Same with mascots. "Like Rocky," says Miles. "He can get away with stuff because he's so popular. Like that time during a game, playing musical chairs. He took the kid's chair away and, when [the kid] began to cry, pushed him down. I couldn't get away with that. Not at this point."
Mark Poutenis
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It turns out that the "Dinner With the Pros" is slightly misleading. There are legitimate pros at Rock Bottom Brewery -- Chris Henderson of the Rapids, for example. But Courtney Zablocki, the Olympic luger, is -- in theory, anyway -- an amateur. And who knows about Miss Denver, another guest. The bigger-name pros who are in attendance are all formers.
"There's John Elway!" ex-Bronco Reggie Rivers shouts at one point. Everyone turns. "Aaaaah, made you look," he says. "It's actually my mother. They kind of look the same. Both got big teeth."
The celebrities and guests pour in. Miles and Howler, out of costume, sit on the VIP patio and sip water incognito. "Who are you?" a waitress asks -- friendly, but with a slight why-are-you-here edge. "I'm a Bronco," Miles replies. "I play front line." The waitress laughs uncomfortably and walks away.
Unlike Miles and Howler, Rocky travels to gigs with a personal assistant. His name is Scott. Dressed in shirt and tie, he sits down at our table. "We were just in Lithuania," he says casually, adding that the Nuggets' mascot also has gigs in Greece and Turkey lined up in the not-so-distant future.
At some point, the most popular mascots in professional sports find they can step a small distance away from their team's fortunes and grow into their own separate personalities, becoming celebrities in their own right. The Kansas City Chiefs' KC Wolf and the Phoenix Suns' dunking gorilla earn handsome incomes from their gigs. Rocky is close to joining this elite company.
Last year, Rocky signed a contract reportedly worth $150,000 -- not including appearance fees at corporate functions and birthday parties. That's about five times the salaries of Denver's other mascots. (In addition to his van, Miles has managed to negotiate a scooter/advertisement exchange, as well as a Harley rental deal from Blue Sky Motorcycle.) Plus, unlike Denver's lesser mascots, Rocky rarely is burdened with laying his own promotional groundwork.
"He doesn't have to line anything up," Howler says. "They just call him."
"Amazing," says Miles. "Just amazing. Someday, Howler, someday."
The two gaze out into the parking lot, daring Rocky to show. "He'll pull up with sirens going, pumping," Howler predicts.
"I should pull my van right in front of him," Miles adds. After discussing the relative merits of simply blocking Rocky's van versus an actual T-bone-type ramming operation, the two head back to the Miles Mobile to get into costume.
"I'm thinking of wearing my full fur today," Miles says once inside the van. He inspects his giant head. "Are my teeth banged up? People hit you all the time. But," he adds, pointing to a slight red smudge on the horse's long nose, "see that? That's lipstick. Nice, huh?"
Howler pulls out his snowman head and begins brushing the white tangle of hair. "Hey," says Miles. "Let me borrow the brush."
Outside the van, Rocky bounces by, tailed by Scott. He bestows high fives on everyone he passes.
The change takes about ten minutes. Miles and Howler give their costumes a last-minute once-over. "Let's go, donkey," Howler says, and the mascots pile out of the van.
The two immediately fall into character. Howler starts walking in a side-to-side, dum-de-dum goofball strut. Miles does what he calls a "wet-noodle" walk, a sort of butt-out-chest-up pimp stroll inspired by George Jefferson, wisecracking patriarch of the 1970s sitcom The Jeffersons.
The two split up to work the room. Miles walks into the brewery first, heading immediately for a group of kids, mussing their hair, gathering them into a hug. Howler takes a detour to the waitress station, delivering hugs and hairy kisses to each of the young women.
"Thanks!" one of them says. "Will you sign my shirt?" Howler massages her back and shoulders. Miles begins striking his standard pose -- left arm crooked, thumb up, right arm around whomever -- for photo ops.
Rocky strides around on the opposite side of the party; the mascots seldom cross paths. He pats everyone he passes on the shoulder, working the crowd. Every so often, he leaps up on a wall or table, then jumps down. (Miles and Howler stay earthbound.) He pinches the butt of a former Bronco. Scott follows at a respectful, invisible distance, holding photos for autograph opportunities. "Go out on the [VIP] porch," he directs Rocky at one point, sotto voce.
At 5 p.m., after working the crowd for exactly thirty minutes, Rocky and Scott bolt. Miles and Howler continue to circulate until, about ten minutes later, Howler sidles up next to me. "The keys," he says in a strained voice, and I hand them over. Back in the van, he quickly strips down and rubs his back; bending down to interact with some kids, he was hit with a muscle spasm -- another autograph-related injury.
