‘Don’t Touch His Head:’ A Day in the Life of Mr. Met
Mr. Met is on the move.
Unbeknownst to the kids at the Cross Island YMCA and the majority of Bellerose, Queens, the Mets’ mascot – all 6’10” of him (mostly head) – is being hustled up Hillside Avenue by one of his handlers. They stop about a block up, beneath the low-hanging branches of a tree, count to three, turn around and head back. Mr. Met gradually breaks into an elbows-out, high-stepping strut. It doesn’t take long for him to be noticed.
“There’s the baseball man!” a kid in an orange Mets T-shirt shouts.
Any semblance of order at the YMCA Jr. Mets Clinic is quickly lost. Things were going swimmingly for a while there – instructors had broken the kids into groups, and two members of the actual Mets, Josh Edgin and Eric Campbell, were giving hitting and throwing pointers – but as soon as Mr. Met arrives on the scene, it’s pandemonium at Padavan-Preller Fields. Kids toss their gloves in the air, run in semi-circles and generally act like anyone under the age of 12 would when a smiling, anthropomorphic baseball man magically appears. Even the Canadian Geese standing in shallow center appear enthused.
At the time, the New York Mets were 57-64, fourth in the National League East and barely clinging to faint playoff hopes (if you were an optimist). None of that mattered. To these kids, not to mention two generations of long-suffering fans and more than a few celebs, Mr. Met remains an icon.
For the next half-hour, he poses for pictures, dishes out “high fours” (Mr. Met only has four fingers on each hand) and gestures his way through questions shouted from every direction – “Are you the real Mr. Met?” and “Are you wearing a costume?” are two of the favorites. But mostly, he attempts to avoid starting a riot.
once in a while, things get out of hand. “People will try to hit Mr. Met in the privates,” one of his handlers tells me.
On this day – and, from what I’m told, most days like it – the biggest problem is that everyone keeps trying to touch Mr. Met’s head (“Don’t touch his head, okay?” is the oft-repeated plea from his handlers.) It’s an understandable desire, but for reasons not entirely clear, Mr. Met’s giant baseball head is off limits. Outside of suspension of disbelief, “hands off the head” appears to be the only rule the team enforces when it comes to their mascot.
For his part, Mr. Met appears unfazed, and he dutifully stands above scrums of kids, occasionally dipping his shoulders down for a group hug. Mets goody bags are handed out, the kids are sent on their way and there is calm once again. While we are on our way to a nearby diner (only after an exhaustive iPhone search for a Dunkin’ Donuts – official coffee of the New York Mets – comes up empty), Mr. Met and I do a quick “interview,” which is weird, considering he doesn’t speak. However, with one of his handlers translating his various gestures, I learn the following:
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