Life Inside A Foam Casing
That very first word. The initial, tentative steps. The play in which they're the third tree on the right, or the recital where they they hit every note despite your fears they'd freeze.
There are many proud-parent moments. Some are universal and many are unique, coming as your child's proclivities and abilities become more pronounced. For my daughter, many happened on the skating rink. For my son, on Little League diamonds and high school stages. For both, they came inside giant cylinders of foam, their accomplishments playing out in front of thousands at Miller Park.
These the the confessions of a parent of Klement's Racing Sausages, inspired by my boy's OnMilwaukee.com tell-all. He answers many of the common questions fans have while sharing insights unique to the proud and few who have donned the costume.
Both kids worked on The Brew Crew, the gaggle of high school and college students who tend to various Miller Park attractions. Some start out doing Fan Foto before advancing to one of the play areas to serve as makeshift babysitters. They don't know their assignments until they punch in that day, which means there's no way they'd know in advance they'd get the nod and be one of the racing links.
If the fates worked out, I'd be in the stands when one of them was working a game and the text would come--I'm racing today. At the appointed hour, while other fans would be making their bets and angling for a good view, I'd be the one casing the sausage's feet, trying to recognize shoes: is that the chorizo wearing the same sneakers I tripped over last night in the family room?
Ready? Set? Go!
The butterflies continue as your kid comes down the line. Lord, please don't let them take a digger. God, please don't have a player go all Randall Simon on the fruit of my loins.
I didn't even care if they won (they didn't). I just didn't want an incident that would go viral.
My son came closest with a pratfall that made ESPN's Not Top 10, which he details in his article.
My daughter won't be the first woman to play Major League Baseball and my son's baseball career ended in eighth grade. Both made me proud, though, in the green cathedral that is Miller Park. They didn't get the clutch hit that won game seven of the World Series, or the sliding catch that saved a no-hitter.
They wore the sausage suit, and they did so with pride. Dad couldn't be more proud.