Mascots

The father of one of my great friends from college was affiliated with the American League. She would call him occasionally to secure seats for her soon-to-be husband and assorted hangers-on (that was me!) at the nearest ballpark, which, in those days, was Baltimore Memorial Stadium. We always had fantastic seats; far better than those any of us could have afforded in those youthful days.

Once, we had seats directly behind the Orioles' dugout. I don't recall who they were playing, but it didn't matter. We could see every move on the field, hear the chatter, feel the swell of the crowd when the home team hit one into the gap or executed a defensive gem. Then, all of a sudden, this enormous shadow passed in front of me, all orange-white-and-black. It was the Orioles mascot.

This was an era shortly after the Famous Chicken for some unexplained reason earned that epithet, bouncing around games in San Diego. Immediately thereafter, this phenomenon took root in ballparks across the land, much like that other scourge of the era, the Wave. I was horrified at this development, nearly as much as at the advent of the designated hitter (quick: name two, just two DH's, who deserve to be in the Hall of Fame; I rest my case).

I savored the Great American Pastime for its nuances, like watching the shortstop take a step or two right or left, depending upon the catcher's signal for the upcoming pitch. I found nothing more ballet-like than the pitcher sprinting to cover first base on a ball hit to the right side of the infield. No sight was more thrilling than that of an outfielder one-hopping a drive, planting his rear foot and throwing a perfect strike to the plate to nail an opposing base runner. A game of geometric precision, played in a park in an urban setting, on a summer afternoon. A game of language and oddities, quirky characters (imagine a football player called Spaceman!). In short, a purist's heaven.

Ah, back to the mascot, the interloper, this interruption to my idyll. During the 7th Inning Stretch (when they played Thank God I'm a Country Boy), this creature was dancing on top of the dugout, then had the gall to touch the top of my head and take off my ball cap. Every fiber of my being told me to avenge this assault upon my person and take down this abomination. However, despite the number of National Bohemians I had already swilled, I thought better of it and just seethed. Decades later, this episode still bothers me.

A few days ago, my charming younger daughter sent me a note, saying that she was thinking of buying this birthday present for me. This is what she sent:

http://www.fanatics.com/MLB_Boston_Red_Sox_Gameday_And_Tailgate/Boston_Red_Sox_Mascot_Pillow_Pet

She could not possibly have been serious. I told her that I had a bone to pick about mascots for years, a story she had not yet heard. Well, now she has.

I'm sure I'll have more comments about the Grand Old Game as the season progresses. For now, I am content at this moment in time, when every single team has a shot at the World Series, with not a single mascot in sight.