Mascots are the game’s hidden treasures
They are often derided as being symbolic of the ‘new football’ but Sam Dean argues that fluffy animals deserve love
Let us not forget how Harry the Hornet was lambasted by a furious Sam Allardyce
The scale of Sunday’s tribute to Richard Eades was indicative of both his impact on West Bromwich Albion and the enduring joy of football’s least-heralded heroes.
Eades, who had served as West Bromwich Albion mascot Albi since 2007, was just 42 when he died suddenly on Boxing Day. Ahead of West Brom’s meeting with Arsenal, a film tribute was shown of Eades in action, while the mascots of rival Midlands clubs paid their own respects on the pitch.
The image of five adult-sized fluffy animals standing together wearing football strips is, at first, faintly bizarre. But it made for a fitting recognition of Eades’s work, and provided a welcome reminder of the glee that can be found in those brave souls who have, somewhere along the line, ended up spending their Saturday afternoons dressing up as cuddly bears and jigging around a field.
In this era of £75million defenders, continuously updated gossip columns and the unrelenting rage of Arsenal Fan TV, mascots pose a much-needed question: should we really be taking this sport quite so seriously?
Let us not forget, for example, the incident in 2016 which can only be described as Hornetgate, when Watford mascot Harry the Hornet was lambasted by furious Crystal Palace manager Sam Allardyce following a draw at Vicarage Road.
Harry’s crime had been to mock Palace winger Wilfried Zaha by throwing himself to the floor in imitation of a supposed dive.
Such was the ensuing outrage that the Football Association even felt compelled to confirm that no formal action would be taken against the oversized vespidae.
Some of the more traditional members of the country’s footballing fan base will no doubt view mascots as another of the modern game’s ugly, commercial developments. But to see Bournemouth’s Cherry Bear and Arsenal’s Gunnersaurus in full flow is to witness the genuine effect they have upon younger supporters.
It all begs the question of what we want from the ‘match-day experience’. Is it for the middle-aged balding man, vein bursting from his head as he screams at the latest flimsy full-back from foreign shores? Or is it also for young families who fancy a day out and, fingers crossed, a selfie with a bloke dressed as a gurning hippo in a Stoke City kit?
This is not to say the life of a mascot is entirely smooth. Far from it. Who can forget the chilling scenes of 1998, when Wolves mascot Wolfie had to be separated from Bristol City’s three pigs after a half-time bust-up?
Or when Swansea’s Cyril the Swan decapitated Millwall’s Zampa the Lion and drop-kicked his head into the stands?
And then there are the tales of romance. Take the Wikipedia entry for Harry the Hornet, which is so imbued with inane joy that parts are almost worth repeating in full.
“On 28 August 1998, Harry got married to Harriet the Hornet,” it reads. “This was live on TV and was highly embarrassing. The marriage took place on the pitch at Vicarage Road… and was witnessed by Wolfie, the Wolves mascot, who acted as Harry’s best man.”
Such silliness should be treasured, and so should our mascots. They are football’s hidden heroes, and are needed now more than ever.