Spare a thought for the forgotten heroes of the game!

They play for little pay, take some of the meanest hits you’ll ever see and game in and game out, they sweat it out with the biggest of linemen and run as fast as the fleetest of receivers.

Yet for the most part, they go about their business in total anonymity, larger than life to many, but invisible to the fans after than final gun goes off.

Scott Radley of the Hamilton Spectator weaves a tiger of a tale of hard work and dedication to the game that surely should be saluted.


It's not easy being Stripes

Scott Radley

The Hamilton Spectator

(Jul 7, 2007)

Stripes doesn't wear a protective cup.

So, for those who've ever wondered about the nether-region safety features on a professional mascot, there you go. Mystery solved.

For the others of you wondering why the topic would even come up, consider this your chance to spend a few moments feeling for the big cat. Or at least, for the man inside him.

Because he may be close to seven-feet-tall with the costume on, but he takes a beating over the course of an entire football season. Nowhere more than one particular section of the anatomical real estate .

"Kids are right at the level of my groin," the man inside the fur suit whimpers in a surprisingly non-soprano voice. "There's a lot of head butts."

And you thought being a living plush toy was all fame, fortune, mini-bike riding and high fives.
His identity won't be revealed here, because that's something of a state secret. But you could probably figure out who he is pretty quickly simply by hanging around Ivor Wynne Stadium after a game. He'd be the 32-year-old guy looking like he'd just been through a war inside a microwave oven.

It's like this. People love mascots. Trouble is, they see them as cartoon characters who can survive an anvil to the head without anything more than a few bird chirping sounds. So, well-meaning but over-excited fans think it's funny to punch, pull, slug, push, trip, hit, and otherwise generally abuse him. They're not trying to be malicious. But sometimes, even gigantic felines feel pain.

An example? Last season, while working the crowd in a private box, a 13-year-old who thought it would be a laugh, tried to rip off his head from behind.

"It sounds funny," the man inside says. "But it was strapped to my chin."

He never goes into the end zone sections because he fears he might never make out alive. He's ripped open his knee falling off his unicycle, smashed his head on door frames he couldn't see, and has been nearly de-tailed more times than he can remember.

That's just at games. In each of the past three seasons he's dressed up in the suit hundreds of other times at local events to promote the team and the city. Sometimes doing three events in a day. Not always smoothly.

Last summer he was helping with a function at a bar. Unfortunately, through the limited sightlines in his costume's mouth, he couldn't see the turbocharged ceiling fan whizzing like the blade of a food processor above his head as he stood up. You can guess the rest.

But nothing -- not even the near-decapitations or knee-buckling crotch smashes -- rival the heat. During a game in sticky conditions last season, he stuck a thermometer under his arm just to see if he was merely imagining feeling like a Thanksgiving turkey. He wasn't. The temperature in the suit was nearly 64 degrees. Celsius.

"People who make shoes in Asia have better working conditions," he quips.

All that heat -- and no way to get water -- melts up to seven kilograms a game off him. Which is also why he's driven from one public event to another, steering his car with his wrists because he was unable to bend his cramped fingers. And why he often wakes up in the middle of the night screaming with his legs in excruciating knots.

And frankly, why he has to wash the costume after every single wearing. Because one missed cleaning and ... well ... "you're putting a jock strap on your head," he winces.

What's most amazing is that he does it all for a few bucks here and there from the team and some gift certificates. There's no fame involved. He does it anonymously, never getting any thanks for his efforts. Last year he even got robbed of his rent money at the Canadian Football Hall of Fame induction ceremonies.

So if you're down at the game tonight and Stripes passes by, be sure to whisper thanks into his mouth. He deserves it.

Oh, and tell your kid not to drill him in the 'nads. He'd appreciate it.

sradley@thespec.com