It's not easy being green

Ideas this good don't come but once in a lifetime, and for me, maybe not that often: I was going to be Wally.

You know Wally the Green Monster. Tall. Furry. Handsome. He's the Red Sox mascot, and in a tradition-laden town stocked with self-proclaimed purists, he has cast a shocking spell. Kids race after him like he's the Pied Piper. Women swoon. Otherwise normal men scream his name as he ambles down the aisles of Fenway Park.

True enough, I was lured into this business of words and deeds by the accomplishments of Woodward and Bernstein. Now all these years later, it had come to this: me in a glorified Cookie Monster suit, trying to learn how Wally achieved such popularity among the toughest fans in all of sports.

Which explains how I came to meet my new friend in an oversized storage closet in the bowels of the ballyard nearly two hours before one recent game.

His name is Chris Bergstrom. He's 23 years old, with slightly spiky hair, bright eyes, and big shoulders. He commutes to every game from his native Worcester, where he works in community relations for a semipro hockey team.

Ends up, Wally is Chris's passion, and he couldn't comprehend how some self-important jamoke could walk in off the street and ably fill the carefully crafted role.

"Have you ever worn a mascot suit?" he asked, suspiciously. I'm not sure why I was embarrassed to say no.

But then, as he tells it, he began e-mailing his industry friends, creatures like Lou Seal of the San Francisco Giants, and the San Diego Friar, and they convinced him that there could be good to come of this -- mainly a better understanding of the roles and goals of professional mascots.

So we were off, me shadowing Wally and his wise-cracking sidekick, Jeff Goodman. My assignment was to learn from him at Sunday's game and be him at Tuesday's.

His primary advice was as follows: Be edgy, which explains why he taunts opposing players and grabs the occasional Yankees hat off a spectator's head and rubs it against his underarm (or parts worse). "If you just walk around and you're some cuddly thing, they won't respect you," he said.

Certainly not. As soon as he hit the concourse, people shrieked. Cameras flashed. At one point, Wally failed to see two rather comely women who were trying to get his attention.

"Wally, you have two fans you'll want to say hello to," Goodman called to him, giving me a deadpan look. Wally turned. The three of them hugged -- and kept hugging.

Wally. Wally, time to go. Wally!

And we continued on, a moveable feast. He gave Mike Timlin, the reliever, his ritual high-five before the game. I'm thinking, I could do this. But then he sprinted the length of the foul territory and scaled the right-field fence in a single leap. Hmmm. When he climbed up and down the steep, narrow steps to the right-field roof seats in his clunky red boots, I pictured myself in a heap at the base, blood seeping through my outsized green head.

After that, he danced on the dugouts, dangerously close to the edge. One question: If the mascot were lying on the field with a broken back, would they stop the game? A kid celebrating a birthday in a luxury suite punched him in his gut and, best as I could tell, Wally wasn't allowed to punch back.

As Chris peeled off his costume at the end of the game, he was soaked in sweat, exhausted, but pleased.

"The Phillie Phanatic told me this and I think he's right: When you're in your suit, you're who you really are inside," he said. "No one judges you. People think it's just a joke-around job, but you represent an organization. You have to make it proud."

As I made for the door, he said, "See you Tuesday."

No he wouldn't. I'm going to pursue that Woodward and Bernstein thing. It's much safer, and a lot less work.

Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at mcgrory@globe.com.