WEEKJOB: NHL MASCOT (WASHINGTON CAPITALS)
LOCATION: WASHINGTON, D.C.
I LEFT THE ranch as the sun started to rise, sending a pink flood over the flat terrain. A few hours later, I arrived at the Salt Lake City airport with plenty of time to catch my flight to Washington, D.C.
I found a quiet corner, then pulled out my computer to check email. Not long after, I heard an announcement on the intercom: “Sean Aiken, please proceed to gate forty-two.”
I looked at the clock on my computer. My plane wasn’t scheduled to leave for another two hours.
“Final boarding call. Sean Aiken, please proceed to gate forty-two immediately.”
A few months earlier I was bored on Facebook and thought I’d search my name. Seven other Sean Aikens came up (I added all of them). The chance that there was another Sean Aiken at this very airport was unlikely, but as I packed up my things and headed to the gate, I figured that I’d catch my flight that was perhaps rescheduled for an earlier time, or I’d get to meet another Sean Aiken. Both positive outcomes.
As I approached the gate, I looked around. Nobody but the airline worker at the desk.
“Hi, I’m Sean Aiken. I heard my name called?”
“Hi, Sean, you’re heading to Washington, D.C., through Chicago, right?”
“Yeah.”
“The flight to Chicago is running late, and so you’ll miss the connecting flight. But this flight is leaving right now. It’s a direct flight to Baltimore, and there are a couple of empty seats.”
Balitmore, located forty-five minutes northeast of D.C., was a lot closer than Salt Lake City, so I took it. I walked toward the tunnel. Then, a few steps later, I stopped. I turned to face the airline worker, who aptly chose a “Yes, you forgot something, sir?” face.
“Are my bags going to be able to make the change in time?” I asked.
“Yes. They’re changing the bags over now, and the plane is waiting,” he assured me.
I paused a moment. “Are you sure? Like, you promise when I arrive in Baltimore my bags will be there?”
He looked me directly in the eye and said, “Yes.”
Not even a “Should be” or a “Most likely.” Nor did he even opt to put it into favorable percentage terms. The man said, “YES.”
I arrived in Baltimore hopeful, but my luggage was nowhere to be found. I made a mental note to one day return to the Salt Lake City airport and have a conversation with that man about the dangers of creating false hope.
When the Washington Capitals marketing director, Joe, arrived to pick me up, I was sure he must have questioned his decision to extend the One-Week Job offer to me. I had scruffy facial hair, no luggage, and carried a distinct odor earned from a week of hard work on a ranch.
Luckily, the political correctness of the nation’s capital runs deep, and Joe didn’t put me on the next flight out of town. My bags arrived the next day, and I was able to clean up before heading to my first day on the job.
The Washington Capitals are a team in the National Hockey League (NHL). Their mascot is Slapshot, a large bald eagle that sports a furry head, large shoes, and a Washington Capitals jersey with the number 00 over his hockey equipment. During the week, I’d help out with promotions and in-game entertainment (when those overly cheerful people dressed in full tracksuits throw free stuff into the stands). Fortunately the Capitals weren’t playing my hometown Vancouver Canucks that week, otherwise there clearly would have been a conflict of interest.
When I first got the email from Joe to come try out life as a mascot, I thought it would entail giving some high fives, making people laugh, starting the wave, and getting to see some professional hockey games. I quickly learned that being a professional mascot is a full-time job. And when I saw the six-figure salaries of some professional mascots in other sports, such as major league baseball and the NBA, I learned that many make a great living doing it. When it’s not a game day, there are many other job functions: appearances at community events and private functions, practicing new stunts, taking care of the suit, maintaining physical fitness. Although getting fans excited and making sure they have a good time can appear somewhat trivial, mascots play a very significant role. They become an extension of the home team as they help provide that important competitive edge by energizing the crowd.
I also learned how much goes on behind the scenes at a sporting event. As members of the audience, we grab our seat and wait to be entertained. Everything, from the announcements, to the music, to giveaways, seems seamless, effortless. But the truth is that it’s all planned down to the minute—when they will do each promotion, run certain contests, play a particular segment. Most promotional nights are planned weeks, even months in advance.
At the end of the first game, I was given the opportunity to go onto center ice and use the Pucker Chucker—an air-powered gun that shoots foam pucks up into the crowd.
Turned out I’d be the third consecutive victim of the Pucker Chucker.
I stepped onto the ice and was suddenly surrounded by a stadium filled with seventeen thousand noisy fans all wanting their fair shot at a foam puck. I instantly became everyone’s best friend—I had free stuff. Everyone loves free stuff. It doesn’t matter what the item may be—the fans want it, they need it, and they’re more than willing to scream, “Over here!” with their arms flailing, then dive in front of the person next to them to get it.
After they announced the three stars of the game, I started firing. The first two shot out with a loud pop. I was surprised how far they flew.
This is so cool, I thought.
You want your pucks, come and get ’em. What? You want them over there? I can’t hear you. How about over there? You want them over there? All right, you asked for it. Here they come!
I unleashed the fury of the Pucker Chucker upon the crowd, and on my next shot, the compartment that held the extra pucks exploded. The remaining seven pucks scattered all over the ice.
I scrambled after the pucks and threw them into the stands one by one. Now that I was out of pucks, all of a sudden the 16,990 fans who didn’t get one weren’t so thrilled about me anymore. I modestly made my way off the ice, my malfunctioned Pucker Chucker in tow.
The next afternoon I suited up and attended the Kids Open Skate at the Washington Capitals practice rink. Slapshot’s costume was large, cumbersome, and pungent. Each time I put Slapshot’s head on, the fuzz from the inside of the beak rubbed on my mouth, offering a unique flavor that could only be attributed to layer upon layer of Febreze fragance spray and rubbing alcohol pooled with years of old sweat. After ten minutes in the suit, it became so ridiculously hot that a few pints of my own sweat joined the aroma.
The hardest part was putting it on the following day only to discover that it was still wet. It reminded me of my high school days when I’d play in a basketball or volleyball tournament and having forgotten to bring an extra pair of socks, I was forced to put back on the same wet ones from the earlier game. Maybe this is why mascots get the big bucks.
As I stepped out to greet the kids, I heard a parent say, “Wow, Slapshot grew a few inches.” Those parents can be difficult to fool sometimes.
Even though the suit was not ideal, it was fun to put smiles on people’s faces and to see the different reactions—some kids were scared, others latched on to my leg and refused to let go, and then there were the ones who found it hilarious to ram into my tail.
Like most mascots, Slapshot didn’t speak, so I had to wildly exaggerate all of my moves. The real Slapshot told me that if I held a certain expression on my face, it would come across in my mannerisms. Kind of like smiling when answering the telephone. So even though the kids couldn’t see my face, I still carried big expressions—super-happy, huge smile, my arms out to the side dancing with a little shake of the tail.
Afterward we went downtown to create some excitement about the team and the upcoming play-off run. I had a great time interacting with the crowd, playing practical jokes, goofing around, and making people smile, though I did have a few close encounters with some scary-looking dogs who didn’t understand why there was a six-foot-two guy wearing an Eagle costume dancing around in front of the U.S. Capitol. Dogs can be difficult to fool sometimes too.