I was among the privileged few who had the honor of sporting one of the Mr. Marker Man costumes at the Inman Real Estate Connect conference a couple weeks ago. Now, I happen to have a pretty respectable mascoteering resumé — yes, I have a full gorilla suit at home in my closet — so I was prepared for some condescension from the conferencegoers. But after the third or fourth comment along the lines of “It’s really pathetic that your job is to wear that thing,” my pride was a bit wounded. There I was, the object of these people’s scorn and abuse, and I was nearly powerless to defend myself: bound equally by a) the unwritten code of the mascot, which states that a noble mascot must bear any and all indignities no matter how humiliating; and b) the fact that the costume restricted my arms so much that I couldn’t even bring my hands together to, say, wield a two-by-four. I mean, the freaking gloves only have four fingers — I can’t even make offensive gestures properly! How am I supposed to express my mascot angst?
Why do mascots lose their cool? What is it about a thin shell of cardboard and green felt that can transform a mild-mannered gentleman into an uncontrollable Marker Maniac? How do we draw the line between good-natured mascot hijinks and criminal deviance, between schmoozing and stalking, between “fun for all ages” and “do not leave alone with your child under any circumstances”? A greenhorn in the legion of Marker Mandom is like a newborn foal taking his first trembling steps while standing on a giant mound of lime Jell-O during a mild earthquake.
Indeed, without proper guidance, we’d all surely have gone the route of Benny Da Bull, who can’t seem to stay out of the headlines: he got nailed for selling weed out of his car in 2004 and then punched an off-duty cop earlier this summer. In the latter incident, the cop apparently took issue with Benny’s riding a mini-motorcycle through a Chicago food festival without the proper permit. Come on, Benny, it’s not rocket science. Even the Atlanta Hawk knows that if a mascot wants to cruise around on a motorized vehicle, he’d better stick to the sidewalk. Unless, that is, he’s T-Rac, the raccoon face of the Tennessee Titans — then he should just aim for the legs of the opposing team’s players. (Why is a raccoon representing the Titans? Turns out the raccoon is Tennessee’s “official wild animal”… and unofficial dinner meat.)
But I digress. Thankfully, the International Mascot Corporation (our manufacturer) did not launch us into the mascosphere emptyhanded. Well aware of the temptations and dangers unique to the mascot lifestyle, IMC includes a Costume Performance Manual with each suit that they ship. Much of the content is dull and uncontroversial — truisms like “You can tip your hat (if you can reach) at ladies, or as a sign of respect” and “Brush out the fur areas with a wire brush” and “Horseplay other than actual promoting can be expensive” and “A good rule of thumb is to try out your talents on a small crowd before attempting national television coverage.” And so on.
No, the real gems are in the sections entitled Dealing with Children and Minor Crisis Situations. “Do not ever forget the magic and wonder you bring to children!” urges the manual. “You fall in the same league as Santa Claus.” Considering picking up a child? Don’t even think about it: “You are awkward and large. You may scare or hurt them, or even drop them because of your large oversized hands.” That’s harsh.
Most importantly, says the manual, don’t play favorites! “Children’s dreams are shattered if they get left out of the fun.” So I guess we’ve figured out what Mr. Marker Man’s superhero power is: shattering children’s dreams. Personally I would have picked flying or X-ray vision, but I don’t wear the pants around here… just the mascot costumes.
The crisis management advice is noteworthy mostly for what it fails to mention. All of the discussion focuses on costume components getting lost, damaged or stolen. That’s great, but what happens when there’s a real crisis? Who do you want in your foxhole? A mascot who knows how to improvise when one of his gloves is missing, or a mascot who knows how to defuse the bomb that’s set to explode as soon as the bus’s speed drops below 55 miles per hour? Things can get hairy out there on the field of battle. One minute you’re a giant frog hopping around and amping up the crowd; and then before you know it, you’re facing 3 to 5 years for misdemeanor molesting. This could be the Mascot Trial of the Century. I’m no lawyer, but I think Reedy Rip’It should go with the “frogs don’t have hands” defense.
It goes both ways, of course. For every mascot story of cop-punching or fan-groping, there’s another in which the mascot plays the role of hapless victim. A few years ago in the Milwaukee Brewers’ traditional sausage race (which, in a fairly transparent ploy to lure more female fans to the stadium, recently introduced a fifth competitor named Chorizo, a.k.a. “El Picante”), the Pittsburgh Pirates’ Randall Simon clocked the Italian sausage with a bat, sending both her and the hot dog tumbling buns over wieners. It was the worst meat-related sports disaster on record since the tragic night in March of 1997 when sumo legend Akebono attended the Westminster Kennel Club’s dog show. Speaking of enormously fat men — in 1988, former Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda confronted the Phillie Phanatic and “bodyslammed it to the turf.” And he still blogs about it!
What prompts this sort of hateful mascophobic behavior? I think Homer puts it best in the classic “Simpsons” episode about Itchy and Scratchy Land: “I kicked a giant mouse in the butt! Do I have to draw you a diagram?”
Maybe that’s just the way things are. As sure as the sun will rise in the morning, some drunk sports fan or conference attendee will bait a well-meaning mascot into losing his cool and going Billy the Marlin on the dude (Billy once shot an elderly Florida Marlins fan in the eye with a T-shirt cannon). Before I go, I want to step back for a moment. Lost in all of this man-versus-mascot and mascot-versus-man aggression is an important truth: deep down, mascots are ordinary people too.
Ordinary people who, given the opportunity, can accomplish extraordinary things.
No, that’s not me in the video. I’ve got too much self-respect for that. But if you need a large, awkward green map marker at your upcoming wedding or bar mitzvah, drop me a line.
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