One night as Mason: How a reporter from The State became the Columbia Fireflies mascot

So this is my 20th year in journalism.

Across two decades, I’ve written about mayors, governors and presidents. I’ve covered elections, the funerals of dignitaries, capital murder trials, billion-dollar business deals and natural disasters. I’ve been sent to bear witness to the depths of suffering and the resilience of the human spirit.

And, at just after 9 o’clock on a balmy-but-breezy spring night, I stood on top of a dugout in a minor league baseball stadium, dressed as a anthropomorphic firefly, and did the Chicken Dance.

I’m guessing more than a few of you have been to a Columbia Fireflies baseball game over at Segra Park. The team, a Class A Kansas City Royals affiliate, just began its ninth year in the capital city, and a night at the ballpark is a textbook slice of Americana.

There’s the young team, with players trying to make their mark and achieve big league dreams. There are hot dogs and peanuts and ice cream, and enough beer to float an aircraft carrier. The smell of popcorn is strong in the park, so much so that I’d swear they’ve got a special machine pumping that aroma through the grandstand.

And then, of course, there is Mason, the team’s beloved mascot. Blue and neon green, with huge feet, a round belly, tiny little wings and a Fireflies baseball cap flipped backward on his antennaed head, he’s an ever-present fixture at Fireflies games.

Back in February, on one of those sunny, late-winter days when you’re pining for baseball to start, I looked out the window and formed an idea. I picked up the phone and texted Fireflies President Brad Shank and asked, simply, “Could I be Mason one night and write a column about it?”

He called me a few minutes later, and the planning began. Dates were kicked around, preliminary details hashed out. Eventually we settled on April 11, a game between the Fireflies and the rival Myrtle Beach Pelicans.

“Start hydrating!” Shank texted. And it was right about then that I started wondering what I’d gotten myself into.

Becoming Mason

About two hours before the April 11 game, I reported to a small room just above the first baseline at Segra Park. That’s where Fireflies promotions and fan engagement manager John Oliver had convened a meeting of the Glow Squad, the group of mostly college-aged employees who are responsible for all of the contests and between-innings entertainment that are part-and-parcel to the minor league baseball gameday experience.

And that’s where I met Jacob Strickland, the man who typically plays Mason.

On this night, when a meatball reporter from the local paper elbowed his way into the action, Strickland had been assigned to be my “handler” or “valet.” The handler is the person who walks alongside Mason as the mascot traverses the ballpark, directs the firefly where to go, alerts him when fans are approaching from all angles for photos or autographs, and just generally watches Mason’s back and keeps him on schedule.

Now, let me be clear: When it comes to being a mascot, Jacob Strickland is a pro. A pro’s pro. He’s in his first season working with the Fireflies as Mason, but before that he was Splash, the Myrtle Beach Pelicans’ mascot, for three seasons. He also spent five years as Chauncey the Chanticleer at Coastal Carolina University and was a high school mascot for three years in Rock Hill. The man knows how to work the costume.

And for one night, he had to put up with a neophyte interloping in his territory.

But Strickland was incredibly patient as he offered tips and suggestions and guided me through putting on the Mason costume.

The thing you need to know about the costume is that it’s not a singular garment that you just hop into. It’s actually a half-dozen pieces — the underlying “fat suit”; the larger, colorful oversuit; the big feet where you strap in your sneakers; the T-shirt that usually coincides with a given game’s promotional schedule (it was NASCAR Night on April 11, so Mason wore a race car shirt that night); the silly little wings; and, of course, the oversized firefly head — that are held together with a series of snaps, zippers and Velcro.

My friends, I want to tell you something about a mascot head: You can’t see a damn thing out of it.

You are actually looking out of Mason’s mouth, where the eye-slit is. And when I say “slit,” I mean a slit. Because of the angle, your general field of vision is people’s torsos, and there is zero peripheral vision.

And with those limited sightlines and stuffed into that cumbersome suit, I ventured out into the concourse of Segra Park about 30 minutes before the first pitch to make my debut as Mason the Firefly.

Welcome to Selfie City

The photos. The selfies. My goodness, the photos and selfies.

The literal moment I walked — or waddled, as it were — out of Mason’s locker room and onto the main concourse of Segra Park dressed as the character, the fun began. Everyone, it turns out, wants a picture with Mason.

As I initially made my way through the concourse, we literally stopped every few feet for folks to get a shot on their smartphones. Strickland was critical in this process, always patiently offering to grab the fans’ phones and shoot the photos, so that everyone in a given party could get in the shot.

I found it amazing that, while there were certainly plenty of children who wanted a photo with the giant firefly, the adults were often just as eager. There were middle-aged folks, silver-haired couples, college kids and post-grads with beer cans clutched in their hands, all giddily and politely asking for photos.

There was one 40-something lady who was so happy to both meet and get a picture with Mason that she was nearly on the verge of tears. It was as if she was meeting Mickey Mouse at Disney World for the first time.

As we hit various spots in the stadium — the concourse behind home plate, the aisles of the grandstand, the high-tone upstairs luxury suites, the bar above the berm out in right field — I quickly learned you have to communicate with your hands and with exaggerated gestures. There is no talking when wearing the Mason suit. That is a steadfast rule.

One of the hand signals, which I had to employ at various points in the night, was to let Strickland know I needed to step back into the locker room for what I called a “breathing break.” Meaning, simply, that I needed to get into a private area where I could take off the Mason head and actually breathe for a few minutes.

Let there be no doubt, it gets as hot as a furnace in that suit. Strickland says, during summertime games, he actually wears a special vest with frozen ice packs to help keep cool in the costume.

And then there was the centerpiece of my night as Mason. The coup de grâce of Thirsty Thursday. It was, of course, the Chicken Dance.

If you’ve been to basically any professional sporting event, you have doubtlessly seen, and perhaps done, the Chicken Dance. I’ll refrain from totally describing it here, except to say it’s a cacophony of clapping, wing flapping and booty shaking, with a little do-si-do thrown in at the end.

I wasn’t so much concerned about actually doing the Chicken Dance as I was climbing up onto the top of the dugout for the performance. That’s not exactly a vast expanse up there, plus I’d basically be doing it blind. I could just imagine the headline: “Veteran reporter dons bug costume, dies in dugout fall.”

Alas, I thankfully avoided any real calamity. The Chicken Dance went off without a hitch. Some even said it was the best Chicken Dance they’d ever seen.

OK, no one actually said that. But after I climbed down from the dugout, at least one college boy drinking a tall beer greeted me with a fist bump and said, “Smooth, bro.”

Measured praise, for sure. But it was praise I’d gladly accept as a first-time mascot. On a night filled with selfies, autographs, breathing breaks, luxury suite visits, high-fives, waddling in giant feet and at least one wayward Chicken Dance, you have to embrace the small blessings.

Everyone deserves a chance to glow.