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"I was a little bit in awe of him," says Jack Bowen of The Famous Chicken, seen here entertaining at a 1996 Padres game. Stephen Dunn | Getty Sports

My crazy life as 21-year-old road manager for The Famous Chicken

By Jack Bowen | Last updated 7/20/19

In the fall of 1980, Jack Bowen served as road manager for The Famous Chicken, one of the best-known sports entertainers of his time. The experience was life-changing for Bowen. Hilarious, too. Here's his story about working for the bird (real name Ted Giannoulas), as told to Yardbarker's John Banks. The Chicken was inducted into the Mascot Hall of Fame in 2005.

My story about working for The Famous Chicken begins in Morgantown, West Virginia, of all places. The year was 1980, and I was a junior at West Virginia University. In January, I was playing intramural hoops with my buddies at Stansbury Hall, a god-forsaken, dingy place where Jerry West played in the late 1950s. Yup, "The Logo’s" home court.

So I faked a jumper at the top of the key, and this big kid went for my Steph Curry-like move. He was up in the air and then he landed on my back with all his weight. I felt the bones crunch in my right ankle — the worst pain I have felt in my life. I looked down and my foot was not where it was supposed to be. Everyone in the place stopped what they were doing to look at me. I ended up in surgery eight hours afterward.

What a crazy, life-altering moment it turned out to be.

With no clue what my future held, I returned to my hometown in suburban Pittsburgh. I couldn’t go back to school in Morgantown. It was tough enough getting around there on two good legs, let alone with a cast and crutches. I visited my grandfather, “Pops,” a major league lifer. He was a gruff, no-bullshit baseball scout.

Let me tell you about Rex Bowen: He worked with Branch Rickey in the Dodgers organization — yes, the guy who signed Jackie Robinson. My grandfather was voted one of the top-10 scouts of the 20th century by Baseball America. He signed Pirates Hall of Fame second baseman Bill Mazeroski and would have signed future Hall of Famer Al Kaline if the organization had not been so frugal in those years.

“Would you be interested in something baseball-related in Florida?” Pops asked me.

Hell, I’d be interested in anything.

He made a few calls, got me a gig with the Class A Daytona Beach Astros and let me use his condo on the beach. I had it all to myself, and as a single 21-year-old kid down in Florida, I sure enjoyed it there.

I did everything for the Daytona Beach Astros — hit fungoes, threw batting practice, worked the concessions. I learned to work 18-hour days and not blink an eye. The assistant GM was a guy named Mike Spendley, who, like me, enjoyed having a little fun. Sometimes we cracked a beer about noon and went about our day.

It was in May that spring that I first met The Chicken — Ted Giannoulas was his real name.

In 1980, The Chicken was a massive deal. He was in TV commercials, magazines, newspapers. His game routines were crazy: clowning with umpires and fans, kissing cheerleaders, prancing around the field, pretending a ball was an egg that needed hatching. If Twitter had existed in 1980, the hashtag #thechicken would have been trending 365 days a year.

Hours before our game, we showed The Chicken around the park. He looked sloppy out of uniform, but he wasn’t worried about his appearance. He stood about 5-foot-5 and had a black mustache. But man, that guy was in shape. If you saw his act, you knew he had to be. I was a little bit in awe of him.

In 1982, The Famous Chicken got playful with San Diego Padres owner Ray Kroc, the founder of McDonald's, at a baseball game. Kroc's wife Joan seems amused. Getty Images

The Famous Chicken was big beyond the borders of the United States. In 1983, he appeared at an Easter show in Sydney, Australia. Alan Gilbert Purcell/Fairfax Media via Getty Images

One thing I learned quickly about The Chicken: Don’t call him a mascot. The Chicken prided himself on being an entertainer, not a damned mascot like the Phillie Phanatic. Don’t call him the San Diego Chicken either. He was The Chicken. And the guy sure had a temper, too — I found out about that a little bit later.

The Chicken was a supreme perfectionist. He never half-assed anything. Before he did his thing at our minor league game, he scouted the place, studied the field. He was a student of the game, so to speak.

Back in those days, he made big bucks too. His fee for an amusement park, shopping center opening or minor league baseball was $3,500; it was $7,500 for a game in the NBA, NHL, MLB or NFL. And he never took a night off. That’s how he became a millionaire.

Fast forward to July 1980: My buddy Mike is now The Chicken’s business manager. The Chicken needs a road manager — he asks me if I wanted the gig. I take it, leaving behind a longtime girlfriend, and fly from Pittsburgh to San Diego. I got an apartment near the parking lot of Jack Murphy Stadium, where the Padres played at the time.

The next thing I know, I’m on a red-eye flight to New York for a ribbon-cutting ceremony for The Chicken at Trailways bus line. Everyone wanted a piece of the guy. Ten minutes after The Chicken cut the ribbon — I quickly pocketed the check for $3,500 — we’re off for cocktail hour at Tavern On The Green in Central Park. I am a kid talking there with CBS executives, who are throwing ideas for The Chicken at me.

“How about a show for him?” they ask me. It was insane.

We opened an amusement park in Hot Springs, Arkansas and a shopping mall in Colorado Springs. And the sport events — oh, man — the memories from them are crazy. Ugly, too. They really stressed me out.

At a Milwaukee Bucks preseason game, we got picked up in a Winnebago with an open bar, and apparently unlimited bratwurst, and got a tour of the city. Chamber of Commerce thing, I guess. The head of security there knew Ted could be, ah, volatile once he put on the chicken suit. He was a mild-mannered guy outside it. The Bucks mascot, Bango, had recently been fired for giving the middle finger to a family.

“Please tell Ted to be on his best behavior,” the security guard tells me. Oh. My. Gawd. Ted, by the way, hated Bango.

In Cincinnati for a Reds game, we had a police escort. I was riding in a stretch limo with The Chicken. “Pops” was still working for the Reds. We pull up to the stadium in the limo, and he’s standing 2 feet away.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks me. He was amazed.

The worst part about the sports events was getting from one spot in a stadium or arena to another. Soon after a few kids saw The Chicken, a swarm of them — hundreds of them — would surround him. They’d pull his tail, pull his chicken foot. My job was to keep them from doing that. I did the best I could, but it was almost impossible.

The Famous Chicken, seen here at a Major League Baseball game in 1979, often interacted with fans. Getty Images

The Chicken even got a hug from President Bush at a T-Ball event at the White House in 2001. As road manager for the bird, Jack Bowen sometimes struggled to keep kids away from his fine-feathered friend. Stephen Jaffe/AFP/Getty Images

In Atlanta for a Hawks opener, I realized my time with The Chicken was running out. I was making 12 grand, which seemed like a ton to me. We’re at a game in the Omni — about 15,000 fans are there. Shortly before halftime, I had to head up to the press box to put a cassette tape of “The Wanderer” into the system to play The Chicken’s music for his routine. These were low-tech days. Ted’s dressed in some leather suit getup. But I can’t get upstairs in time, and I had no security to take me up there.

I was 30 seconds late putting the music in the system. And Ted was pissed. In the locker room after the game, The Chicken screams at me, “You can’t be f------ late!” He takes off his web foot and wings it in my direction. Then comes a wing. I knew it was time for me to get on with my life’s work.

Back in San Diego, I told The Chicken I was done. And he was good with it; very gracious. And you know what? This whole story that began on a gloomy basketball court in West Virginia led to a lot of great things in my life. In a crazy way, it led to me meeting my wife, having a family and getting a great job scouting in Major League Baseball.

So here’s to you, Ted Giannoulas, Mascot Hall of Famer.

Whoops.

Postscript: Now semi-retired, The Famous Chicken, 64, is scheduled to make an appearance at a minor league baseball game in Amarillo, Texas, on Wednesday night.

Jack Bowen, a Pittsburgh-area resident, has scouted in Major League Baseball for 35 years, 21 with the Pittsburgh Pirates.

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