Gritty Is The Embodiment Of South Philadelphia
In my past life, I was a mascot and by past life I mean nine years ago and by mascot I mean equipment manager for the Clarion University Football team. Oh yes sir, if you read between those very fine, delicate tea leaves that means I was the waterboy (breakin’ hearts and droppin’ panties). When I wasn’t burdened with the duties of sensually smelling (heark! I mean “professionally laundering”) the squad’s uniforms and getting the team’s faded red 1994 Ford Ranger truck jammed on the gate of the practice field, I was a pacing stalwart on the sideline. A shorter Lombardi except defrocked of authority, prestige or the great fedora of inspiration. Sure, I fixed an occasional helmet or tightened a facemask from time to time but I yearned for something more ... something ... tangible.
Then yesterday what do I behold, but this googly eyed goddess:
Oh the siren’s call is so loud, so beautiful! Yes, Gritty The Flyers mascot. Him, her, (it) enters our worlds via the old Boston Market off of Front & Snyder in south Philadelphia. How that hair is not entangled with syringes of assorted diseases, old pork of John’s Roast and matted in vomit is unbeknownst to man, but legend has it he’s the last creature -- human, rodent or poorly designed mascot to drop a duece in The Dive Bar’s upstairs shitter. He looks like two Tattooed Mom’s patrons of different ages merged together encountered Pepe The Prawn King bathing in Ninja Turtle ooze after he just got done frenching Scottie Hartnell. Bebop and Rocksteady hold no candle to this gazelle of grace, poise and under achievement.
That all being considered, I feel Gritty could fuck many people’s days up, both emotionally and physically. He by all rights would be the best player the Flyers could put on the ice. This beast with poor pronunciation capabilities would let the slow drip of manipulation take hold (rivaling that of your worst family member) and soon you’d too be under the Stockholm Syndrome-esque spell that would lead you to believe that “hey, losing isn’t all that bad.” But be sure to not do Gritty dirty or you’ll see those Caddywampus eyes turn a deep orange, akin to the wolf in Neverending Story that had everyone in the mid-80s shitting themselves with fear. Those paws may not be able to bat a puck away, but they’ll be sure to take a head clean off its person.
Is it Penguins blasphemy to say that I kind of dig Gritty? Maybe it’s my previous south Philly residency, but the Flyers organization, as despicable and buffoonish as it may be, sure did encompass its home turf’s vibe to an impressive extent. You’ve got him, her, (that) and the Phanatic. Phanatic's a freak in the sheets, but Gritty’s like Cookie Monster, if cookies were cocaine, crab fries and a skunked bottle of Kenzinger.
As long as he further instills that poor hockey prestige into the team he represents, I give that orange bastard a thumbs up.