commercials and movies, chirping my way through “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy”, beating up Barney and being voted one of the 100 most powerful people in sports in the 20th century by the Sporting News. Were it not for an evil cock-a-doodle so-and-so, that would have been me.

So watch your back Chicken. I have hatched a most egg-cellent plan. I say, one of these days, Chicken… I say, one of these days, I’m gonna fly this coop…

Brian Miller is a longtime local sports writer and the co-founder of iSportsNorth. He currently resides in Eveleth and can be reached at miller24bri@gmail.com.