Now that all the all-star festivities are over, regular-season baseball is back!
Fun at the stadium. Hot dogs. Cotton candy. Peanuts. Beer. And mascots.
All baseball teams have mascots these days.
Don’t ask me how I got the job, but I was the Cleveland Indians’ mascot, Tom E. Hawk, at Cleveland Municipal Stadium on the shores of Lake Erie during the 1982 season.
Consider this the confessions of a former mascot.
Batter up!
Mascots at that time didn’t have all the props they have now. The only recognized celebrity then was the San Diego Chicken who laid “eggs,” used baseball equipment, and had an eye chart for umpires.
Tom E. Hawk had no four-wheeler, no visual aids, and no name recognition. My prop was my nephew’s red, oversized plastic bat, which provided some laughter, but not enough for a show.
Until, at one game, Tom E. Hawk was standing on the bullpen roof down the right-field line, which was even with the people in the stands. As I imitated some of my favorite players’ batting stances — including the drastically different open stance of Detroit’s Dick McAuliffe — a spectator wadded up a piece of paper and “pitched” to me.
Not being able to see very well out of the gigantic head, Tom E. Hawk mostly swung and missed, to the delight of the crowd. Every once in a while, I’d connect and pretend to watch the ball sail into the sunset.
One particular game, I got hold of one of the wadded papers and sent a screaming line drive into the stands. Directly in the path of the smash was a woman in her 50s who should have been paying attention ... but wasn’t.
The wadded “ball” hit her square in the forehead, landing with a loud pop. Tom E. Hawk slowly made his way to her, hoping and praying she was OK, and wouldn’t sue. After apologizing profusely (and semi-comically), she shook her finger at me, then brushed off the red welt on her forehead.
I tried to call my shots after that.
Can’t touch this
Immediately before the first pitch of every game, Tom E. Hawk would fake sing whatever song was playing on the stadium speakers at the microphone at home plate where Rocco Scotti would sing the national anthem.
I would then exit the playing field by walking through the Indians dugout to get to the tunnel that connected back to the stands.
One game while I walked through the dugout, a couple of the Indians were prodding Tom E. Hawk to touch or tap one of the other players. As I found out later, that player was Kevin Rhomberg, who had just been called up from Cleveland’s Triple-A team in Charleston.
I didn’t know why it was such a big deal to touch Rhomberg, but I touched his shoulder and proceeded down the tunnel into the stands. As Tom E. Hawk entertained fans behind the Indians dugout during the first inning, I noticed a nervous Rhomberg staring at me intently, appearing to be in a near panic, watching to see if I would get close to the dugout.
After the top of the second inning of every game, Tom E. Hawk danced on top of the Indians dugout to “Shake a Tail Feather” from the movie Blues Brothers. As I danced, Rhomberg was anxiously watching me, drawing closer as I got near the edge.
I didn’t think much of it, but he suddenly jumped up and touched the huge foot of my costume as quite a few of the players laughed. The dugout got back to normal after that.
What I learned later was Rhomberg was known for his compulsion of needing to touch back someone who had just touched him. Cleveland teammates, including former player and manager Mike Hargrove, called Rhomberg, “Touch Me, Touch Me,” teasing him his entire major and minor league career.
As the season went on, the players sometimes asked me to touch Rhomberg as I went through the dugout, but I made sure he touched me back to avoid him going into deep distress.
Sign in, please
Tom E. Hawk signed a lot of autographs. People would give me papers, scorecards, programs, autograph books, miniature bats, anything to sign.
One time while traversing the vast expanses of the upper deck during a particularly poorly attended game — the Indians were not good in 1982 and Cleveland Stadium’s capacity was 81,000 people — a young couple approached me for an autograph.
As Tom E. Hawk, I couldn’t speak because the costume and voice were trademarked, so I gestured with my right hand for something to sign. It being a very hot day, the couple wore shorts and T-shirts. The gentleman told me he wanted me to autograph his girlfriend’s thigh.
She happily lifted her right leg onto a nearby seat, gave me a pen, and pointed to her inner thigh. Unsure of what to do, I started signing, but it looked more like a seismograph than at autograph. I was nervous, and my hand was shaking.
By the time I finished “Hawk,” I was sweating more than usual inside the boiling bird suit. After wrapping up the “k,” I was pleased to see the couple smiling broadly, and I went on my way, looking for someone who only wanted a baseball autographed.
It was great fun at the old stadium back then, full of laughter and shenanigans. These are stories I needed to get off my chest and hope the statute of limitations has expired.
And would you believe of all these stories, none of them is what got me fired as Tom E. Hawk at the end of that season?
First Published July 10, 2019, 12:00 p.m.
