Talkin' Baseball: Eating for the cycle

My baseball career is devoid of great moments: no game-winning homers, no runners gunned down at the plate, nary a side struck out. And that’s how it’s going to stay now that I'm past the 30-years-old mark, where the realization that the ceiling for hard work and a mitt full of smartass comments will always be the end of the bench. But that doesn’t mean I have to quit trying to achieve something. During the Crew's game against the Diamondbacks at Miller Park, I decided to take my fandom to a place only the unhealthiest dare tread; I would attempt to eat all five sausages—brat, Polish, Italian, chorizo, and hot dog—in one game.

Hitting for the cycle (single, double, triple, home run) is one of the all-time great single-game feats. It’s not as rare as an unassisted triple play, but it’s right up there with a no-hitter. Since 1876, there’ve only been 286 cycles and 257 no-hitters—roughly two per year. I’ve never had the power to hit for the cycle in any beer league softball game, but eating for the cycle? Now that’s in my blood. My grandma lived on the south side of Milwaukee her entire life, and along with her 14-letter alphabet soup surname (Niedzialkowski), I don’t remember a time when there weren’t at least two rings of Polish sausage cooking on her stove. You might even say this is my destiny.

Since I couldn’t find any guidelines for this kind of record, I made up three rules: 1. All food would be consumed between the starting lineup announcements and the final out in the 9th inning; 2. I’d dress all five sausages with the same condiments I normally would (sauerkraut, raw onions, Secret Stadium Sauce and/or ketchup, and mustard); 3. No concession runs while the Brewers were batting. Here’s how it all down:

3:40 p.m.: I leave for the game. I asked my CPA friend to join me to lend some formality to the proceedings. He’s not PricewaterhouseCoopers, but then again this isn’t the Oscars. Overall, I feel good. I prepped for the task by taking a 13-mile bike ride and eating nothing but a bowl of cereal and a salad. Training, baby, training.

4:00 p.m.: With some trepidation, I look up the “nutrition facts” on the Klement’s website. They don’t have all five sausages listed, but I estimate I’ll be consuming in the neighborhood of 100 grams of fat and 1,200 calories (not including beer). I feel a few new chest hairs sprouting.

4:55 p.m.: There’s no traffic whatsoever, so I have an hour to kill before the first pitch. I wander the stadium creating a game plan. The Polish is my favorite, so it’s a natural for the five-hole. Hot dogs are the least interesting, and I’ve never had a chorizo at Miller Park. Mystery abounds. That settles it: hot dog and chorizo to start.

5:57 p.m.: I had no idea you could order a chorizo on either a bun or a tortilla. Miller Park, I love you. I opt for the bun, along with pico de gallo and sauerkraut. If I’m going to do this, I might as well take it balls deep.

6:03 p.m.: And we’re off! I’m starving, so the first two go down with ease. My cohort, who was making fun of me earlier, says, “Those look really good. I’m going to go get some.” Damn right, you are. Who’s the idiot now?

6:05 p.m.: I notice Chris Duffy and Craig Counsell are starting. This doesn’t bode well. The guy sitting behind me says, “Cool, Duffy is good.” Then he follows it up with an equally stupid comment. “So are the D-Backs. They made the playoffs and everything last year.” Um, no they didn’t. For a task this ridiculous, I’m apparently sitting in the right section.

6:24 p.m.: Braden Looper and Dan Haren are absolutely dealing. I’m initially excited for a pitchers’ duel until I realize the game will be over in less than two hours at this pace. Is Eric Gagne available for a mid-game signing?

6:25 p.m.: Top of the 2nd, brat time. I’m not at all hungry, but I figure if I frontload my action, it’ll make the last two easier.

6:33 p.m.: Looper’s looking like Sandy Koufax. Can someone please get a hit? Anyone?

6:40 p.m.: The brat is down, and I’m already full. I’m noticeably slowing down, too—by the end, my bun was soggy with Secret Stadium Sauce. Not pleasant.

6:50 p.m.: Another one-two-three inning. God help me.

6:58 p.m.: “I like pitchers’ duels,” my friend says. “And the speed of the game will be a good element for your article.” He drove, so I refrain from giving him the finger.

7:11 p.m.: D-Backs score three in the 5th, keyed by Looper not covering first base in an obvious sacrifice situation. I’m certainly coming down with heartburn.

7:13 p.m.: Bill Hall, Jason Kendall, and Looper are due up, and if I’m going to stay on pace, I need to get another sausage down in the top of the next inning. I’m sure those three will get tons of hits and give me some extra rest.

7:23 p.m.: Yup. Ground out, line out, and strikeout. I’m once again wandering the concourse in the top of the 6th. Next up, Italian. The pleasant lady I’d bought my last two sausages from has no line. I still choose a different vender who’s stacked three-deep with frat boys because, for some reason, I’m worried a person I’ll never see again will think less of me.

7:26 p.m.: What am I thinking? I have to watch the sausage race on the concourse monitor. The Italian wins by a ton. I look for meaning in the symmetry, but find none.

7:30 p.m.: I get back to my seat and “Kickstart My Heart” is playing on the P.A. Now the universe is fucking with me. I eat the Italian as fast as I can shovel it in.

7:41 p.m.: I’m eavesdropping on the couple sitting next to me, and hear this:

Guy: “Burger King has that new steakhouse burger, you want to go?”

Girl: “I don’t want to eat dinner at BK.”

Ah yes, date night in Milwaukee.

7:51 p.m.: Casey McGehee loses the handle on his bat and nearly decapitates a woman in the first row. Why couldn’t it have made its way up to the second deck and drilled me in the temple?

8:02 p.m.: I’m sure my breath could strip paint right now.

8:10 p.m.: Top of the 9th. It’s now or never, even though I’m already glowing from the nitrates.

8:20 p.m.: I get the Polish down, but I don’t think I’ve taken a breath for the last five minutes.

8:22: p.m.: “The Brewers should institute a punch card,” my friend says. “If you eat four sausages, the fifth should be free.” It’s hard to think through this meat headache, but that sounds like an excellent plan. If anyone from the Brewers is reading this, you can steal that idea in exchange for a few tickets.

8:30 p.m.: The game mercifully ends. The Brewers lose 4-1, and I’ve moved up the timetable for my first angioplasty by roughly five years. My quest is complete, but there’s no joy in Mudville—only gastric distress. As I shuffle out of the stadium, I look forward to a return to mediocrity. That, and a handful of Tums.