Spirited tryout puts reporter out to pasture

Web posted Sunday, January 14, 2001

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 Writer takes dancing beat in stride
 John Bankston's performance rocks the house

By John Bankston
Staff Writer<

All you sports fans who see mascots as an object of ridicule, know this: They can't actually hear anything you scream from the stands.

The thick, furry confines of the costume reduce all outside noise to a muffled roar. Nothing is discernible - particularly not your clever, drunken jabs.

Augusta Chronicle reporter John Bankston dances with cheerleading coordinator Tammie Newman. CHRIS THELEN/STAFF

On Saturday, I auditioned for the Augusta Stallions mascot position, and the only thing I could hear as I flopped around the Health Central gymnasium, trapped inside the awkward horse's head, was the voice in my brain screaming, ``YOU ARE GOING TO DIE!''

It was my editor's idea for me to audition and write an article about the experience, and I'm still struggling to remember what I did to make her hate me so.

I was second to don the Stud the Stallion mascot duds and perform for the packed gymnasium, where Stallion cheerleaders were waiting to audition as well.

I never really had a chance.

I was to follow the incumbent Tony the Pony, aka Stud the Stallion, and she actually had a routine. It was brilliant. She had signs, specific dance steps for pre-chosen music and years of pep rally experience to guide her.

Naturally, I was intimidated.

All I had to lean on was the snickering support of a misguided newspaper editor.

The real problem, though, was that after four minutes of bouncing around the gym, the incumbent Stud had sweat right through every inch of that costume. As she struggled out of it and handed it to me piece by piece, it glistened moistly in the harsh gymnasium light.

Nothing against her, but it smelled like a wet August armpit. Even as I struggled into it, I began to pity the Stud who would follow me.

Tammie Newman, the cheerleading coordinator, was helping me struggle into the horse's head when the music fired up, so I grabbed her and I began a dorky version of the rumba.

Her advice to me before the show had been to ``freestyle - just have fun with it.'' So she really has no reason to complain about what ensued.

She seemed to play along willingly enough, although I can't be absolutely certain. I couldn't hear or see her through the stifling headgear. Our rumba somehow turned into a wrestling match and I put her in a headlock and slammed her into the hardwood floor. Hey, I was improvising.

As she lay on the ground, I grabbed her arm and began dragging her across the smooth surface of the gym.

She slid surprisingly well, but after dragging this poor woman in circles for about 10 seconds I let her go. I didn't see where she flew, but she seemed all right afterward.

I didn't let her go for her sake, but for my own sanity. At this point, the strenuous activity coupled with the skin-tight sweatbox had set alarm bells off in my brain. It felt as if someone had cinched a rubber band around my neck and my head would soon explode like some crazy caricature of a bursting water balloon.

I apologized to Tammie after the act, but she shrugged it off in good cheerleader fashion. It seems during a Stallions game last season, she was knocked silly into the dasher boards by a hard-charging full back. In comparison, she said, my own feeble efforts to crack her spine were laughable.

Everyone was outwardly supportive, but I think after witnessing my spirited interaction with Tammie, all the cheerleaders were rooting against me. Glancing at their faces as I convulsed out of my costume, I could see a united plea in their eyes: ``Don't quit your day job. Please.''

So I blew it. I played to win and I lost to a more experienced, better prepared and, really, infinitely more entertaining version of Stud. More power to her - she's a real pro.

And I trudged away with a new respect for mascots - and a wary regard for newspaper editors.

Reach John Bankston at (706) 823-3352 or jbanks15@hotmail.com.

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