![]() I love that mascots become a conduit for the collective buzz of the spectacle. The lively group nature of a sports game recalls the participatory culture of ancient and Elizabethan theater, when it was customary for audience members to respond with loud utterances and a lobbing of stones or a goblet of wine. We are all implicated in the experience, and we all play a part. A sports arena is effectively a theater in the round, where everyone watching the game also gets to watch each other. I relate to their keen consideration of the crowd (what’s a performance without spectators? We need them!) and their ability to distribute equal attention to the players and the audience like a cordial party host. As a self-identified entertainer, I treasure the theatricality and clownish sensibility of these costumed cheerleaders. And this is where it gets interesting for me. Mascotry strikes me as performance art woven into a genre-sports-that we rarely associate with creative expression. That seven foot dolphin creates a larger than life fiction you might actually, for a moment, believe a world where it’s safe to really care about something, to get on board, to root for some basketball team just because they play for your college, to embrace your regional pride or even some kind of newfound patriotism, if only for a couple hours. It helps that the mascot even physically scales up in size to proportionally support the crowd’s massive, collective spirit. There’s something about a seven foot tall, plush dolphin that hits different than a mortal human of flesh and blood. I don’t know about you, but mascots are what keep me in the game, when I’m at a game (which I rarely am). In the chaos of whistleblowing umpires, aggravated coaches, injured players, fast talking commentators, fouls and buzzers and wins and losses, the mascot acts as a hospitable interlocutor to guide us through, reminding us to enjoy the hubbub, smile for the jumbotron, and accept a fist bump when offered. ![]() A mascot acknowledges our value as spectators and rewards us for our presence, amplifies our enthusiasm and reflects it back to us. It makes sense, then, that within the extraordinary scenario of being en masse (say, at a sports game), there would be an additional element (say, a mascot) to serve the purpose of emphasizing that good time. ![]() As Elias Canetti says in Crowds and Power, “Only together can men free themselves from the burdens of distance.” And that’s good, right? Yes, good times can be had alone, and yes, bad times certainly happen in the company of others, but it’s around people that we are reminded of our common humanity physical proof we are not alone a temporary dissolution of the hard lines we draw around ourselves. What makes a good time good? I suspect that a hallmark of the “good time” is, quite often, a felt sense of togetherness. Viking figurine spotted through the blinds of the Science Education Center ![]()
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