2008 Woodie Awards
A local celebrity
Chris Amorosi
Issue date: 9/4/08 Section: Editorial / Opinion
Being a mascot at a baseball game is like being Marc Antony at a Cleopatra convention, with 100 percent less suicide. My brief doubts about whether or not I could write an entire column over my brush with fame were silenced once I recalled a former roommate's habit of watching MTV's "The Hills" incessantly.
An entire entertainment industry is supported by plebs like you, my readers, salivating over the coruscating lifestyles of celebrities, such as myself. Allow me to relate the singular experience of being a bipedal alligator so that you may pine to live a day in my three¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬-toed green boots.
Chomps the Alligator was my name - or Chompy to my most affectionate fans - but I preferred the unofficial sobriquet of Master Gator. Say it aloud and savor the euphony, preferably over the phone to your parents so they can share the fun.
No doubt "Master Gator" was chosen for my mastery of the role rather than a crude allusion to nocturnal habits. My team was a bunch of college students. We were called the Navigators, explaining the bizarre choice of a subtropical mascot for a New England team.
Though the role was nuanced, the costume was rather simple. The suit was green with a yellow stomach and I wore a team t-shirt, well-stretched by my adoring fans. Naturally, I had a tail, which I assiduously kept out of the beer puddles.
For my comfort, the helmet had a 12-volt fan, powered by a nine volt battery, with no more volts left inside. I saw through the great, gaping maw, but most children were fooled when I covered up the fake eyes and played peek-a-boo. Children are dumb like that.
My day began by entering the ballpark and passing the little people as I strode to my dressing room. I practiced the sullen, beaten down face begging for pity I normally wore inside my mask. Surprisingly, it requires considerable muscular strength to keep the muscles slackened and the expression dull all while keeping an alligator's head erect.
An entire entertainment industry is supported by plebs like you, my readers, salivating over the coruscating lifestyles of celebrities, such as myself. Allow me to relate the singular experience of being a bipedal alligator so that you may pine to live a day in my three¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬-toed green boots.
Chomps the Alligator was my name - or Chompy to my most affectionate fans - but I preferred the unofficial sobriquet of Master Gator. Say it aloud and savor the euphony, preferably over the phone to your parents so they can share the fun.
No doubt "Master Gator" was chosen for my mastery of the role rather than a crude allusion to nocturnal habits. My team was a bunch of college students. We were called the Navigators, explaining the bizarre choice of a subtropical mascot for a New England team.
Though the role was nuanced, the costume was rather simple. The suit was green with a yellow stomach and I wore a team t-shirt, well-stretched by my adoring fans. Naturally, I had a tail, which I assiduously kept out of the beer puddles.
For my comfort, the helmet had a 12-volt fan, powered by a nine volt battery, with no more volts left inside. I saw through the great, gaping maw, but most children were fooled when I covered up the fake eyes and played peek-a-boo. Children are dumb like that.
My day began by entering the ballpark and passing the little people as I strode to my dressing room. I practiced the sullen, beaten down face begging for pity I normally wore inside my mask. Surprisingly, it requires considerable muscular strength to keep the muscles slackened and the expression dull all while keeping an alligator's head erect.
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