During the 2018 season, while in a career shift and studying for a graduate program entrance exam, I sought out a fun part-time job. I lived near Oakland, California and thought maybe I could find a ballpark gig - something to take me away from the house, minimal commute and set hours, and heck, MLB baseball 80 nights a year!
I went on the A's job site and one job stuck out to me. This job stuck out because I may have been the only applicant with relevant, comparable experience. You see . . . 16 years prior, I had held that exact same job for the Tampa Bay (then Devil) Rays. The job was Mascot Handler.
So, armed with a resume re-written to highlight that singular experience and an attitude that exuded "I will knock this job out of the park more than you can imagine - AND I have no aspirations for a promotion..." I marched in to the interview and left twenty minutes later as Stomper's new handler.
Working at an MLB ballpark during games, getting to go on the field, standing there with my hat over my heart as I stood near major leaguers . . . I was a kid again.
So why am I telling you this? What does this have to do with the Sox?
That April, the Sox came to town. Man I was excited. The visiting team's batting cages are in center field, directly behind the fence, and right by where a golf cart painted to look like one of those Chevron cars from their commercials are parked. I drove this cart on the field just before every game, as Stomper waved to the crowd and fired a t-shirt gun (those things are FUN).
So, of course, I was sitting in the cart about two hours before I needed to, just so I could watch J.D., Mitchy 2-Bags, and the rest take BP, look at iPads, study their craft, etc. etc. Three game series, and by day three I've become chums with some of the Sox staff and gotten a couple of brief convos with some players. Nothing crazy, but I was a kid again.
It's minutes before game time on day three of the three game set. I'm walking from the Chevron golf cart to meet Stomper and go through our game plan (players aren't the only ones with advanced metrics, nerves, and in need of a "game approach").
Walking towards me is Mookie Betts. I'm a tall guy, and Mookie is certainly not, but I still felt like a giant was walking towards me. And this giant was making a bee-line directly to me.
"Hey man, is there a bathroom out here?" said Mr. Betts.
Oh no. I mean, yes, there is . . . but . . . it's the groundskeepers, and it's . . . nasty.
"Yeah, but it's a little . . . rough. It's like a three minute walk"
"No problem, where is it?"
So here I am, leading Mookie Betts down a series of hallways, past dusty posters for concerts from the 70s and 80s held there at the Coliseum. I took this responsibility very seriously - I may have worked for the A's, but in this moment, it elt like the (not-yet-started) game was in the balance - Mr. Betts needed to pee and if he didn't the game was lost, all because of me.
As we approached the bathroom, its nastiness and ugliness came into focus within my mind, and I knew this might be the worst place Mr. Betts had taken a leak since forever. So as we reached our destination, I decided a touch of levity might ease the horror of what he would soon witness.
"The bathroom's right in there. Toilet on the left, glory hole on the right."
It didn't feel like a great joke. It felt crass. It was sophomoric potty humor.
But Mr. Betts . . . oh how he laughed. Oh, he laughed VERY hard. My best friend in the world, Mookie Betts, liked my glory hole joke I thought to myself.
I returned to Stomper, and we made our way down to the golf cart by the cages again. Mr. Betts then returns from the bathroom and announces to the remaining Sox coaches and players (J.D. was definitely there).
At that moment, Mookie Betts, in a loud voice and with his arm now on my shoulder as I sit in the golf cart drivers seat, announces to the group, "This man right here knows all the best spots in Oakland - just ask," much to the bewilderment of everyone but me.
And as he turned to walk away, Mr. Betts extended his fist for a fist bump. To this day, my hand is encased in a glass case. I will never wash it.
As a coda, I freakin' nailed that entrance exam and, five years on, am sitting here at my dream job. Actually, 2nd place dream job. I'd love another handling opportunity.
TL;DR: I'm the world's foremost expert on mascot handling and I also helped Mookie take a pee once.
