“Hawka, ya dickhead!” *THWACK* I’ve just been punched in my spongey beak by a pre-teen Collingwood fan. It didn’t tickle.
Yes, I’m wearing the Hawthorn FC mascot suit, dressed as Hudson “Hawka” Knights. Yes, I’m on level two of the MCG, deep in enemy territory sans minder (where did she get to?). And yes, the brown and gold are giving the Pies a touch-up. But there’s no need for this.
Do I retaliate? No. For two reasons. One, I’m not about to hit a young kid. Two, I’m especially not about to hit a girl, no matter how much she’s perpetuating the Magpie fan stereotype.
I get whisked into the Family Rooms to perform my duties. Kids are eating party pies, drinking soft drink and getting their faces painted.
“Hawthorn Mascoooooottt!” one kid screams, forgetting my nickname in the heat of the moment. Seven of them swoop in and group-hug me, literally hanging off my legs. That’s more like it.
Being a sporting mascot is an unpredictable side hustle that can be quite rough at times. We saw evidence of it last weekend in the NRL with Reggie the Rabbit. The South Sydney Rabbitohs’ mascot tipped over the edge when he gave a youngster a “don’t argue”, likely after enduring one too many hurtful sledges. It wasn’t a good look.
But I feel for the man under the suit, Charlie Gallico, still climbing into the cumbersome red and green costume at the ripe old age of 81. I dare say he’s the only octogenarian mascot in the world and it might be time for the Rabbitohs brains trust to suggest a passing of the baton.
In my 19 years as Hawka, I’ve copped it every which way from opposition kids. The most full-on example was when I appeared at a clinic in Lilydale in 2008.
Now, the word “clinic” strikes fear into the heart of any veteran of the vocation. At best, you’ll have a few kids sticking up for you, wearing your colours. At worst you’ll have a bunch of rabid, juvenile delinquents who smell blood in the water.
On this picturesque spring morning, some bright spark in charge of “activations” had approved 500 inflatable Bunnings hammers to give out to the tikes. Picture me, flanked by one well-meaning but ultimately outnumbered “bodyguard”, walking over the lush green hills and onto the oval, as the eyes of 40 kids holding 40 mallets light up.
“Get ‘immm,” one shouts as they go from a pack of eight-year-olds to a cackle of hyenas, whacking the, ahem, life out of me. After 20 seconds of getting clobbered I have to physically move them out of my way with scant help from my wrangler. Pretty happy there were no camera phones that day.
We scurry away, taking refuge next to some stinky bins behind the club rooms. Glamorous life. It’s agreed Hawka can take the last hour off.
It was a similar atmosphere at the EJ Whitten Legends Game about a decade ago, where there were 16 different sets of fans and no real team to support. There is a weird energy in the air. All 16 mascots emerge from the players’ race at half-time and make our way around the boundary to cheers and jeers.
There’s always a good level of banter and camaraderie at AFL games but this crowd was particularly hostile. (Sidenote, I love shocking people as Hawka.) My standard jump-scare move is to wait until they’re not looking, leap onto the fence with my hands (wings?) and put my menacing face within an inch of theirs. Works every time.
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The Legends Game was a different beast though. On this evening a cheeky rascal (I’m being nice) pitched himself over the fence and ripped my head clean off, the chinstrap chonking against my chin as I was unmasked. Kids shrieked. Mothers shielded their baby’s eyes. A crow cawed.
It took all my strength and a genuine tug-of-war to hoist myself over the fence, reach into the third row and wrest it back off him and three of his smartarse mates. There was no way I would’ve retrieved it if it had gone further into the crowd. I was already imagining a YouTube clip going viral the next day: “Keepings Off Mascot as Hawka Loses His Shit.”
I got my own back shortly after it was agreed the Clark Rubber mascot (no clue as to why he was there) would win the half-time mascots race. We were told to throw the race by play-wrestling, doing silly dances and running in slow motion instead of making a dash for the finish line.
Bugger that. I needed a win.
Hawka might be nodding his giant head at the instructions but he has no intention of following them.
“Ready, set, GO!” shouts Dipper. Bang. I’m off. Dipper’s face goes from jolly to confused.
I scamper over the line, comfortably beating my dopey, non-biodegradable adversary.
“And the winner is … Hawka!?” I run over to high-five Robert DiPierdomenico, getting plenty of boos while throwing my wings into the air victoriously.
I’ve got many more stories of perilous run-ins including a ripper with Eddie McGuire but Hawka needs to keep a few secrets. I’m not even really meant to talk. All I ask on behalf of mascots worldwide is have a bit of fun with us but don’t go too far. Hawka will eat your head, just don’t punch him in his.
