The claws come out at an open audition for the Gateway Grizzlies’ mascot
By Matt Crossman
Illustration by Ryan Greis
I want to be Izzy the Grizzlie. All around me, people are laughing at the semipro Sauget baseball team’s giant mascot, but I remain stoic. An opportunity of glorious proportions is at stake, and I have to concentrate. I will not screw around in my attempt to get a job for which the sole requirement is screwing around.
My main competition is half my age, half my size and half as coordinated. I didn’t catch her name, so I’ll just call her Runner-up. (Maybe that’s going too far. My wife says I’m too competitive. I trash-talk a couple dozen times over games of Scrabble, and I’m branded for life.) I watch her audition and must admit that she’s a worthy foe ... for a girl. She’s a natural with the kids, and she appears to have the right mental makeup to handle the contradictions of pretending to be a giant, happy, lovable bear: On the one hand, Izzy’s job is to have fun with people; on the other, he is a grizzly bear and, as such, has an instinctive desire to eat them.
After an informal interview that could have gone better (Ever been a mascot before? “No.” Ever been to a Grizzlies game? “No.”), I don the massive costume, and aside from the initial pangs of feeling ridiculous, the first thing I notice is that it’s impossible not to walk funny. The shoes are enormous.
Also, I scare people. The first little girls who see me scream. After 30 seconds of trying to coax them out from behind their parents’ legs, I realize that they cannot see the sympathetic face I’m making because I’m wearing a giant bear’s head. But a good mascot puts troubling encounters behind him, and soon enough I own the place.
I become Izzy.
I get so in touch with my inner bear that I’m dying to yank a salmon from the closest river and eat it raw. Laugh, or I’ll maul you.
My conversion does not go unnoticed. People desperately plead with me to give them five. I oblige them all. You want five from Izzy? You get five from Izzy. (Make that four—the costume hand has only four fingers.) I hug as many kids as a man can without winding up on a sex-offender registry.
But it’s not just hugs or my relentless five-giving or my “shake my hand—whoops, too slow!” gag that makes me the best candidate for the job. I also pull out all my best dance moves: I churn butter; I do the Lawn Mower. If my audition were a music video, it would be New Bears on the Block.
I can’t see much out of that giant bear head, but my bear instincts tell me that the team employees are blown away. All that’s left is for me to go home and wait for their call.
I’m still waiting.
