Red Bull and Fisher Cats

Minor League baseball is like America’s goofy uncle - the one on your mom’s side with the wacky voices and crazy hats, those plaid-on-stripes outfits and a belly laugh that makes you smile. Lucky for us, we have such an uncle nearby. Right down Route 3 you’ll find the New Hampshire Fisher Cats, the Eastern League affiliate of the Toronto Blue Jays, a team two rungs from the big time located in the heart of Manchester. If the major leagues are “The Show,” then the Fisher Cats are more like an off-off-Broadway event. The on-stage talent may ebb and flow, but it’s always a great time.

I spent a night living the minor league experience as a guest member of the Fisher Cats’ on-field promotions crew. The Fisher Cats met the Portland Sea Dogs, the Red Sox’ double A team on a crisp Friday night, and I had a front-row seat, even though I didn’t do much sitting.

My guide and boss for the evening was Morgan Crandall, a twenty-something Maine native and the Community Relations manager for the Cats. Danielle Matteau, the Fisher Cats’ head of Public Affairs, agreed to let me shadow Morgan and her co-workers as part of the promo team as it led the crowd of 6,500 fans through all sorts of mid-inning on-field hi-jinx.

Okay, I’ll be straight with you. I wanted to be the mascot – just for one game. A single night dressed as a cartoon fisher cat - a large, dark-brown North American arboreal, carnivorous mammal - would be something I’d brag about for decades, but Danielle demurred. Besides, the team already has a more than capable mascot in Slider. And after seeing Slider sweat his stubby brown tail off for nine innings of baseball, I’m confident I couldn’t afford the dry cleaning bill.

I arrive at the park two hours before game time to meet Morgan, and we start walking at a fast clip while Morgan talks. I scramble to keep up, a theme that repeats itself for the next six hours. In the time it takes us to walk from the right field foul pole to behind home plate, I learn this is Morgan’s third Eastern League team in three years; after college in Virginia, where she majored in sports management, Morgan “couldn’t imagine not working in sports once I graduated,” she says as we turbo-stroll the concourse. Morgan is a force of pure energy! She says hello to everyone we pass, directing employees and interns while greeting season ticket holders and harried birthday party parents. Morgan introduces me to both Bernie Carbo and Rico Petrocelli while collecting waivers from the Cub Scout color guard and ensuring the crowd of ceremonial first pitchers is ready to go all the while sharing, in exacting detail, about the Eastern League All-Star game taking place in mid July right here at the stadium. “That’s my thing; I’m organizing it,” she announces with pride.

The game starts in ninety minutes, and I’m already exhausted. There’s no way Morgan can keep this pace up - she’ll be toast by the seventh inning stretch! But there’s no time for idle thoughts. We need a little girl for the fireworks promo, and while we scan the crowd, Morgan tells Luke the summer intern to, “Look for cute.” Luke, a college student from Indiana, is one of the twenty-two interns the Cats hire each summer. Luke says little, stunned by the rapid-fire directions Morgan shoots his way. I don’t know about Luke, but I’m getting chest pains just watching her work. “Try doing this for nineteen days straight,” Morgan says to me, smiling.

It’s 6:20, and first pitch is minutes away. We move onto the field. A dozen kids from a local taekwondo school jump, shout, and kick in red and white outfits to pulsating music as Michaela Sweet, Morgan’s cohort, the team’s marketing manager and on-field emcee paces back and forth. The kids howl, breaking boards with their hands and feet on the first-base side of the field. Michaela is inches away from getting a pre-teen foot to the head, but she’s unfazed. I guess once you’ve been in the minor league baseball promotions business for six years like her, one gaggle of yelping, frenzied pint-sized warriors is like any other. Even as the nunchuks come out, Michaela is unconcerned.

As I stand on the field, a giant tooth uses an oversized toothbrush to clean off home plate. Slider hurls balls into the crowd while dozens of Jays and Clam Kings - local little leaguers - play catch on the infield. Morgan commands the scene like General Patton at a traffic stop, giving the Cub Scout color guard instructions. I’m afraid to move a muscle - I’m either gonna get a nunchuk to the noggin, an errant Clam King cutoff throw to the ear, or Super Tooth will mock my gingivitis, so I stay motionless by the dugout.

Then, in an instant, a youngster belts out the National Anthem, the Scouts present the colors, the Clam Kings run off the field, the first ball throwers do their thing, and the game begins. I feel like we’re already in extra innings, and not a single pitch’s been thrown. Morgan never skips a beat. In the first two innings, she arranges a successful scoreboard-announced engagement (“Kelly, will you marry me? Alan”), sets up and judges a gunny sack race for a box of cereal between two pint-size girls, and preps for the Build a Burger event.

Underneath the stands, Morgan corrals the two burger builders, gulping a Red Bull as she talks. Maybe this is the source of her boundless momentum, but she’s been working non-stop for hours already, and this energy drink might actually be calming her down. Either way, she is cheery, focused and does a nice job of thanking both bun and burger for participating.

It’s the third inning, and we’re standing in the corner of the Sea Dogs’ dugout. The sumo competitors, Morgan, Michaela, and I are clustered together, drawing no attention from the players, which is a good thing. My one chance to interact with the future stars of the Red Sox, and I’m helping a man velcro himself into an enormous non-breathable fat suit. The inning ends, the wrestlers flop around for ninety seconds, and we’re onto “Race the Mascot” in another three outs.

Eight-year old Megan is racing Slider tonight, and she beats him by a whisker to the applause of the crowd. Morgan congratulates Megan and hustles off to change into an elf costume for next inning’s Santa’s Village promo. Never knowing if the inning will be over in three pitches or, in the case of tonight’s game, forty pitches, two pitching changes, one error and five runs, means Morgan and her cast must be ready immediately. Elfin magic Morgan and her Santa sidekick perform with gusto, giving away a scooter to a lucky fan.

It’s the seventh inning, and I give Morgan the slip and sit down to watch some baseball. The Sea Dogs lead 14-8 in front of a thinning crowd. Out of nowhere, the Fisher Cats manager throws a fit, directing a tirade at the home plate umpire, his tanned face turning purple-red with anger as he screams at the man in blue. He gets tossed and is followed by the Cats’ hitting coach, who yells all sorts of adult-only adjectives until he too is asked to leave. It’s a bit unsettling when two of the oldest people in the park act like complete babies, but if you had to wear stretch pants, an athletic supporter and do nothing more aerobic than spit sunflower seeds, you’d be a blown call away from snapping too.

Just when I think the promos are done, a group of interns gathers on the concourse to prep for the 8th inning ”Cha Cha Slide” dugout dance, wearing food-themed costumes. I’m not sure what they’re promoting, but if bananas, hot sauce, Tootsie Rolls, ketchup and tomato soup are the ingredients, I’m not taking a bite.

Friday night is Fireworks night for the Fisher Cats fans, and the moment the game ends, Morgan and Michaela waste no time kicking off the finale. Morgan leads a little girl onto the field, Michaela introduces her with an energetic voice, the girl drops the pretend detonator, and fireworks fill the Manchester night sky.

This is my cue to call it a night. I’m so tired I can’t even look up at what sounds like quite a show. As I leave the field, I see Morgan in a dead sprint, off to hammer out final details on another task. In ten hours, she and the rest of the entire Fisher Cats organization will be right back here to do it all over again. Let’s hope there’s enough Red Bull to go around.