Sidelines
THE locker room before a big game is where you peer into men's souls. Clowning around with
the real kings of comedyIt's where you see who they really are, deep down. It's where they find out what they're made of -- they are about to confront emotions that mere mortals know nothing about. So if the inside of their world seems a little different to us, in these last, private moments, then so be it.
Everyone does something different before running into the roar of our modern coliseums. These gladiators all have certain rituals as they tape up, adjusting their armor, trying to find the optimum mental state, ticking off the expectant seconds, expelling excess nervous energy, alternately striving to relax or to get hyped up enough to find the magic again.
The thunder of NFL football awaits.
And so in the corner, someone is getting spanked by an oversized foam sword that belongs to the Tampa Bay Buccaneer.
This is the locker room for the Pro Bowl mascots.
"Just the good ones," the Philadelphia Eagle says. "Just the funny ones." He pauses a second before motioning a thumb toward the Dallas Cowboy. "And Ted."
The Cowboy pulls up his chaps and takes a playful swipe. The mascot locker room is a cross between "Animal House," and, um, an actual animal house. "It's hard to get a clean quote out of these guys," KC Wolf, the Chiefs' mascot, explains after spraying his outfit with Febreze. He nods at the zoo all around him.
Fur and feathers fly, insults are traded, jokes roll across the room, and the occasional wrestling match breaks out.
"Truce! Truce 'till the game," one yells. Then he smacks a fist menacingly into his other hand, a rascal smile crossing his face. "But out there, it's on!"
The guys are in an edgy mood, their game faces lying beside them in huge, furry heaps. This is life as a mascot. They are housed in a restroom, and someone forgot their food, and kickoff is closing in. "But you can bet Jessica Simpson gets her double-stuffed Oreos," the Jaguar says bitterly.
It is an odd scene. "I notice the same sailors keep coming in to use our bathroom," jokes one. Cal Lee wanders in, and the look on his face is priceless. Apparently he isn't here to give the pre-game speech.
The Lion bursts through the door in full costume. He'd gone out onto the field early by mistake, and been stuck there for an hour and a half in his hothouse of a uniform. He was shaking a gate, he said, to get in, but people only waved at him like it was a comic routine. Finally, he ducked through a crack and hopped a railing, found his way back, and launched into a ranting soliloquy that ended, "I've got your tube steak right here!" This puts the room in hysterics, and the Raven quoth it several times more to big laughs.
"We're actually toning it down since you're here," the Eagle says, amid naughty cackles.
"Everything is off the record until we've got the costume on," another adds.
A typical snatch of conversation goes like this:
"Hey, are we allowed to go into the stands today?"
"No, the guy with the armband said we can't."
"They're afraid someone's going to attack you, and tackle you, and drag you into a bathroom, steal your stuff, and come back onto the field wearing your costume."
"Yeah, that's happened to me like four times."
At last, the sandwiches arrive just minutes before go time. Onions -- perfect for dressing like a furry Michelin man for four hours, they note. Most throw them into their bags for later, along with the power bars and bottles of Gatorade. Two minutes to go, and they start to stretch, and tape, and find the zone. They hop, hop, hop into the chubby suits. They are becoming one with the mascot.
Zippers zip, tails fluff and tension mounts. Official team jerseys go on. The Buccaneer adjusts his rubber muscles. Time to line up.
"My shoes smell wonderful," one says. "When I go home the people inspecting bags at the airport are going to eeeeeeeoooooo," and at this sound, he does a perfect mascot faint.
The Raven kisses the mascot coordinator. He does it before every game. It's the last ritual. He's ready now. It's serious now. It's game time now.
And then they're out, down the tunnel, game faces on, off to glory.
Kalani Simpson's column runs Sundays, Tuesdays and Fridays.
He can be reached at ksimpson@starbulletin.com