-Welcome back! Last week we had a debate. This week, there will be no debate. We’re going to talk about something that is undeniably un-American. It’s more un-American than the NHL playoffs.
-First let’s talk about something that is American: baseball. Whether you like the sport or not, it’s as American as Dollywood. Baseball has its traditions: hotdogs, the seventh-inning stretch, take me out to the ballgame, ice cold beers, etc. Another tradition that is especially prevalent in minor league baseball is the mascot race. Fellow North Carolinians should be very familiar with minor league baseball and mascot races. North Carolina has an astounding 10 minor league teams. If you’re not familiar with mascot races, they’re simple. The home team’s mascot races a young kid around the base-paths between one of the innings. It’s kind of like watching Wile E. Coyote chase after that pesky Road Runner…you know who’s going to win, but it’s still fun to watch!
-If you’re from the Triangle, you may be familiar with the one and only Wool E. Bull. If you’re from the Triad, you may know Wally the Warthog from Winston-Salem. If you’re from the mountains, you know and love Ted E. Tourist the Bear from Asheville. They all have something in common in that they’ve never won a mascot race except for on their birthdays when they race another mascot. That’s how it should be. The kid always wins. The kid loves it, the crowd loves it, and the players love it. We all love watching the mascot lose. Sometimes the mascot is just too tired to make it all the way around the bases; sometimes he trips over a base; sometimes he sees something shiny and gets distracted…for whatever reason he just can’t seem to get right, and we love it!
-For the record, I am living in Little Rock, Arkansas for the summer as a member of the grounds crew for the Arkansas Travelers, a double-A team in the Texas League. The mascot here is Shelly. Shelly is a cross-eyed horse with buck teeth…I wish I was making that up. Anyway, I witnessed something so un-American this past week at the ballpark that it made me think for a split-second that I was in North Korea or Canada. I will now relay to you 3 separate accounts of this disastrous event.
ACCOUNT 1: Lance, the on-field MC
Lance is responsible for pumping up the crowd. He goes onto the field between innings with a microphone and talks to the fans about the on-field promotions. On Thursday night, in the middle of the second inning, Lance was at his normal post close to the third base dugout where the finish line for the mascot race is. Although you couldn’t hear it in his voice, Lance was concerned because before he and “Shelly” took the field they had this conversation:
-Shelly: “How old is this kid?”
-Lance: “He just turned 9.”
-Shelly: “Then he’s old enough…”
-Before Lance had a chance to investigate, it was too late to ask questions. The show had to go on…
ACCOUNT 2: Phil, the radio broadcaster
Phil Elson is one of the finest radio broadcasters in the business. Woody Durham would most likely high-five Phil if he listened to a Travelers broadcast. Anyway, Phil very rarely pays attention to the on field promotions between innings because he’s busy making sure his scorebook is accurate or he’s looking through notes. But on this night, he couldn’t help but notice the catastrophe on the field. Here is a transcript of Phil’s broadcast after the commercial break following the top of the second inning: “Well, you never know what’s gonna happen between innings at Dickey-Stephens Park. I think we just had a first in the history of Travs Baseball. The Travs mascot …(silence)… Shelly… (silence)…beat the kid…He won. Shelly won the mascot race between the top and bottom of the second inning. Now I will let you know that that is not suppose to happen. I don’t knot what script Shelly is going by or what kind of performance-enhancing horse-feed Shelly is eating, but we’re going to have to suspend him for that.”
ACCOUNT 3: Your boy, the Muffin
I was sitting beyond the left-field wall in the grounds crew pit. I was on top of a tall stack of bagged infield rock. Before the race, I said the same thing to myself that I do before every mascot race I’ve ever seen. I said, “alright, beat this kid. He/she ain’t nothing. You got it mascot! Take this dude down! Just once, man up and beat this kid! NO MERCY!!!” Well, I never knew how much I didn’t really want this to happen until it happened. I sat there and watched the race take place. They started at first base. Shelly and the boy touched second at the same time. Shelly took a slight lead between 2nd and 3rd. This was typical. I fully expected a player to close-line Shelly, or for Shelly to trip, or for Shelly to get tired and bend over with his hands on his knees and give up. Shelly touched third base first and kept going. This was very odd. Shelly extended his hands and touched the finish-line banner before the young boy did. At first, I laughed hysterically for 5 seconds. Then a feeling of pure shock and horror overtook me. What in the heck had just happened? I could feel my face turn white. The fans were confused too. They usually boo when something happens that they dissaprove of, but they didn’t have time to react. This was too much. The stadium was silent. Lance, who ALWAYS has something to say didn’t know what to say: “Whoah…(extended silence)…wow…man…Shelly won. Shelly won the mascot race. How about that…I don’t think I’ve ever seen that.” I looked over to my fellow employees and asked
-“Did you see that?”
-“Yeah…did Shelly win?” they responded.
-“I think so,” I said. I got down and walked slowly up the tunnel to the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I started crying, and I haven’t stopped yet. Why Shelly? WHY!? You communist horse! I hope you’re happy. You just ruined one of baseball’s and one of AMERICA’S most storied traditions. Way to go.
-That my friends is as un-American as it gets.
-First let’s talk about something that is American: baseball. Whether you like the sport or not, it’s as American as Dollywood. Baseball has its traditions: hotdogs, the seventh-inning stretch, take me out to the ballgame, ice cold beers, etc. Another tradition that is especially prevalent in minor league baseball is the mascot race. Fellow North Carolinians should be very familiar with minor league baseball and mascot races. North Carolina has an astounding 10 minor league teams. If you’re not familiar with mascot races, they’re simple. The home team’s mascot races a young kid around the base-paths between one of the innings. It’s kind of like watching Wile E. Coyote chase after that pesky Road Runner…you know who’s going to win, but it’s still fun to watch!
-If you’re from the Triangle, you may be familiar with the one and only Wool E. Bull. If you’re from the Triad, you may know Wally the Warthog from Winston-Salem. If you’re from the mountains, you know and love Ted E. Tourist the Bear from Asheville. They all have something in common in that they’ve never won a mascot race except for on their birthdays when they race another mascot. That’s how it should be. The kid always wins. The kid loves it, the crowd loves it, and the players love it. We all love watching the mascot lose. Sometimes the mascot is just too tired to make it all the way around the bases; sometimes he trips over a base; sometimes he sees something shiny and gets distracted…for whatever reason he just can’t seem to get right, and we love it!
-For the record, I am living in Little Rock, Arkansas for the summer as a member of the grounds crew for the Arkansas Travelers, a double-A team in the Texas League. The mascot here is Shelly. Shelly is a cross-eyed horse with buck teeth…I wish I was making that up. Anyway, I witnessed something so un-American this past week at the ballpark that it made me think for a split-second that I was in North Korea or Canada. I will now relay to you 3 separate accounts of this disastrous event.
ACCOUNT 1: Lance, the on-field MC
Lance is responsible for pumping up the crowd. He goes onto the field between innings with a microphone and talks to the fans about the on-field promotions. On Thursday night, in the middle of the second inning, Lance was at his normal post close to the third base dugout where the finish line for the mascot race is. Although you couldn’t hear it in his voice, Lance was concerned because before he and “Shelly” took the field they had this conversation:
-Shelly: “How old is this kid?”
-Lance: “He just turned 9.”
-Shelly: “Then he’s old enough…”
-Before Lance had a chance to investigate, it was too late to ask questions. The show had to go on…
ACCOUNT 2: Phil, the radio broadcaster
Phil Elson is one of the finest radio broadcasters in the business. Woody Durham would most likely high-five Phil if he listened to a Travelers broadcast. Anyway, Phil very rarely pays attention to the on field promotions between innings because he’s busy making sure his scorebook is accurate or he’s looking through notes. But on this night, he couldn’t help but notice the catastrophe on the field. Here is a transcript of Phil’s broadcast after the commercial break following the top of the second inning: “Well, you never know what’s gonna happen between innings at Dickey-Stephens Park. I think we just had a first in the history of Travs Baseball. The Travs mascot …(silence)… Shelly… (silence)…beat the kid…He won. Shelly won the mascot race between the top and bottom of the second inning. Now I will let you know that that is not suppose to happen. I don’t knot what script Shelly is going by or what kind of performance-enhancing horse-feed Shelly is eating, but we’re going to have to suspend him for that.”
ACCOUNT 3: Your boy, the Muffin
I was sitting beyond the left-field wall in the grounds crew pit. I was on top of a tall stack of bagged infield rock. Before the race, I said the same thing to myself that I do before every mascot race I’ve ever seen. I said, “alright, beat this kid. He/she ain’t nothing. You got it mascot! Take this dude down! Just once, man up and beat this kid! NO MERCY!!!” Well, I never knew how much I didn’t really want this to happen until it happened. I sat there and watched the race take place. They started at first base. Shelly and the boy touched second at the same time. Shelly took a slight lead between 2nd and 3rd. This was typical. I fully expected a player to close-line Shelly, or for Shelly to trip, or for Shelly to get tired and bend over with his hands on his knees and give up. Shelly touched third base first and kept going. This was very odd. Shelly extended his hands and touched the finish-line banner before the young boy did. At first, I laughed hysterically for 5 seconds. Then a feeling of pure shock and horror overtook me. What in the heck had just happened? I could feel my face turn white. The fans were confused too. They usually boo when something happens that they dissaprove of, but they didn’t have time to react. This was too much. The stadium was silent. Lance, who ALWAYS has something to say didn’t know what to say: “Whoah…(extended silence)…wow…man…Shelly won. Shelly won the mascot race. How about that…I don’t think I’ve ever seen that.” I looked over to my fellow employees and asked
-“Did you see that?”
-“Yeah…did Shelly win?” they responded.
-“I think so,” I said. I got down and walked slowly up the tunnel to the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I started crying, and I haven’t stopped yet. Why Shelly? WHY!? You communist horse! I hope you’re happy. You just ruined one of baseball’s and one of AMERICA’S most storied traditions. Way to go.
-That my friends is as un-American as it gets.
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