Link to my latest project, Play Ball.  The stories and lives of baseball umpires.

Thanks for checking out the Website. I've worked as a freelance writer in Milwaukee for more than ten years. Prior to that, I worked in radio news at WTMJ, WAUK, and WISN. Once upon a time, I was on a WQFM morning show, MC and Those Sports Guys.

In sports, I'm a writer for Milwaukee Brewers Gameday Magazine. I've covered the Brewers since 1993. The same year, I started covering the Packers, Bucks, Warriors, (Golden Eagles,) Admirals, Chicago Bulls, (during the Jordan era,) and Chicago Bears. My work has been featured by Major League Baseball in two All-Star magazines, two World Series magazines. I've written for College and Pro Football Weekly, Milwaukee Magazine, Footlights Magazine, Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, Onmilwaukee.com, CNI Newspapers. My radio packages have been heard on Fox Radio, ABC radio, Wisconsin Radio Network.

I've written seven full-length feature film scripts. Most have ended up in the dumper, although one, White Witch, has showed some 'legs' and has made a few studios consider the project. I created, wrote and co-produced a pilot for Major League Baseball, The Call, with Josh Adams and Mindpool Productions. I work with comic/actor Mike Toomey out of Chicago. We're shopping a television comedy pilot in Los Angeles.

After graduating from Whitefish Bay High School, I attended UW-Milwaukee, earning B.A. and Masters degrees.

I've been married 16 years to a wonderful person, Kristine. We have two glorious and spirited daughters, Zoe (10) and Rory (9). I love good films, still dabble in radio, enjoy a nice red wine. Deep dish pizza is my drug of choice.

Again, thanks for checking out my site.

Jim

Running the sausage race at Miller Park. (I'm the polish sausage. I came in 3rd.)

And the Wiener Is
Jim Cryns

They’re hard to miss, four larger than life personas, each tall enough to make Shaq look like a point guard. So recognizable are the racing sausages at Miller Park, a visiting Canadian journalist recently asked me in broken English, "do they still run races with the meats?" "Yup," I proudly replied, feeling the boost of adrenaline that only international notoriety can offer. "At the end of the sixth inning," I reminded him, still flush with local pride.

Where else can you witness the surreal image of luncheon meats racing on a warning track? If you’re like me, it’s a good bet you’ve wondered who owns the human portion (legs), that protrude from the bottom of the costumes of the Polish sausage, the Italian Sausage, the Hot Dog, and the Bratwurst.

Yes, I had the pleasure of portraying the Polish Sausage after the sixth inning of a Cubs game at Miller Park. The idea of running a race against ‘lunch’ was something I couldn’t pass up. The regular Polish sausage pulled a hamstring and as they would with a thoroughbred at Arlington Park, officials were forced, as protocol dictates, to put the sausage out of his misery. They quickly, smoked and packaged him for immediate distribution.

The races have become renown throughout the country. In the early '90s, the races began to appear on what the Wizard of Oz would have referred to as the ‘clinking, clanking, clattering, collection of caliginous junk’ known as the scoreboard in the old County Stadium. By the mid-'90s, Brewers Vice President of Marketing, Laurel Prieb, knew the organization had something. The sausages as we now know them emerged from left field on Sunday afternoons, as Prieb relates, ‘whenever we perceived that there would be more kids in the stands. We used the calendar on a selective basis to determine when more kids would be in the stands.’ In 2000, the last year at County Stadium, the sausages began to race every game day. "Actually bringing them off the scoreboard might have started as a joke," says Prieb. "The more we talked about it, the more we thought, why not? Let's be the first. We haven't regretted it yet "They've become celebrities statewide, kids ask for autographs," Prieb adds.

Recently, I spoke with former Brewers Mike Matheny and Fernando Vina when they were in town with their current team, the St. Louis Cardinals. Matheny was traded before he got a chance to see the races in person at County Stadium. I patiently waited for other reporters to leave the area as my hard-hitting sausage questions were better left for a minimal audience. It’s tough to segue from ‘how’s your throwing shoulder,’ to ‘do you think it would have been a closer race if you hadn’t run backward ?’ Matheny, who’s a very intelligent guy, as far as ball players go, understood the commercial appeal of the sausages. "I know the sausages developed quite a following, selling dolls and merchandise in the city. I never had a chance to experience it firsthand, but I know it’s a big part of culture and German background and heritage in Milwaukee, a sort of pride in history," Matheny explained. Quite a bit of sausage talk, I thought, from a guy getting dressed for a major league game. Fernando Vina knew the Brewers had something special with the races. "I think that’s what people remember when they come here. It’s something special to bring into the new place, this beautiful stadium." Vina says he and some of the other players cheered regularly for their favorite character. "It’s something I remember because it was funny watching them race." Hideo Nomo, dressed as the Italian sausage, won the dash from the leftfield corner at County Stadium to home plate. Nomo, who apparently loved the sausage race when pitching for the Brewers. "This is unique, only done here," Nomo said, gently sidestepping the prospect of racing Sushi entirely.

This is where my journey begins. I’ve written a few articles on behind the scene topics with the Brewers. What it’s like to work in the visiting clubhouse, watching a game with Bernie Brewer from his chalet at County Stadium. I thought this to be the natural progression in George Plimpton-like experiences. After being cleared by Interpol, fingerprinted by local and team officials, word came down that I’d be allowed to compete. Oh yeah, before we go any further, as far as I know, the race isn’t fixed. I was hoping to cross the finish line first, as any competitive sausage would, but it was clear nobody was going to cut me any slack if I couldn’t run my best with the cumbersome and oversized tubular structure on my back. (He ain’t heavy, he’s my sausage.)

On the evening I ran the race, the Italian Sausage was represented by a Chicago Cubs batboy. I’m guessing they let him run the race without the rigors of the full body search I was subjected to. They fell short of giving me a urinalysis, the kind in which Olympians are mandated to participate. Other participants in my race, a male cheerleader, for Marquette University, and another female Marquette student, both members of the ‘Superteam.’ The ‘Superteam’ does all of the fun stuff around the park like throwing T- shirts to the crowd, corralling the foul balls during the game, opening and closing the roof at unscheduled times for laughs. I was escorted to the dressing room at the top of the 4th inning. Once inside, I met a bunch of ‘workers’ spending their time in front of a monitor watching the Brewers and Cubs playing just a few hundred feet away. It’s good work, if you can get it.

After a couple of innings of small talk, it was time to put on our sausage suits. I had chosen the Polish Sausage a couple of days earlier, not because I was impressed with his look, (in retrospect, I would have chosen any of the other three before the Polish,) but more for the fact that I enjoy Polish Sausages, and the Brewers photographer wanted to make sure a picture was taken of the race for posterity. The facial expression of the Polish resembles a guy that could use a dose of Metamucil more than it does a sausage trying to win a race. Sunglasses, red and blue stripes on his shirt, blue pants ... I looked like a goof, but as they say, hindsight is 20-20.

My first thought as I squeezed myself into the costume, was claustrophobia. Really. This was a cramped tube with shoulder pads, and the whole thing clung to me like a wet body- girdle. Feeling like an 18th century courtesan bound in a corset, I struggled for breath. I didn’t want to appear like a novice, but this was a tight fit. And the rig was heavy too. I was told that the costume weighed in at about 25 pounds, but it felt like more. I felt like Dolly Parton without the hair.

"Superteam" spokespeople have the costumes at a towering 7’3" measuring from the top of the costumed head to the top of the knee of whomever is running the race. That made me about 9’3" in sneakers. An easy target for low flying planes or errant warm up pitches. I had nightmares of ending up like the bull mascot in Bull Durham, getting drilled with a fastball as I ran behind home plate. Enough about height, what about visibility? "You can’t see in those things," Geoff Jenkins remarked. Truer words were never spoken. Once inside this huge cigar case, you’ve got a grid the size of a cantaloupe in front of you through which you are afforded a glimpse of the outside world. It’s like looking through a pasta strainer. I couldn’t even see my arms at my side. I spent some time testing the weight distribution. A little tilt here, an adjustment there. My glasses fell off in the corridor leading to the left field entrance. I should have recognized this as an omen.

The four of us entered the pen in left field at the top of the sixth inning. We weren’t scheduled to race until after the inning was over. You have to get there early because there could be six quick outs, and you don’t want to be caught in the dressing room with your lederhosen down around your ankles. Two of the more experienced sausages started to warm up by running back and forth, around the Harley Davidson motorcycle that goes out during pitching changes. I mimicked their actions, not wanting to look like the odd sausage out. We introduced ourselves to each other, talked about racing protocol, where we would start and finish. We tried to be cordial, but it was clear we didn’t like each other. Soon we would be competitors. You can believe what you wish, but any competitive male wants to win anything he’s involved in. When I saw the Marquette cheerleader warming up, I knew I was in trouble. That’s when I knew they weren’t going to let me win. They knew I was doing a story on this and somewhere, high above in the Superteam hierarchy, the no-fix sign order had been given. I remember days in County Stadium when these sausages ran the wrong way and gently nudged each other while strolling towards the finish line. I knew those days were long gone as I watched the Bratwurst and Italian stretching their legs like runners do before a race.

The last out of the sixth inning was made, I don’t remember how as I was getting nervous and praying that I wouldn't fall flat on my face. A week before this race, the Hot Dog did in fact take a nosedive during the race. That was a fate I was determined to avoid. We were ushered out onto the field. I vaguely remember the P.A. announcer introducing the sausages individually, although I truly couldn’t hear him. I told some family members in the stands that I would do some jumping jacks as we were introduced so they would know it was me. As it turns out, your arms can only go so high in the costume and full jumping jacks were impossible. I must have appeared apoplectic with my arms only going up halfway, resembling a cheerleader at the ‘Octogenarian Games." I started moving in exaggerated and ‘cute’ motions that I’d seen other sausages do in years past. Jogging in place, jogging backward and forward, flexing my muscles. Somehow, I knew the race was about to start. Remember, you still can’t see jack on either side, so you don’t know if the other sausages are getting ready to race or commiserating with fans in the stands. I leaned forward, trying to get an edge.

Then the race started. "They’re off!" "Go!" "Run, sausages run!" I honestly don’t remember what was said, I just knew it was time to go. It was difficult to judge how fast I was moving as I was used to gauging my speed against sedentary objects. At that moment, I couldn’t see anything except the reddish gravel on the ground before me. I remember not wanting to look straight ahead in fear I would lose my footing, but I knew I was in the lead. But not for long. One of opposing sausages began to cut in front of me. ‘Fair enough,’ I thought, this is a race. Then another. You’re cognizant that you are running, but your mechanics are all messed up. I felt disoriented, like the costumed Scout dressed as a ham in ‘To Kill a Mockingbird.’ I couldn’t really hear the crowd, and I didn’t dare to look up. All those races I watched from the stands with the sausages gently jogging down the track, kindly bumping into one another, what a bunch of bunk. I was running my buns off. I wanted to cross over and make a move for the lead, but I was afraid of tripping one of the other sausages. I didn’t want to start a fiasco about who tripped whom.

When we reached the visitors dugout, my glasses fell off. Not the Polish Sausage’s glasses, my glasses. I’m not completely blind without them, but it didn’t do wonders for my concentration in the race. I thought about having to look for them after the game, provided Geoff Jenkins didn’t trample them in pursuit of a foul ball. Then I looked down inside the costume, and I saw them trapped against my chest and the costume casing. I reached down with my left arm below the glasses to pin them against my body as I ran. It must have appeared to the crowd that I was clutching my chest attempting to deal with a myocardial infarction. The guy driving the ambulance must have been licking his chops. I imagined a little girl exclaiming in the stands ‘Oh no Mommy, I think the Polish Sausage is having a heart attack’. No, Virginia, the guy in the costume is just a goof trying to prevent his glasses from falling out of his shorts.

Sweating, my heart pounding, winded, disoriented, a little frightened. In short, it was like I was reliving my marriage vows. The other sausages had been toying with me, I realized. They sprinted around home plate and across the finish line. They were slapping hands with fans by the time my casing crossed the finish line. I came in third, as I narrowly beat the girl in the Hot Dog suit. I didn’t really mind losing. I waved to family members on the right field side of the stadium. I needed help pulling off the costume as I arrived under the stands, panting heavily. I felt a sense of accomplishment in not falling on my face, despite being decisively beaten by a cheerleader and a batboy.

What do Geoff Jenkins and Hideo Nomo have that I don’t? Aside from multi-million dollar contracts and steady job records, each of them has a victory in the sausage race. Me, I came in third. Sure, I’m glad I did it, something for me to relate to friends in the future, and I’ve got a picture to prove I was in it. On that special night, with 43,000 fans yelling, cajoling, screaming, I felt like I belonged. As I tell anyone who’ll listen, it’s better to have been a sausage for a day, than be a wiener for life.