The Mascot: A Fan & Player Baseball Romance

by Ana Shay

  Copyright © 2021 by Ana Shay

  ISBN

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses committed by copyright law.

  Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  To all the mascots out there, working their butts off to support their teams.

  I see you.

  Especially you, Blooper!

  Chapter 1

  "No. No. No! There is no way I'm doing this!" I shook my head so vigorously; I could feel the tresses of my blonde hair falling from its bun. That calm and composed impression I was trying to make had well and truly gone down the toilet now. Yes, anyone watching might think I’m being dramatic, but there is no way in hell that I’m doing this. She can beg until the cows come home, but I will not be brought into this humiliating and degrading task. I may be a life-long Fish fan but in the words of the almighty Meatloaf. I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that. I never thought this day would come; alas, I have finally found the limits of my love for the team in the form of a neoprene costume.

  "Come on, Cali. You know I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important." My best friend, or should I say ex-best friend, Mary, whined next to me. Just because she helped me score this internship with her awesome recommendation doesn’t mean she can use that against me for the rest of the year.

  Her head tilted as she rested the giant catfish mascot head against her hip. She’s already petite, but that stupid thing makes her look like a child next to it. My lips part, ready to say no. There is absolutely no way I’m going to do this. That’s my final answer.

  But then, she pulls out her secret weapon. The same secret weapon she’s used against me since we were kids. Her eyes gloss over, and her bottom lip pouts, trembling in time with her chin. She knows I hate tears. They make me so uncomfortable, I break out in a sweat and give in to whatever she wants immediately just so she’ll stop.

  A single fat tear escapes her left eye. Dripping down her cheek like the sweat soaking through my blouse. Oh, she’s good. She’s fully prepared to go into full meltdown mode in front of the entire marketing department just to get her way.

  Sighing, I looked toward the sea of desks, trying to find another answer. One that doesn’t involve me before Mary goes into full-on Niagra Falls mode. It’s the busiest I’ve ever seen the office. Everyone is bustling from room to room, papers are flying everywhere, and no one has noticed the two of us standing here. It’s our first home game tonight, and they are all too busy trying to sort out their own problems than worry about mine and Mary’s fishy dilemma.

  This is our problem to fix, and we need to fix it in approximately 30 minutes if we want the mascot to make his entrance on time. Shoulders slumped, I drag my eyes back to her, begging, pleading, “Can’t we get someone else to do it?” She dropped her eyes, still holding the headpiece, and took a long inhale. Her hapless demeanor is slowly breaking my resolve. Someone’s got to do this, and she seems to think I’m the perfect candidate. I can’t let her know just how close she is to my agreement.

  Her wide eyes popped back up, connecting with me as she flashed a crooked smile. “The costume was made for Tim; he’s 6 foot 3. You’re the closest person to that height.”

  Damn Tim and his obsessive-compulsive need for Funyuns.

  Of all the days in the world, Tim just had to get some Funyuns right before work to celebrate the season's start. That ogre of a man was so focused on the Funyuns calling his name at the end of the aisle that he didn’t bother reading the ‘Wet Floor’ sign sitting on the polished marble. Instead, he thought it would be a great idea to run down the snack aisle to his one true love. The joke now firmly sits on me because he ended up slipping on his butt and breaking his leg. He was carried outside to the ambulance by store workers while he wailed to anyone who would listen.

  The store felt so bad, they gave him a year’s supply of Funyuns. So, while he’s out eating his year supply of corn snacks, Mary and I are fretting about what we will do for the next six weeks because we don’t have a backup mascot plan.

  Well, I should correct that. I didn’t have a plan. Apparently, Mary always had an idea, and she’s looking right at it. Being a tall girl has always come with disadvantages that I’ve been able to overcome through extensive therapy.

  This right here. Is. The. Worst. And so unexpected.

  Imagine trying to explain this scenario to Dr. Keppler. My best friend wants me to dress up as a giant human catfish hybrid and dance around the stadium in front of our 40,000 strong home crowd. Yes. You heard that correctly. Out of all the mascots in the world, our major league baseball team chose a Catfish. Dr. Keppler would have me committed on the spot for my incoherent rambling.

  “Please, please, please!” She pleaded, dropping to her knees and begging at my feet. As if she wasn’t short enough, she thinks this begging helps her case, but all it does is remind me that I’m a giant amongst men in the marketing department. 5 foot 11 isn’t that tall. The average height for a baseball pitcher is 6 foot 2; there’s got to be one in the bullpen that could wear the costume just for today. In fact, I’ve got a perfect idea; they could alternate according to their pitching rotation. There’s always a few pitchers with nothing better to do than sit in the dugout chewing gum. Why not take that day of rest and do something meaningful for the team? Perfect plan! Although with an hour before Catty the Catfish makes his first appearance, I won’t have time to write up the rotation.

  Out of the corner of my eye, Larry, the maintenance man, changes a lightbulb, and it’s as though one lights up just above my head. Dragging Mary from the floor, I whisper. “Couldn’t we ask Larry to do it?” She followed my gaze, her brain working with the same thought. I smiled, thinking I might have gotten out of this. He’s always loved the Fish; he’d do anything for them. On some occasions, he’s worn nothing but a fin on his head - and pants, of course. Wearing the new mascot outfit would be nothing for him. He’d probably love it. It would be a story to tell his friends in that catfish mancave he made in his basement.

  “Larry doesn’t know the dance routine.” She whispered, and my body slumped. She’s right. “You’re the only one that knows the choreography. It’s Catty’s first appearance, so it’s important we get it right and show off his personality.” I wished I could turn back time to when I was eight, begging my mom for those dance classes. She wanted me to learn how to make upcycled jewelry. I insisted that I needed to learn the latest Justin Bieber dance routine. If only she had said no, my entire life trajectory could have been different. I wouldn’t be standing here contemplating shoving a fish head over my shoulders, that’s for sure.

  Looking at the costume, his big googly eyes watched me. Staring. It feels like he’s begging me to wear him. To bring him to life. At least he’s better than last year's design which hadn’t been updated for ten years. “Come on, it will be fun,” Mary tried to sound convincing. She wasn’t. I bet if Carl, with the wandering eye in IT, could hear her, he wouldn’t be convinced either. And he would do anything for her.

  Go into marketing, they said.

  You get to work on great brands and make them better, they said.

  I wish I could have a word with all those college lecturers that convinced me this would be a good idea. Sure, I’ve spent the better part of the year helping to redesign Catty. I even got to create an incredible dance routi
ne in a bid to get him more social media followers. I did not, however, sign up to do the dance in front of our sold-out homestand.

  Don’t get me wrong, of all the brands I could work on, the Carolina Catfish is the best. Born and raised in Charlotte, I’ve watched them try different mascots over the years. A fisherman, a cat, a fish; none of them stuck, and it’s slowly affected the fan base morale. Not mine, though. Living so close to the ballpark meant I lived for the Fish. I’ve loved every mascot they’ve ever brought out. Every game, I’d make my dad wait in the line just so I could get a picture with the Mascot.

  To become the mascot, however, is too much. Even for me.

  “We’ve already advertised everywhere that Catty is being unveiled tonight. If he doesn’t make his debut on opening day, upper management will be ticked. We could lose our jobs.” Well crap. When she puts it like that, there aren’t many options left on the table for us.

  I closed my eyes and sighed an exasperated breath. I guess I have to give in to my fate. “I’m going to have to do this, aren’t I?” There’s a moment of silence between us as I contemplated my own question and life choices.

  Mary waits for it all to sink in. When I’ve finally accepted there is no other option, I snatch the mascot head out of her hands. “Fine. I’ll do it just this once.” I pointed my perfectly manicured finger down at her. She’s still on her knees, making me look like Taylor Swift when she gave that award to Bruno Mars. “But you have to promise me you’ll find a solution for the next game.”

  She bites her bottom lip, giving me those damn puppy dog eyes again. ‘I can’t promise that, Cali. The next game is tomorrow… Remember?”

  My eyes widen, and I let out a frustrated groan when the full realization of what I signed up for entails. “I’m going to have to do this for the next four nights, aren’t I?” She nods slowly. Why couldn’t the world just swallow me up right now? That would make all my problems go away and be marginally less embarrassing.

  “Fine,” I yelled dramatically, stomping off in the direction of the bathrooms. With the giant fish head in hand, I grumbled over my shoulder, “Where’s my mini baseball cap?!”

  Resting on the bathroom vanity, the fish head stared at me. Those big eyes cut through me in a way that reminds me too much Creeper Carl. The blue of the costume glinted in the bathroom mirror. I’ve been refusing to look at myself for the last five minutes because then I’d have to admit that this damn costume fits like a glove.

  Mary is going to be so excited when she sees it. The gray speckles in the furry fabric shine through like a wet fish. It will be perfect under the stadium lights. The only thing that still doesn’t sit well with me is that Catty has a jersey but no pants. I turned to check out my big padded butt in the mirror. Although it may be subtle, there’s a line where the crack would typically be. I don’t know; it just feels slightly indecent for all those little children in the stands.

  Mary’s squeal startles me as she opens the door, dancing in celebration, clearly loving the look. Scurrying in, she placed her hands on my shoulders, forcing me to in the mirror. “It’s like the costume was made for you.” Her eyes darted up and down, in awe of my outfit. She looked prouder than my mom did when I somehow managed to bag Gary Finnegan as my Freshman Formal date. It was my first dance, and he was Captain of the mathletes with one of those head braces. She was just so happy he was 6 foot 5, so I could wear heels and not look like a giraffe. My mom thought I’d forever be destined to a life of sensible shoes and hunching.

  “The fans are going to love this!” I would join in on her excitement if I weren’t dreading going out there. The last time I performed on stage was when I was eleven as a sugar plum fairy. It was the year before my growth spurt and the last time I ever truly felt like I fit in. Ever since, I’ve tried to stay out of the limelight with my shoulders arched, hoping to fade into the background. “The players will love it too.” She squeezed my arms, trying to reassure me. Every squeeze only served as a reminder that Tate Sorenson will see me in this.

  The Tate Sorenson.

  The best thing that ever happened to this team. The five-time golden glove winner is the only reason we’ve been competitive the last few years. He’s not so bad on the eyes either. Some who know me would say I may have a teeny tiny crush on our shortstop. Okay. It’s a full-blown obsession, and it’s the first time since putting this stupid outfit on that I’m happy in the knowledge that at least he won’t be able to see my face. That’s not the kind of first impression I’d want to make.

  “You’re going to kill it.” Mary smiled reassuringly, and I give her a hesitant one back. I wanted to clench my fists together to ease some tension, but the fin-like hands made that impossible. I screwed my eyebrows instead.

  “Let’s just get this over with,” I say, shoving the giant head over my face and letting Mary escort me down to the field.

  Here goes nothing.

  Chapter 2

  Breathing in, a sense of comfort wafts over me. I take in the dewy grass, fresh wood, and new jerseys.

  Home.

  That’s all I smell. The slight bite in the cool April air gets me excited as I look over between the bases to my spot. I can’t wait to wear down that thick, springy grass. This is where I belong. Always has been. As I track the bright white bases, I try to think about how many times I’ve run around this field.

  Six years and 400 games since I joined the Carolina Catfish. Five Golden Gloves and two silver sluggers later, I still have more to accomplish. I could never thank the Catfish enough after they took a gamble on me after my wrist injury. My home team, the Houston Knights, thought my career was over and prepared to package me out in a trade deal. The only issue; no other team was willing to take on a mediocre injured shortstop. I thought that was it. That my career was over, and I was destined to be a mechanic like my dad.

  I step onto the Catfish logo stained into the grass next to Homeplate. The only reason I’m here, still playing today is that the Catfish GM saw something in me no one else did. He called me personally to talk me through the trade. Said he’d take a gamble on me, but I’d have to prove my worth and work.

  And work I did.

  I will never forget the risk he took and the opportunity it gave me. After a year of rehab, I was fit to play, and I worked my ass off, delivering MVP caliber seasons ever since. Fan favorite and Fish for life, there’s only one thing missing in my career. I believe my sister puts it best. I’m always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Over the last five years, I’ve come second or third in the MVP race. Never quite good enough to win, but always in the running.

  “Hey, Steady,” Grayson, our starting pitcher, grinned as he slapped me on the shoulder. I hate that nickname. Being a quick, safe pair of hands with a good throw makes me the perfect shortstop, but it’s not exactly the sexiest trait in Baseball.

  “Watch me strike you out,” Grayson barked confidently, hopping onto the mound like an excited kangaroo. He made some weird warm-up noises that sounded like a strangled cat. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, pitchers are weird.

  I stood at the diamond, nodding to our catcher, Brian, to get in position. I flew the back bat, getting into position. Grayson narrowed his eyes, staring me down, and sniffed. He gave nothing away with that glare. Until at the very last second, his eyebrow twitched.

  Fastball.

  He lifted his leg, throwing the ball. In the blink of an eye, I let the motion take over, putting all the weight into my swing.

  As I felt the hit reverberate through my arm, I waited for my favorite noise. Clunk. I hit the ball precisely where I wanted to and watched as it launched towards the back of the yard. Just shy of a homer, Marc, our centerfielder, caught it with ease.

  Grayson looked back to me, unfazed by the hit. As he set up, his eyebrow twitched again. A fastball’s coming, and I’m ready. Until it curves inside, creeping closer to me. Balancing on my tiptoes, I perch back to get the ball as far away from my crotch as possible. “Dude! Watch it!”
I yelled, throwing my bat on the ground, annoyed that he nearly hit me.

  He shrugged, unbothered. “Atlanta loves to pitch you on the inside. I’m just testing your reflexes.” He’s not wrong. Out of the 20 times, I’ve been hit by a pitch, Atlanta is accountable for 11 of them. To say they have a vendetta against me would be an understatement. They’ve hated me ever since I caught a potential three-run homer, making them lose a chance in the playoffs a few years ago.

  Grayson’s lip upturns slightly. A curveball is coming my way. I set up, ready for the hit. Clunk. This time, I hit it too far back. The ball bounces off the wall, making Marc run across the field. If this wasn’t a warm-up, it would be at least a double. I hopped over to second base, taking my time. At 6 foot 6, my body wasn’t built for speed, but my stride makes up for it. I’m on the second base before Marc’s had time to compose himself and throw the ball back.

  That right there is precisely why they bat me fourth; I’m the clean-up guy. The one you can rely on to get the players with more attitude and flair home. Hence the nickname, Steady. The more reliable I’ve become, the less opportunity I get to show my stuff which seriously affects my stats. Ergo makes it tough to make headway in the MVP race. I’ve been the most walked player in the National League for the last four years.

  Today will be different, though. Because today marks the first day of my new ten-year contract with the Fish. Being the biggest free agent of the off-season had its perks. I got wined and dined. Contracts worth millions were thrown my way from almost every team in the league. Even Houston sent me an offer.

  I knew I wanted to stay with the Fish before I saw their contract offer. I wanted to remain loyal to the team that built me. I certainly didn’t expect the highest contract offer from them, which made signing on the dotted line that much sweeter. Ten more years of opportunity to win for the Fish. And that starts today.