Snicker or snarl, but mascots mint money and endure long after pro players get arrested or traded. What a sports organization puts on a bobblehead sends a message to the masses. Halftime routines set a tone for a team and a town.
"Disney, a mammoth entertainment company, was built on the back of a tiny little mouse," notes Dave Raymond, the original Phanatic. "A mascot can be your most powerful revenue producer. It entertains whether you win or lose. It doesn't cheat on its wife."
Well, Big Ben had an illegitimate son, but should colonial indiscretions keep the supersized statesman from bringing electricity to center court?
Also in the running: B. Franklin Dogg, a pooch that can poach, and Phil E. Moose, described on www.nba.com/sixers/mascotfanvote.html as a big-time baller stoked to end his career dancing and prancing around the Wells Fargo Center.
Fans gasped at the unoriginal Hobson's choices, trash-talking the cartoonish contenders on Twitter. No one likes any of these mascots, but that may not matter. Each tweet generated more buzz about the team than anything in years.
RIP Hip-Hop
Mourn not the passing of Hip-Hop, the rabbit on 'roids sent to pasture by the new Sixers owners as the ink dried on the $280 million purchase deal. He looked more like the beastly bunny from
Donnie Darko than a harmless hare. Mascots should draw you close. Hip-Hop repelled.
"Bravo for getting rid of the muscular rabbit," notes Peter Madden, who runs the Philadelphia marketing and branding firm AgileCat. In his 'do rag and shades, Hip-Hop, we agree, was "frightening."
"In the pros," Madden says, "you want a mascot to be friendlier, cleaner, less ironic, more go-team, go-city."
Madden suspects Big Ben has the edge, because "Philadelphians are so provincial" and no moose roam these streets. Whoever wins must "make kids and old people smile."
