Being a fish us, in my view at least, synonymous with constant fear and humiliation.
I've been thinking a lot lately about the sad lives of fish. That's because I recently spent some time as one of them. And I didn't care for it much.
I should be clear that I wasn't an actual fish (though you've probably figured that out already). I had the opportunity to dress up as BB, the mascot for the region's minor league baseball team, the Bridgeport Bluefish.
BB is a large, fuzzy bluefish. Or, rather, a human in a large, fuzzy bluefish costume. BB's job is to show up at Bluefish games and promotional events and whip up enthusiasm for the team. I'd always been a bit curious about what it's like to be a mascot. Are those costumes as hot and uncomfortable as they appear? Do they smell? And, most importantly, how does the simple act of putting on a costume change the way people treat you? I decided to spend some time in BB's scales and find out.
As it turns out, the Bluefish had planned a number of events to promote the team's 10th season, which began Friday. I was put in touch with Kait Herman, who handles the team's promotions, and she arranged for me to morph into fish
It was one of many little league openings at which BB appeared, usually with a human who handed out Bluefish schedules and reminded parents and kids to head to the Ballpark at Harbor Yard this summer.
Herman, 22, of Fairfield, said different people don the BB costume depending on the occasion. This year, she said, the people who dress as BB for the team's 72 home games will be the same guys who dress as Storm, the mascot for the Sound Tigers hockey team.
For appearances like the one I did, BB is usually played by an intern or part-time employee. During off-season appearances, Herman usually has to don the costume herself. The morning of my appearance, I met Herman at Mill Hill School. She arrived carrying a big red bag, and I knew instantly what was inside: my new identity. Herman explained that this was actually a new BB costume, which pleased me. I had worried that the costume would stink of the likely dozens of other people who had worn it before me.
As it turned out, that wasn't a concern, as this BB suit was relatively fresh. Herman said she had put on the costume that morning for another appearance, but assured me that she was very clean, and I had nothing to worry about.
I then got dressed. The BB costume is made of several sections. The first part was sort of a bulky vest, much like a fat suit. Next, I put on BB's pants. Yes, BB wears pants. This is something most fish don't do, as they lack legs. Clearly, being a mascot requires a healthy suspension of disbelief.
The body of BB — which includes his fins and tail — went over the vest. Herman said the new costume is much lighter and more flexible than the old one. In fact, she said, she barely sweats at all in this costume. More good news.
Finally, I put on the head. I had to secure BB's head to my own using a hockey helmet fastened inside. I put my head in the helmet, secured the chinstrap and voila — I was BB.
Almost immediately, I noticed a problem with my new outfit. It was hard to see. I had to look through what I think was BB's mouth, and the hole was too small to allow any peripheral vision. If I needed to look up, down or sideways, I had to move my whole head. My giant, mascot head.
Once I was properly outfitted, Herman gave me some instructions for being BB. First, no talking. BB is a fish, thus he doesn't speak. Basically, all I had to do was walk around, wave, shake hands, high-five the kids and maybe take some pictures.
It sounded easy enough, and the appearance was only supposed to last half an hour. I figured I could do it.
When I got to the baseball field, there were a bunch of little league teams, made up of kids of all ages. There were also lots of parents and younger brothers and sisters. Almost immediately, I heard kids calling my name.
"BB!" "Hey BB!" "Hey there, Bluefish!"
I waved, and trotted around the field, as Herman walked alongside me handing out Bluefish schedules. Kids ran up to me and shook my hand. A few of the boys high-fived me. My first few moments as BB actually weren't bad. The kids seemed reasonably excited to see me. The little ones were the best, staring up at my big blue head, unsure whether to hug me or start crying, and requiring gentle encouragement from Mom or Dad to shake my hand.
The older ones were a little rougher, which Herman had warned me about. The boys in particular smacked my fins with abandon, bumped fists with me and even pulled on my big fish teeth.
But, mostly, being BB was OK. I got to pose for pictures with families and teams. Some sweet little kids got over their shyness long enough to give me hugs. People smiled as I walked by. I felt kind of like Mickey Mouse.
Yet it wasn't long before I realized I probably wasn't cut out for the mascot life. First, it turns out the BB costume wasn't quite the perspiration-free environment Herman had told me it was.
Within about 10 minutes, I felt a film of sweat forming on my skin. In a few more moments, I could feel it running down my neck and chest. There was even a big droplet of sweat forming on my nose, and it really itched. I couldn't scratch it, either, because that would have required removing my head.
As it turns out, the sweat wasn't even the worst part. Mid-way through my appearance, Herman let me roam the field on my own. As I wandered around, I happened upon a group of little leaguers.
They were roughly nine to 11 years of age. I was expecting them to behave like the other little boys smack my hand, maybe pull on my teeth, then move on. But, within minutes, the situation became strange.
The boys began accusing me of not being a real bluefish. That struck me as odd. Fish aren't usually fuzzy. And they don't usually walk around on land. Also, my ponytail kept popping out of the back of my BB head.
I thought it was pretty obvious that I wasn't a real fish. I didn't expect anyone to be surprised by that fact. But these kids seemed really annoyed. "Fake!" I heard some of them yell. "You're a fake!"
It was weird. Then, it got even weirder.
They rushed me.
The group of kids just all ran at me, pushing me and jostling my costume. It was bizarre — as if mob rule had broken out on the ball field. There wasn't anything I could do to stop them. Remember, I couldn't talk. And, I couldn't push them away and risk hurting the kids. All I could do was stand there and wait for the humiliation to end.
Of course, as kids do, they lost interest and ran off after a minute or two. The damage was minimal — it's difficult to hurt someone wearing a big mascot costume. But I was a little shaken by the whole incident.
Eventually, Herman rejoined me, and offered me protection for the rest of my time as BB, which was a relief. Fortunately, I didn't have to face any more angry mobs, though we did run into the occasional wiseguy, like the little boy who asked Herman if I could speak. "No," she said. "Fish can't talk."
The boy looked down at my pants. "Fish don't have two legs, either," he pointed out.
Touch.
Eventually, it started to rain, and Herman had to bring me in so the costume wouldn't get too wet.
As I gradually changed back into a human, I reflected on my time as BB. The attack by angry little leaguers notwithstanding, it was kind of fun. It's always interesting to pretend to be someone else, even when that someone has fins and a tail.
Yet I wouldn't do it again. Like I said before, fish have a rough, undignified existence. BB is no exception. You need a pretty thick skin to don his fins.
For more information on the Bridgeport Bluefish, visit www.bridgeportbluefish.com.
Font Resize
