Forget the quarterbacks and cheerleaders. When you're camped out in the stands, you've really got your eye on me, Willie the Wildcat. Sure, I recently had some work done, but with about 13 appearances to make each month, you've got to cut a cat some slack. First off, seriously, what's the deal with babies? They spot me from far away, and they're instantly captivated, arms outstretched and mouths agape as their parents shout at me to come over. But then the baby realizes that I'm a freaking 6-foot-tall cat and starts wailing. I try to redeem myself with a round of peek-a-boo, achieving adverse effects. Then I have to deal with a baby glaring at me suspiciously for the rest of the game.
Adults aren't much better. At one basketball game this season, I was on the sidelines, jumping around, clapping, stealing popcorn from people - you know, just doing my thing. I saw this referee crouched intensely next to me, taking himself a bit too seriously. So I decided to go up behind him and mimic his movements. "Willie, I swear to God, if you don't stay away from me, I'm going to throw you out of this game!" he yelled. Overreaction of the year.
Then there are the times when my very existence comes into question. Talk about an identity crisis. Once in a while, I'll run into a little psychiatrist kid that just sits there and analyzes me. You know, that child in the perpetual "why?" stage of development. I met one of these guys in November at some post game barbecue, and he bruised my ego pretty badly. He sat across from me, staring at me, rationalizing aloud: "Willie, are you a boy or a man? Hmm … Well, you're too big to be a boy. But you're definitely too small to be a man." Kid, I'm 70 years old, give me a break. Others take a more "hands on" approach to acquainting themselves with me. A few weeks ago, I made an appearance at a little kid's birthday party and found myself surrounded by 20 six-year-old boys, shirtless, beating their chests and smacking each other with footballs. The next thing I remember, I'm on the ground with kids jumping on me, punching me and pulling me, screaming, "We're gonna rip your head off, Willie! We're gonna kick you in the knees!" I frantically signaled "timeout" to the parents, who took pictures and laughed and talked to each other about how cute their kids were. I no longer do six-year-olds' birthdays.
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