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Michael Carter Sports Editor How the Mariner Moose survives nine innings of a baseball game, I'll never know. The night I spent as Dolphie the Dolphin left my body an exhausted, sore heap. During the drive home after a basketball doubleheader, I rode on the freeway wearing a sweat-drenched shirt with the window open - while frost clung to the roof of my car.
The idea had settled into my head two weeks earlier. While sitting on the bleachers preparing my clipboard for my bi-weekly coverage of campus basketball, a large, hunched figure came lurching into the gymnasium underneath a black veil. Moments later the game commentator announced the debut of Shoreline's new mascot. The hidden figure's drape slid to the floor, revealing a balloon-headed dolphin with a dorsal fin slicing out of a puffy yellow jersey. Dolphie had arrived. During game play, I curiously watched as Dolphie strutted around, jinxing the opposing team, throwing candy to the crowd and cheering Shoreline. The cogs in my head started to slowly creek as I began to think about what it would be like to assume such an identity. Several days later, I was nosing around in the SCC Athletic Department, trying to figure out whose permission I needed to take on such an assignment. My quest led me to the office of Steve Eskridge, a physical education teacher and promotional manager for the department.
That evening , I met Eskridge before the women's game, and he led me to his office to get suited up. I put on Dolphie's green Shoreline pants, followed by his yellow puffy jersey. By the time I put on the oversized shoes, I had begun to feel the transformation from man to cartoon. When I put on the bulbous headpiece, I noticed two things: I was already unbearably hot, and the only way I could see was to crane my neck backwards as far as possible. Despite the difficulties of wearing the suit, I tried my best to fulfill the obnoxious mascot role and bounded around before the first game began. I gave out high-fives , danced around to pre-game music and mocked the opposing team. All while cheering on the Dolphins as they warmed up. But soon thereafter, the game started and it was time to really get to work. I tried my best to cheer good plays completed by the Dolphins and make exaggerated complaints whenever the referees made a call against my team. Before long, the first timeout was called and music blasted in the gym, prompting me to spring into action. Not quite sure or confident about what to do, I raced out and did a clumsy jig in my oversized shoes and managed to throw candy to a couple of youngsters before heading back to the sideline. At that moment I realized that whatever I did, no matter how stupid, wasn't really of consequence. Nobody could see my face and nobody knew who I was.
During the first game I even won over a few children who visited me on numerous occasions to get a hug or candy. Although I was enjoying myself, I was growing increasingly weak from the unrelenting heat, and my neck and back were sore from leaning backward to see out of the head. When the first game ended, I headed away for a break with great relief. However, I was needed for the next match 10 minutes later and headed back. During the men's game, I began feeling like a wilted flower. I no longer had the energy to be as goofy, and when I ran out of candy to throw, I was as good as done. For the duration of the game, I remained slumped over by the snack cart trying to cheer and weather the final minutes.
Even the confines of the stagnant, humid basement office felt cool and drafty as I peeled Dolphie's clothing off of my sticky body. One thing I discovered through my trial as Dolphie is that mascots take a mild degree of abuse. I was repeatedly bopped in the nose, and had my fin pulled by children who later punched me in the stomach. A rambunctious fan even had the nerve to tackle me to the hardwood. Even the athletic director, Ken Burrus, got in on the act and smacked me in the head with his bag. When I confronted him about it later that week, he chuckled. "Have you ever seen the San Diego Chicken?" Burrus asked. "He's always getting beat up. It's supposed to be funny!" Although I wouldn't pursue the opportunity again, I gained an infinite respect for those who don the goofy suits during sporting events. Their job is the role of a one-person cheer team without the notions of regret, whose hazing by fans is part of the entertainment value of an event. © 2003 Shoreline Community College™ |
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