welcome to the funzone

During the Christmas season of 2008, I was part of a young church plant in Pasadena, California. We had adopted an elementary school and were planning a holiday party for a third grade class for which we had been sponsoring a Mentoring Through the Arts program. The party was set to be an elaborate production, culminating in giving each of the kids a new bike.

Now, our church had a mascot. His name is Funzone Freddy, and he is a giant yellow dog with his tongue perpetually hanging out of his mouth.

Funzone Freddy had made appearances at various events, and he was set to make a cameo at the Christmas shindig. A few different guys had taken to role, and I think at this party one of my roommates was set to don the yellow suit.

I showed up kind of early to help set up for the party. My experience with these kinds of things is that often several unexpected loose ends pop up near zero hour, so I told Alison, our kids ministry leader, and Rodney, our pastor, that I was available to do anything they needed. I came ready to blow up balloons, set up tables, make last minute runs to the grocery store, and so on.

Then, Alison received word that the man who had been tabbed to be Funzone Freddy was not going to be able to make it. Kids were already starting to trickle in with their parents. She and Rodney turned to me. I remembered my promise, sighed, and nodded.

I had never worn a mascot costume before. Let me tell you: The suit itself isn't so bad, save for the scratchy fur that funnels all heat directly in. (If you're ever lost in a snowstorm with nothing but a mascot costume, put it on - it was greatly decrease your odds of getting hypothermia.) The killer, though, is the mask. It has the same heat effect as the suit times two, plus it limits your range of vision so that anything below your nose is invisible - a limitation rendered especially brutal when you're interacting with children under four feet tall.

Anyway, as Alison was introducing the activities to the kids and having them sing songs, I was suiting up with the aid of a couple of church members. As the kids sang "Jingle Bells," I entered from the back dressed as Funzone Freddy, and the kids erupted into a raucous chorus of cheers.

I helped the band and Alison lead Christmas carols with the kids, waving my arms wildly and dancing around like a maniac. I then had the honor of helping Rodney introduce the bicycle giveaway, and had kids screaming and jumping and rushing up to hug me. In short, I was a rock star.

As the kids shuffled out of the room, I was whisked to the back by three or four people, who ripped off my mask, fanned me with papers, thrust bottle waters into both of my hands, and kept asking, "Are you OK? Are you too hot? Are you fine?" I nodded and smiled, my face beat red and my sweaty hair plastered to my forehead.

I then went out in my plain clothes and walked amongst the children. None of them had any idea who this random guy was. I felt a little sad, to be honest, but I had done my job, even if it was more than I anticipated. Who was this shy, quiet man at the party? He was just Clark Kent, taking pictures for The Daily Planet.