Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SATURDAY, July 10, 1993 TAG: 9307120213
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: B1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Jack Bogaczyk
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
That really was chicken feed.
"It's also a poultry sum," he said.
That was 1974, when a radio station manager, double-parked with the engine running, walked into a campus office at San Diego State University, looked at six students who were candidates to help in a summer promotion and decided Giannoulas fit more than the bill.
"I was the smallest one, the only one he thought would fit into the suit," Giannoulas said.
What the journalism major thought would be a two-week job has become a lucrative life spent in fowl territory. He plays to crowds 250 nights a year, like the cackling one he thrilled Friday in his first Salem Municipal Field visit since 1989.
When the temperature approaches 98.6 degrees, or it rains, as it did Friday, the drenched, 10-pound costume can make Chicken soup of an act that's always rated PG. Not that he's unaccustomed to dressing up and playing. As a kid growing up in London, Ontario, he was a hockey goaltender.
Baked, fried or broiled, Giannoulas brings the same strut to the yard. He refuses to serve the fans cold Chicken.
Unlike some other mascots, the Chicken doesn't work with ice packs under his feathers.
He's 38, but a tough old bird.
"The best thing about playing Chicken is the laughs," Giannoulas said before his six-inning appearance. "When people, no matter what the age, react and you get that reaction eliciting from the stands, that's the purest form of thanks.
"It's magical when you see grown-ups reacting like children. I don't know if there's a downside to being the Chicken. The traveling, getting there, isn't as much fun as it once was, but I never get tired of performing."
The money's not bad, either. With a few Chicken scratches on paper, it isn't hard to figure that Giannoulas likely grosses in excess of $2 million annually. He travels in a customized bus befitting a music star. He's billed now as the Famous Chicken.
The adjective has become redundant.
He began his career as the KGB Chicken, then was sued by that radio station when he farmed out his act. He was then the San Diego Chicken. Were he still that, a performer of his stature probably would be purged by the scrimping Padres.
"Probably for an egg to be named later," Giannoulas said.
It's answers like that that help explain Giannoulas' success. His knack for knowing what's funny and contemporary and his appreciation of sports have made his comedy stand up over two decades.
He rarely lays an egg. And any baseball fan who has caught the Chicken understands why he appreciates the fact that he graduated from the same high school - San Diego's Hoover - as Ted Williams.
The difference between the Chicken's act and those of most other mascots is that most others act like humans in a furry or feathered costume. Giannoulas is like a chicken acting like a human being.
He's a fan. He reads box scores. He tells involved players, managers and umpires what he's going to do before he does it. He was the first of his growing menagerie. And he still is the best.
He also steadfastly refuses to come out of character in public. Before Friday's game, Giannoulas walked among the fans incognito. This Chicken not only has lips, but a mustache, too. He's 5-foot-4, about 150 pounds.
David Letterman once tried to get Giannoulas to appear without his feathers. Even a network appearance wasn't enough to get Ted to shed. And there is only one Chicken, no copies.
Next week, the Chicken reaches a new coop. When he appears for the Carolina League's transplanted farm club in Wilmington, Del., his act will have reached its 50th state.
He is scheduled to speak about a Chicken's life early next week at the All-Star FanFest in Baltimore. He also has a new video, "The Chicken's Greatest Hits."
"Rush Limbaugh told me it's the best video he's ever seen," Giannoulas said, "except for his."
That's no yoke.
by CNB