I stripped off the ridiculous costume and headed for the shower. I
had to get it off. All of it—the sweat, the stink, and that
feeling like I’d just done something reprehensible. I needed
refuge.
Whatever part of me that got me here, the one that said, “Yeah,
that’s a good idea—it’ll be fun, you should do it,” was totally
fucking wrong. But I suppose you never really know what it’s like until
you strap on those two-foot-long shoes, put on the mask, and humiliate
yourself before an audience of a few thousand. So thanks a lot, spirit
of adventure. We can now cross “professional mascot” off the list.
At first I was surprised that the LumberJax, Portland’s professional
lacrosse team, actually agreed to let me wear their mascot’s costume
during a game. In fact, I still am. The games themselves are an odd,
yet enjoyable spectacle—somewhat like hockey, but with shorts and
without skates. Metal songs blast during the game and fights are
strongly encouraged.
The mascot’s name is Jaxon. He’s a seven-foot-tall lumberjack in
shredded jean shorts and a flannel. He’s got stubble, a beanie, and a
maniacal grin. I picture him having been awake for two weeks straight
on some horrible, twisted meth binge.
At the Rose Garden loading dock two people are waiting for me. There
was a woman from marketing with a schedule—my handler—and
Trampus, the usual mascot. “Call me T,” he kept telling people we
encountered. It seemed strange that they hadn’t already met.
“T” is oddly mellow. Sipping his cup of soda he tells me about his
first mascot gig as Larry the Cucumber. He doesn’t seem to mind that
I’ll be handling his job for a bit, as if he’s happy to be getting a
break. Not a good sign.
They park me in a dressing room. I’m supposed to be suited up in 10
minutes, but no one knows where the costume is. They find the
T-shirt gun,
but nobody seems ready to let me touch it. So there
we are, pacing around the dressing room.
Is this where they keep the rock stars? Does Anthony Kiedis do his
make-up in these mirrors? Has Elton John shat here? Finally a massive
duffle bag containing the suit arrives and I’m saved from pondering
such ridiculously stupid things.
The moment “T” unzips the bag I can smell it. Months, maybe years of
stale, moldy sweat.
“Jesus, you guys gotta have this thing drycleaned,” I blurt out.
“We can’t,” the handler says. I find this very hard to believe.
Forget the stink—on with it. Here we go. Big floppy cut-off
jean shorts, a muscle suit, and a flannel—hey, at least it’s not
a trail cat or a sassy bear. God, though, it really reeks.
The boots are like clown shoes only bigger, and the weak straps
barely keep them on. I picture myself tripping, slamming awkwardly into
the AstroTurf as the head pops off and rolls away.
Back at it. Put it on. The gloves, now the mask. Staring out through
the grinning teeth, I can’t see much. It’s stuffy. The
sweat smell
drifts up and gets trapped inside the mask.
“First we’ve got a meet ‘n’ greet with
the owner’s kids,” the
handler says. “It’s their birthday and you’re going to take
some
pictures.”
WHAT?! The owner’s kids?! That’s where we’re starting? Great. Just
fucking great. I can hardly move. I probably look drunk.
The kids aren’t here yet, but in the tunnels people are starting to
mill around—players, refs, photographers, cheerleaders, and the
like. It’s getting hot. I take the mask off. “YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” the
handler bristles. Great. So much for fresh air.
Finally the owner’s kids show up with what looks like mom and
grandma. One
last word of advice from the handler as she shuttles
me over to them: “Don’t say anything!” Great.
High-fives and bad shaky dancing with the kids. I pick them up, one
in each arm, for a photo. Grandma doesn’t know how to work the camera.
I’m standing there with these two children in my arms and she’s
fumbling. It’s troublesome. Finally the shutter snaps and I set them
down. Now the sweating truly begins. Underneath all the fake muscles
and mask it’s a sauna. Soon sweat’ll be dripping off my nose and into
my eyes like a faucet.
All of a sudden 200 kids start parading down the tunnel. Oh Jesus.
I’m trapped. High-fives and machine-gun punches and more bad dancing.
Not used to expressing myself so physically, I find myself making
strange faces through the mask that no one can see.
The kids seem happy enough. One little boy, maybe nine years old,
wraps himself around my leg for a hug.
“Ewww, YOU STINK!” he says before cowering away. I do indeed,
son. Terribly.
The kids are all around me now and they’re getting older. Oh no…
teens. The pimply faced older ones. The ones that are too cool
to be here, and yet here they are. They surround me, start with a sort
of group hug that turns into a half-hearted smash. Then they start
jabbing.
They’re fucking with me and hell, they should be. Mercifully, they
eventually
become bored with my humiliation and
buzz off.
Onto the field for introductions. “T” has one last bit of advice:
“Just dance around and go crazy! Remember, you’re anonymous in there.
When I put the mask on it
changes me!”
Suddenly, the lights are low and the music is blasting and I’m in
the middle of the field. The players run through the tunnel and past me
for high-fives. Some diss me and skip it, while others deliver thumping
body checks. Thanks dudes.
Is anyone looking at me here on the field? Do they care? I can’t see
a damn thing with this mask on—not into the stands anyway. It’s
tough to know what to do without seeing the response. Sweat getting out
of control now. Totally soaked. Stinging saltiness is in my eyes. I
wonder if I’ll leave a puddle.
Off the field and back into the tunnels. The handler’s leading me
through the dark back alleys and she’s got a list of things we’ve got
to do—unfortunately I stopped caring about 20 minutes ago.
It’s some kid’s birthday and we’ve got another meet ‘n’ greet. I
feel like a whore. But it’s about to get worse. At the next station I’m
to do a credit card promo. Kill me now.
Now, in the main concourse, kids want attention while teens want my
butt. The guys are kicking it and the girls are grabbing. This can’t
end soon enough.
Next we’re supposed to upgrade some customers to better seats. It’s
the boy’s birthday and his mom is super hot. To him, however, I am
about as exciting as a plate of broccoli with a side of homework. I’m
dancing and disgusted.
Moments later I’m in the stands alone. People keep shouting for my
attention. They want me to dance or rock out or give high-fives. The
many grown men calling my name confound me. “HEY JAXON!” I turn around
and there he is, wide-eyed and 40. Thumbs up, bro! It’s
inexplicable.
The clock is crawling. Why are there so many stops in play!? Get me
out of here! Time hasn’t moved so slowly since grade school—like
waiting for that clock to hit 3 pm to set me free. Go, damn you,
GO!
Finally we’re headed back to the dressing room. I give “T” the suit.
It’s drenched. I have no idea how he does this, or why he’d want to.
Perhaps the anonymity gives him some power or high he can’t find
elsewhere. But despite the cloak, that same anonymity couldn’t save me
from feeling hopelessly degraded. People keep asking me if I’ve got
some newfound respect for the people underneath the mask. All I can say
is that I’m not the right man for the job.
With my head slung low, I hit the showers, needing much more than
water to wash myself clean.