Going to Court, Part III: You Wouldn’t Like Me When I’m Angry

Say CHEESE!

With Marvel Personal Appearance Department Director Alyson’s search for a Dunkin’ Doppelgänger complete, the stage is finally set for The Incredible Hulk’s coming out party at the 1993 NBA All-Star Game Jam Session in Salt Lake City, Utah. But will our nattering narrator’s inaugural stint as the lime leviathan be a “Hulk smash!”?

Unlike other costumed characters, The Hulk necessitated a minder, someone to serve as escort while he performed his ambassadorial duties. Improved though the new suit’s visibility may be, the sheer bulk of the ensemble made it impossible to maneuver without the constant threat of barreling into someone or something. Plus, walking as the Jade Giant was akin to doing leg extensions on a weight machine; it took real effort to lift each leg, given the costume’s heft and limited mobility. It was like walking underwater.

Mr. Hulk, your escort is here!

In fact any movement, regardless of how minute, was met with staunch resistance. Add the heat and lack of the body’s breath-ability—the only openings were the mouth and eye sockets—and it wasn’t long before the wearer was awash in his own sweat. Even the thin bodysuit I wore beneath the Hulk exterior offered little by way of capturing perspiration; it was sopping minutes after donning the suit. This was the reason behind the twenty-minutes-in, ten-minutes-out policy for Hulk performers. To spend much longer in the costume dared the actor’s passing out.

Of course, this all depended on the person and the circumstances. Oftimes a wearer o’ the green, as it were, would stretch the costume’s temporal edicts. Perhaps, there was an especially long line of children waiting or the gig itself was a one-off of thirty minutes—to shoehorn a break therein would be a bit “letter of law”—or the particulars surrounding the job necessitated the Hulk portrayer to remain in character beyond the stated limit. The policy was emplaced more to protect the actor from unsympathetic sponsors who might not be willing to understand the importance of the schedule and insist the performer work well beyond the conservative safety margins.

With Alyson’s time split between overseeing Sam’s dunking escapades and glad-handing the Marvel Mucky-Mucks at the festivities, the job of Hulk-sitter fell to Joe, our Wolverine. Jeremy’s status as tenured Spider-Man precluded his taking on such menial tasks outside his Web-Swinging duties, although he did pal around on occasion. The job didn’t devour a whole lot of hours. Most of the time, I was on the show floor along with my stalwart superhero companions, so there wasn’t a need for a minder. When I needed a break, Wolvie would escort me back to the locker room and help me out of the suit before rejoining Webhead, since their stints between respites were greater.

The Dream Team

My activities as the Jade Giant were relegated to the secondary court just outside our dressing room. The area, which held various other b-ball frivolities and vendor stalls, could be found at the end of a long corridor leading from the B court. It ran approximately fifty yards, traversing the length of the main arena and tiered seating surrounding it. A straight shot of smooth cement it may have been, but it might as well have been the Wipeout qualification obstacle course as far as The Hulk was concerned. Simply strolling from the lockers into the B court pavilion was exhausting, like doing a hundred reps of forty pound leg lifts.

Not that there weren’t enough fans to entertain where I was. The B court was always active. Sure, the slam dunk exhibition with special guest Spider-Man was certainly a highlight, but there were also clinics on how to improve one’s basketball skills, trick-shot showcases; us heroes even had some friendly competition from the NBA mascots, who performed their own dunking display… with a trampoline no less! Out of mutual respect, though, we ceded the floor to the mascots during their show and they graciously allowed Spidey and friends their privacy when we were doing our thing. Not only did this result in a nice chunk of off time to Hulk, but also it allowed me to watch the league’s court jesters perform.

Denver Nuggets’ Rocky the mountain lion takes flight

Here was character appearance work on a whole ’nother level. To be able to barrel along the hardwood at a full tilt while holding a basketball, hit a three-foot square trampoline at the top of the key and slam the ball through the hoop would take a fair bit of athleticism. I’ve seen my fair share of superjocks on Ninja Warrior miscue the trampoline on the show’s signature Jumping Spider obstacle and they’re clad in the height of athletic apparel. But to do so wearing a furry animal head and matching costume was insane.

Indiana Pacers’ Boomer flips out. The extra trampoline lower right gives you some idea the size of the area the NBA mascots had to strike to perform their dunks.

And these guys were flipping and somersaulting in the air like the Flying Wallendas… only they survived! When they weren’t performing on the court, they were in the stands, climbing up the tiers, on the backs of the seats at times. It was awe-inspiring. Their duds may not have been as onerous as The Hulk’s, and they may have been designed to allow the wearer to move as expected, but the actor/athlete therein still had to prove himself.

Minnesota Timberwolves’ Crunch attempts to dunk
over seven people

Truth be told, I wasn’t completely floundering while wearing the green. I could actually walk at a decent clip and the double-width concrete stairs of the bleachers, which surrounded the B court, proved no match for The Hulk’s prodigious tootsies much to the delighted surprise of then Marvel President and CEO Terry Stewart who I encountered upon my inaugural debut at the show. Alyson stole me away from my adoring public during a lull to escort me to where Marvel Comics Numero Uno was seated in the stadium, most assuredly there to catch our Web-Swinging Ringer in action. In her excitement to present me to Stewart, Alyson didn’t think that I might find navigating stairs a problem.

“Are you going to be okay getting up the steps, Hulk,” she intoned, always professional when it came to speaking with the characters when among the rabble. I could see the mix of realization and worry on her face when we reached the base of the section above which Stewart was seated.

“No problem,” I growled. “Just clear the way. I’d hate to make a scene my first night in Utah!”

Typical to stadium seating, the steps alternated from normal depth to extra wide as one climbed past each row with their height being less than that of the usual stair. The feat would’ve been treacherous had they all been of the mundane variety, but the levels on which the rows were situated afforded plenty of space for my humongous hooves. Without skipping a beat, I hauled one leg, then the next, up the section, vaulting two steps at a time. I nearly barreled over a surprised Alyson who was staying close to give me a hand if needed. She adjusted quickly enough to scramble ahead, leading the way.

“Gangway… Coming through!” I bellowed.

The move was not out of character for the bullish behemoth, whose common mode of transport was propelling himself on his muscular legs, leaping leagues at a time. And the words shy and unassuming would never be used to describe the simplest of actions taken by the Jade Giant. Fortunately, the Marvel President and CEO was only a third of the way up and positioned along the aisle. My thighs felt like Jell-O and shaking as much by the time I’d finished the climb. Any further, I may have been in trouble.

Beastz II Men

“Hi, Hulk,” Stewart said upon my arrival.

“Mr. Stewart! Sheesh, they’ll let anyone in here. Bad enough when I waltzed in… not that they had any choice.”

There was a twinkle in his eye and a smile crept over his face as he leaned toward Alyson. “Stephen?” he asked under his breath, inquiring as to my concealed identity.

“How’d you guess,” Alyson responded with a hearty laugh.

“Nice to hear my reputation precedes me,” I added.

“What do you think?” Alyson asked Stewart, who always enjoyed watching the characters in action. But it wasn’t my performance about which Alyson was asking.

I hadn’t realized up to this point in the gig that it was the Hulk’s coming out party. The Personal Appearance Department’s Spartan budget had spiked briefly in 1987 when thirteen new costumes were commissioned in conjunction with an awesome float and the famous Spider-Man balloon, all in celebration of the Web-Spinner’s 25th anniversary, at that year’s Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade (see “I Love a Parade,” parts I, II, III, IV, V and VI). It returned to a level only slightly higher to accommodate the added production of Wolverine costumes, the only character to have appearance longevity after that Turkey Day coming out party.

But the cranky Canuck’s togs’ costs ran along the same lines as Captain America’s signature red-white-and-blue, a far cry from the expense of re-envisioning The Hulk, a safe bet at ten grand. Also, with neither an impending live-action film, nor new cartoon on the telly, there was little reason for the Powers That Be to green light (pun intended) a fresh ensemble for Bruce Banner’s fearsome second self. To keep the costume cabbage coming, it was paramount for Alyson to dazzle, cajole and kiss the collective asses of every and any exec even remotely associated with the MacAndrews & Forbes Holdings group, the Ronald Perelman led über-corporation that purchased Marvel Entertainment in 1989, and all it’s ancillary acquisitions, including Fleer trading cards, the sponsor of the Jam Session.

Alyson was fantastic at running the department, no less this soulless aspect. Her success at the helm can be evinced from the prestigious partnerships she fostered, such as those with the NFL and NBA, which resulted in an increase in gigs, especially such cool highfalutin ones as this and Super Bowl XXV (see “Football Hero”) and subsequent commission of a parcel of brand-spanking-new costumes for such heroes as Cyclops, Storm, She-Hulk, The Fantastic Four and Iron Man (see “The Thing Is,” parts I, II, III, IV, V and VI) in the years she spearheaded the department.

Stewart was an exception to the stuffed suits with which Alyson usually had to hob knob. He not only understood the potential of the Personal Appearance program, he enjoyed and more importantly respected the actors who made Marvel’s superheroes come to life. In fact, Stewart was somewhat of a pop culture aficionado. In 1999, he left Marvel to become the President and CEO of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio, a post he continues to serve today. His solid relationship with Alyson and the department was crucial for its health and good standing with Perelman’s people, since he was closer to them in the company’s hierarchy.

A positive report on the re-incarnated Hulk was more than certain to rise upward and osmose into the corporation’s executive ranks, securing a bit of insurance for future endeavors. It was evident from the bemused look on Stewart’s face that he liked the new look.

“How’s it feel in there,” he asked.

“It’s a hot time in the ole costume tonight,” I grumbled, and truer words had never been spoken. It was my first stint as the lime leviathan and mere minutes encapsulated within his skin, I was awash in sweat. But the laughter, which greeted my response, was enough to keep such paltry discomforts at bay. Alyson seemed pleased with my efforts, as well, and making one’s boss happy is never a bad thing.

It also boosted my confidence. Actors are a notoriously unsure lot, ever questioning their performances. The historic disrespect of the profession is certainly a contributing factor. Choosing the career is oft met with ridicule from family and friends alike; as if the decision is a phase the person is going through. Why else would one enter a job force with a ninety-percent unemployment rate and so little security? So every scrap of positive reinforcement is devoured like an oreo in the hands of Cookie Monster. This being my first time portraying the titular antihero, one of the founding pantheon of Stan Lee–created Marvel Universe characters, was unnerving, especially since I was embracing a different direction—one represented by Peter David in the character’s eponymous title to be sure, but perhaps a persona unfamiliar to the masses nonetheless—than that which previous Hulk performers had taken in the past.

I needn’t have worried. The fans—young and old—loved me. They really loved me! And I had a blast with the Green Goliath’s playfully snide character, especially with the celebs that roamed the area, including Mayim Bialik (see “Yours and Mayim”), a cappella group Boyz II Men and model/actor/MTV VJ Karen Duffy.

I want my MTV!

Still, I would’ve loved to have played with the fans in the carnival area, but even had I managed to survive the journey there and remained lucid, I didn’t trust that I’d get back on my own volition, and The Hulk being wheeled out of the stadium on a gurney wouldn’t have gone over to well with the company VIPs, never mind the wee Hulkophiles. It just wasn’t going to happen…

Then it happened.

Three days into the four-day event, Alyson had scheduled a photo shoot with Spider-Man, Wolverine and The Hulk. Joining us were a handful of Fleer executives, which only made sense; they were the sponsor for the event, after all.

I’d been involved in other photo shoots in the past, all of which spanned hours, usually an entire day, regardless of how seemingly small or mundane the project for which the session was scheduled. They’d also been conducted in a studio or at Marvel HQ, where a momentary removal of one’s costume to catch a breather between shots was permissible—no fear of exposure in the eyes of the public. Plus, since they were private, enclosed affairs, there wasn’t a need to constantly be in character. All in all, though the photo shoots may have taken longer than an average gig, they were less tiring.

Alyson made it clear that the photographer was booked for only three hours. Already this was sounding less severe, what with necessary breaks. Even ceding a mere fifteen-minute respite each hour so she could max her time with the shutterbug would be okay. A few pix on the court with Spider-Man and Wolverine; some nice cross-promotional shots with the Fleer Nabobs; perhaps a few solo efforts to highlight the new suit… badda bing, badda boom… done!

“I want to start with some shots of the heroes in the festival area,” Alyson chimed as soon as my colleagues and I exited the dressing room. Before you could say “heat exhaustion” she was leading her posse into the mouth of the endless tunnel that lead to the other end of the Salt Palace where the fan carnival was located. I dutifully followed, not that I had a chance to voice any concerns. Besides, it wouldn’t have looked good.

“Uh… excuse me, Alyson,” I’d grumble with an upraised green paw. “I have some concerns with my ability to make the trek. I fear I may pass out before we get there.” Yeah, that’d go over well and pretty much ensure my never getting another Hulk job.

In actuality, I was feeling fairly confident about hauling my purple ass to the fan fair section of the complex. During the previous two days within the walking green sauna, I’d acquired a sense of how best to regulate my breathing and conserve my energy to maximize my time as the Green Goliath. Four years of extensive vocal training—which included deep breathing exercises—and relaxation technique had attuned me to my body, and I was confident in my ability to push the boundaries of stamina, performing until the last possible moment. Had this been the start of the gig, before I’d had a few days of Hulking under my belt, I don’t think I would’ve handled the situation as well.

The journey was about putting myself into another state. I established a cadence to my footfalls and repeated a mantra in my head—I chose the marching song of the witch’s guards in The Wizard of Oz: “oh-wee-oh… woh-o-o-o-h-oh…”—in conjunction with each inhalation and exhalation. I all but ignored any attendees, NBA personal or workers that I passed, despite their greetings. A characteristic grunt was my reply as I traversed the corridor, that merest of sounds in accord with the rhythm of my breathing. I may have been at the back of the pack, but I kept in stride with them nonetheless. It was actually better not to be amidst the group, given the unwieldiness of the costume.

Finally, we emerged into the festival area, like navigating the tight confines of the wardrobe into the wonders of Narnia. The room was as expansive as a gymnasium; a cacophony of sounds—the hubbub of fans, bouncing balls, screeching sneaker soles on hardwood, carnies promoting their wares, loudspeaker announcements—and explosion of colors, plastered on banners, posters, clothing, bags and all manner of paraphernalia, from every team logo in the NBA. It hardly registered as I took stock of my condition. There was a moment of lightheadedness—a runner’s high, if you will—as I slowed my respiration and refocused my attention to the surroundings.

I was soaked—big surprise, there!—and winded, but otherwise good to go. The excitement of getting the opportunity to play the myriad NBA activities providing the boost of adrenaline I needed. The shoot was only just beginning, after all; there was a ways to go yet.

Hulk loves you this much!

So much for my prediction of a few pix of Hulk and co. There wasn’t a photo op that Alyson missed. Match your wingspan with that of basketball’s greatest big men… Check! Pose in your very own personalized locker betwixt those of All-Stars Karl Malone and John Stockton… Righty-O! Take part in hometown Utah Jazz’s team picture… Done! And of course, each shot went through a dozen takes. Okay, Spider-Man first… Now, Wolverine; you join him… Can you strike a different pose, Spidey…? Hulk, get in there… Let’s do one with Hulk alone… Now Hulk and Wolverine… What haven’t we done…? Oh, yeah; just Spidey and Hulk… We were going on two hours without a break, and any chance of one brought up images of the agonizing Death March to Bataan return trip to the B court.

Finally, Alyson directed us back to the secondary gym. I was delusional, seeing NBA cheerleaders beneath a bevy of swaying palm trees by an inviting pool, beckoning me… The prospect of traveling to the dressing room and getting this 500lb green gorilla off my back snapped me out of it. I actually led the way, moving more quickly than before, determined—Hulk smash… Hulk smash… Hulk smash…. Women and children fled before me. Hot dog carts pulled over. To those handful of poor souls oblivious to my approach I elicited an angry roar (They moved!). I was Godzilla razing Japan, Tokyo Bay my target, and nothing was going to stop me. Alyson had enough photos to fill the Hermitage. There was nothing more to shoot.

Apparently, there was.

Hey, these aren’t Hulk’s sneakers!

“Let finish up with some shots on the floor by the Jam Session logo,” Alyson announced directly behind me.

Aargh!!! I’d forgotten about the Mucky-Mucks from Fleer. We hadn’t taken a single photo featuring them. I was dying, but I couldn’t walk away from the people responsible for my being at the show. The tank was on empty, though, and the engine was in the red. I was teetering on the brink of collapse. It was the classic scenario in Hulk comics: the bestial behemoth, racked with fatigue after some cataclysmic battle, fighting his inner self—the formally dormant aspect of Bruce Banner—struggling desperately to re-seize control of his savage alter-ego, while the monster holds on vainly. Just… a few… more… shots…

“Screw you, guys. Hulk taking ball and going home!”

A handful of additional pix I could have handled, but Alyson returned to her litany of endless poses, beginning with those highlighting the superheroes. She went through more combinations than possible patterns on a Rubik’s Cube. And that was before she even invited the Fleer Poo-Bahs to participate. A dozen snaps with them and there was still no indication that Alyson was anywhere near finished. I was literally in danger of heat prostration. Flanked by Fleer execs and fronted by Spider-Man and Wolverine, I stepped out of the frame and headed for the lockers. My mind was a blur; blood pounding in my ears; my breathing a ragged whisper. And somewhere in the distance, I heard Alyson’s voice… Hulk… Hulk… Where’s he going…? Hulk…

I don’t know how, but I made it. I barely had enough left to navigate myself onto a metal folding chair, when I realized I had no way of getting out of the costume without someone to unzipper the back—Houdini couldn’t have done it! The arms allowed just enough movement for me to sandwich the head ’tween my massive mitts. But did I have the energy to free it from the neck folds tucked into the chest cavity? There was no way I was going to die as The Hulk. That thought was the impetus I needed to rip off the mask. I was still trapped—resembling the leader of the funny-book felons The Headmen—but at least with the noggin off, my body was able to breath.

I envisioned my body being ridiculously emaciated when I was finally unfettered from my jade jail cell, like cartoon characters who have been trapped inside those reducing cabinets of yore. I looked at the wall clock, taking a moment to bring it into focus. I’d been in the suit for two hours and forty-five minutes, and suddenly felt like a passenger on the Minnow … “a three-hour tour… a three-hour tour…” looping in my brain. I knew then I was going to be fine. Lucky for Alyson I wasn’t really The Hulk. She would never have made it to pose thirty-seven!

Next: The Three Caballeros

Going to Court, Part II: Dunkin’ Treasure

After successfully fitting into the brand-spankin’ new Hulk costume, our intrepid hero is off to Salt Lake City, Utah, for a gig at the NBA Jam Session, a b-ball-centric fan fair leading up to the All-Star Game. Accompanying him on this epic adventure are Spider-Man and Wolverine… and Marvel Personal Appearance Department Director, Alyson… gulp!…

What none of the actors realized until we got to the Salt Palace—home of the Utah Jazz and venue of the NBA Jam Session—was that weeks prior to the event Personal Appearance Nabob Alyson was hard at work preparing the infiltration of another Spider-Man to our ranks upon arrival! This was no clone—that saga was more than a year off. No, this web-slinging dopplegänger would have powers unlike any of the Spideys in the Marvel offices, talents that would be showcased for all to see at the basketball bender, i.e. court skillz.

That’s right. Marvel was hiring their own Spider-Jordan to dribble, shoot, and most importantly, slam dunk during the basketball Bacchanalia’s daily dunkin’ displays. Paradigms of pectoral pulchritude we heroes may be, each with the athleticism of the above-average Joe, but none of us in-house Webheads were on par with professionals. Sure, I played b-ball—badly—in the cages of New York City. Hell, I was even on a championship team when I was eleven—someone had to get water for the others—but I had about as much elevation as a Buick. Larry Bird would laugh at my vertical leap. Thus, a ringer need be found.

To accomplish this goal, Alyson contacted a local talent agency in Salt Lake City. I know what you, my Ever-Faithful and Canny Bloglodytes are thinking: Why enlist a middle-man? Call up the local colleges yourself. There’ll be possibilities aplenty from which to choose. Ah, but collegiates taking a paying basketball-related job while in the hallowed halls of academia would be in violation of NCAA rules, which could result in suspension, losing one’s scholarship, disqualification from the NBA Draft and/or dismissal. Fortunately, the agency had a bead on the next best thing: post-graduates; those hardwood heroes falling shy of the pros.

But not just any former basketball superstar would do. There were certain criteria beyond the facility to dribble, shoot and dunk that the candidates would have to meet, if they were to be considered for the role of Web-Swinger ringer. First, they’d have to fit the costume. Six-foot-two would be ideal; six-three, tight; six-four would be stretching it (pun intended). Plus, the prospective performers had to look good in the red-and-blue. Spidey’s signature togs appear differently on everyone. It all depends on where the webs fall on an individual’s musculature.

Ambassadorial aptitude was secondary, since the eventual selection would not be interacting directly with the fans. They’d be performing as part of a dunking display, switching roles with Jeremy, who’d appear before and after the show to meet and greet the fans in person. Of course, total a-holes were out of consideration. But Alyson left the personality decisions in the hands of the agency. She’d still have ultimate say from a triumvirate of finalists, which she’d choose before arrival.

To that end, weeks prior to the gig, Alyson shipped the agency a passel of retired Spider-Man threads. Photographs were taken of a bevy of b-boys—who fit the Webhead-thespian criteria—outfitted in the iconic regalia. Said pix were then Fedexed—email was a few years off—to Alyson for consideration. She chose her three favorite candidates before leaving the Big Apple and auditioned the finalists when we touched down in Salt Lake City. All this done under the noses of her hero elite without any of us the wiser.

“God, I hope I get it.
I hope I get it.
How many Spideys does she need?”

Oh, to be a fly on the wall of the family sports center where Alyson put the prospective Dunkin’ Spideys through their paces. An awesome display of the three Web-sketeers dribbling, passing shooting and slamming on the court; a clone pick-up game, as it were, or Web-Swinging version of Three-Card Monte with the victim trying to select the true Spider-Man once they’ve stopped moving. Of course, anyone who’s seen the Broadway production of Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark with its multiple Web-Slingers musical numbers might find observing the audition as more “Been there; done that,” and less “Wow, totally cool!” but back in 1993, there was no precedent.

We met Sam, the eventual winner of the Slammin’ Spidey Sweepstakes at the Salt Palace on the sidelines of a basketball court—perhaps a practice one the Jazz used—in another part of the facility. Jeremy, Joe and I had just finished moving our hero togs into one of this “B” court’s locker rooms and meandered onto the floor when Alyson approached with Sam in tow. He was approximately six-foot-four and had a body type that was more “Round Mound of Rebound” Charles Barkley than Clyde “The Glide” Drexler, though his manner was conversely more quiet, yet affable. We wished him luck and told him how much we were looking forward to seeing him dunk the ball as Spidey.

“Round Mound of Rebound” Charles Barkley vs. Clyde “The Glide” Drexler

That first day was spent acclimating ourselves to the areas we’d be plying our trade, i.e. meeting and greeting our adorees. The Jam Session would take place within the environs of the Salt Palace. Various basketball exhibitions, like the slam dunk contest, were scheduled throughout the day at the B court. A long corridor led to an open area where an assortment of appropriately-themed activities were set up. It was an indoor carnival as if run by the NBA, including hawker stands by the likes of Converse and Champion, selling everything from sneakers to hoodies. The main court, the one on which the Jazz played their home games was off this area. Major competitions, such as the old-timers’ and rookies’ games took place there, culminating in the All-Star Game, the finale to the whole week-long megillah.

We also had time to watch Sam familiarize himself with wearing the costume while working the hardwood. I envied not the onus of our Dunkin’ Double. As the worldwide idol of millions, whose alter ego was fabled to have the proportional strength and agility of a spider, he’d be expected to perform à la Michael Jordan, accomplishing the most amazing maneuvers, a veritable Bboy b-baller. It was a difficult task alone, never mind while wearing the signature webs of your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

“Hey, who moved the net?!!”

For those of you new to the wonders of Heroes in My Closet, let me take a moment to catch you up on the visibility of those donning the red-and-blue: It sucks! A milky haze constantly veiled the wearer’s vision, which not only caused a decrease in clarity—duh!—but also severely curtailed one’s depth perception. The actor’s peripherals were also impeded, but used to be worse before the suit design was updated to reflect the marked increase in the whites of the Web-Spinner’s eyes (see “My, What Big Eyes You Have”), due to the overwhelming popularity of artist Todd McFarlane’s interpretation of the character. But for the purposes of our Dunkin’ Double, difficulty in accurately judging the precise location of the basket was a major hurdle to overcome in order to perform successfully.

Moving our way down to the hands, imagine trying to palm—grip and maneuver without gravity forcing from one’s grip—a basketball while wearing silk gloves. Granted, the Spider-Man costume wasn’t made of spun silk—wouldn’t that be apropos?!—but the effect was similar. Unlike rubber or leather, the fabric was slick, offering no grip to the user. Dribbling and passing would be trickier, but dunking without palming…? it wasn’t essential, but inability to do so made the act far more challenging.

Plus, there was the issue of Spidey’s powers, those being the ability to adhere to any surface. He wouldn’t necessarily have to palm the basketball; it would stick naturally via his superhuman talents. So the b-ball slipping from his grasp, whether it be while dunking or dribbling or passing was not an option.

Okay, thus far, we’ve basically poked the eyes and broken the fingers of our Dunkin’ Double. Why not go for the triple threat? Let’s hobble our poor hero, too! The soles of the Spidey costumes were not but slender leather pads, approximately the same size as Dr. Scholl’s inserts, only the padding was thicker and looser; less firm. Simple ambulatory function caused the performer’s feet to slide. Anything more athletic than that risked serious ankle injury.

I’m hardly an expert, but I’m confident in stating that good foot traction is a plus when dunking. I won’t say it’s essential, because there are plenty of players whose height and/or jumping prowess makes them able to slam dunk a basketball from a standstill under the hoop. But for the more height-challenged, like guards who are typically several inches shorter than their teammates—usually around the same height as our victim… er, hero—it is nigh impossible to make the move without building up some speed and launching toward the net.

Up, up and away...!

Taking these problems in turn, the only solution to improving a performer’s visibility and depth-perception while wearing the Spidey suit was tried-and-true practice, i.e. there was no ready fix. The costume was what it was. Neither time nor funds were available to play with the eye construction, i.e. test different substances in lieu of the mesh used in the current design’s occipital region to find a better alternative. Sam had to simply acclimate himself to his new perception on the court as Spider-Man, which meant trial and error.

Stickum was the answer to the grip problem. It’s the same stuff wide receivers use in football to make their hands sticky so as to better catch the ball, especially in bad weather. One negative side effect to employing the gummy substance, however, was that dirt adhered just as readily to the surface to which it was applied. Dust from the ball quickly transferred to one’s hands, creating a layer that reduced the efficacy of the Stickum, resulting in its further implementation, which attracted more dirt, increasing the need for additional Stickum, and so on and so forth.

“Excuse me while I touch the sky...”

Fortunately, the stuff comes in an easy-to-use spray can. And worked wonders for the first dozen minutes or so after application. Sam could actually hold his arm out, palm down, and the ball would remain affixed to his hand, defying gravity, as if by magic… or spider powers! Sam must have gone though a couple of cases by the finish of his stint as the Webbed Wonder. And by week’s end, Spidey’s paws had stained to burnt sienna, similar to a skid mark on one’s tightie whities after an unfortunate fart with extras.

As for Sam’s traction risks, again, there was no way of altering the red-and-blue. He’d need sneakers. Yeah, I know, Spider-Man would never wear shoes of any type. After all, they’d inhibit the use of his powers to stick to walls, which the thin fabric of the costume does not. His excuse, or rather Jeremy’s for it would be he who would have to answer the clamoring questions of the hoi polloi once Sam’s duty was done, was that A) he wasn’t expecting a visit from any of his nemeses, so wouldn’t need the use of his powers to walk up walls, and B) he was getting into the festivities and wanted to show-off his own cool, personally-styled sneaks—Jordan has his, after all. To that end, Alyson decided to get Sam some. One problem: he was a size 14!

The call went out to Beverly, Marvel Personal Appearance Department costume maven, to scour Manhattan for red-canvas Converse All-Stars. Checking the internet was not an option; it didn't exist yet! The desired sneaks—Chuck Taylors—were relatively inexpensive and, more importantly, could be sketched upon. As long as Beverly could locate a pair and overnight them to Utah, Alyson could break out the Sharpies and channel her inner Michaelangelo to cover them in webbing before Sam’s debut.

In the meantime, Sam donned his own sneakers over the costume, so he could at least start practicing—daylight was a-wastin’! Nice shoes they might have been, but they were predominately black and stuck out, like a fuchsia bowtie on Batman, diminishing the cachet of the iconic red-and-blue. It became immediately apparent that custom-treads were no longer just a nifty idea; they were crucial.

Jeremy help Sam with Spidey pointers; explaining certain characteristic moves and poses that he should strive to emulate betwixt dunks. I had my own opinions—hard as that is to believe—but kept out of the conversations—harder as that is to believe! It would only confuse Sam to have gotten differing views on how to perform as the Web-Spinner. Luckily the suit, combined with the natural moves and crouched stance of a basketball player, did most of the work. He looked great—aside from the footwear—and was soon getting the knack of dunking the ball within the webbing.

Of course, there was the issue of Sam’s body size. As aforementioned, Spidey’s togs best fit a personage of no more than six-foot-three. Sam was literally bursting at the seams, including an unfortunate area just above the gluteus maximus that would have fans wondering if our erstwhile Web-Slinger was a plumber in his off-time!

Spider-Man’s dreams of being a plumber
were well behind him!

This weakness in the tensile strength of the suit’s stitches could have been a lot more embarrassing had it manifested after the doors to the Jam Session had opened to the public. As it was the day before, Sam had to suffer only the good-natured ribbing from the members of the NBA’s dunking exhibition team, which amounted to nothing more than the humorous tête à tête of a “Your mama’s so fat…” contest. As long as the costume was repaired before the next day’s inaugural start of the festival, the public would be none the wiser. That unfortunate task would also fall upon Alyson’s shoulders, and with the beating Sam’s ensemble was taking on the court, she’d be pulling a lot of late hours as Betsy Ross.

America runs on dunking

As for accommodating Sam’s size 14 flippers… Try as she might, Beverly could not find a New York City purveyor who carried that size in stock. She called Alyson in tears explaining her predicament. To her credit, Alyson was not one to get upset over “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” The woman came from Macy’s where she worked on organizing the annual Thanksgiving Day Parade, an event of Brobdignagian proportions, fraught with speed bumps throughout its 364 days—their one day off a year was Thanksgiving—of preparation. You’d have to be Zen-like in your approach to the daily tribulations of the job or you’d soon be fitted with a white coat and dragged to the nuthouse.

So the greatest city in the country, known for its thousands of street-ball courts, couldn’t produce a size 14 Converse All-Star. What to do… The answer was pretty much a no-brainer, one of those “Wow, I could’ve had a V8” moments for Alyson. She spoke with the guys running the Converse booth at the show—duh! Lo and behold, they had the shoe… only not in red! One sleepless night—during which she painstakingly colored and copied the pedal webbing pattern of the suit—and several red and black Sharpies later, Alyson presented Sam with a pair of custom Chuck Taylors perfect for even the most discerning Web-Swinger.

Here they are: the infamous custom Spider-Man sneakers, nearly twenty years later.

Alyson got Stan Lee’s autograph on one of his East Coast visits. Needless to say, he wanted his own pair!

It wasn’t long before Sam, proudly donning a pair of sneakers worthy of a winning Project Runway challenge, was showing off some hardwood heroics alongside his envious peers. Dunkin’ Spidey was ready to go!

Air Spideys!

NEXT: Hulky Goes a Courtin’…

Going to Court, Part I: If the Mask Fits, Wear It!

The Salt Palace, home of the 1993 NBA All-Star Game and Jam Session

I wasn’t even aware Marvel’s Personal Appearance Program had commissioned a new Hulk costume. Not that I was surprised. The one in use looked like a Muppet on steroids with a facial expression like that of someone who’d just had their first good dump in more than a week. Wearing the thing was akin to being swallowed by a giant teddy bear, its innards molding itself around the user like a memory-foam mattress.

But the worst part was the odor, a faint combination of vomit, old mayonnaise and musk that became geometrically more acute the longer someone portrayed the character. The suit was dutifully sent out for professionally cleaning following every gig, but the bacteria that accumulated after four hours of wear—the standard Hulk business day—entrenched itself so firmly in the depth of the costume’s padding that even the most Spartan treatment couldn’t extinguish every trace of the cause. And that remaining ember simply multiplied between each washing, so the results steadily worsened over time. Fortunately, the stench was contained within the suit. Still, the Jade Giant reeking wouldn’t necessarily be out of character. He wasn’t the sort to take baths, after all.

There were only two actors—Mark Grayson and Gary Schneider—who played The Hulk since I started at the company. But neither expressed a hint of the onus that accompanied the donning of the green. The way they clambered into the get-up without the least bit of hesitation or complaint, then interacted with their adoring public, you’d suspect the experience was downright euphoric. Maybe the heady bouquet that enveloped them while in the costume made them high. It had to be something. I tried the mask on once and felt as if I’d walked into a frat house the night after a toga party. No thank you, sir; I will not have another!

Imagine my surprise when I was asked into the office of the department’s director, Alison, and on her desk sat a glowing fluorescent-green head. Though the hue was more akin to tennis balls than that of the character’s signature color, the mask’s cement-block cranial structure, unkempt shock of black hair and menacing mien told me at once that this was the Hulk. Its presence could only mean that finally Marvel had ponied up the money for a new costume. And a hefty chunk of change from the look of the updated head.

Face-Off!

“Cool!” I exclaimed, the reason for my summoning overwhelmed by the moment of “geek” I was experiencing.

“Try it on,” Alison instructed as she handed me the chartreuse noggin. She seemed as giddy as Carrie showing off a new pair of Manolo’s to Miranda and the gang. Little did I suspect the sinister underpinnings of her excitement.

The head was constructed of a molded foam latex—soft to the touch and pliable—a far cry from the hard, sculpted, cloth-covered topper of the original suit. The hair and eye brows were either real or an amazing simulation, a more authentic alternative to the frayed yarn-like substance used before. And its teeth—yes, Virginia, the Hulk has teeth—were solid; I’m unnerved thinking about what they may have been made out of or from whom or what they were obtained! Regardless, their mere presence bumped the latest Green Behemoth’s IQ several points. No banjo playing on a porch in the Ozarks for him!

There was the merest hesitation as I raised the mask to my head; a sudden flash of the old skull’s unpleasant aroma. I suppressed the urge to duck behind the desk yelling “Incoming!” and slipped it on. A vertical slit along the back of the neck facilitated the job. The green bean fit perfectly, and unlike its predecessor which offered limited vision through its goofy toothless grin, this design’s eyeholes lined up evenly with the wearer’s, offering excellent sight. My nose conformed nicely with the nasal niche, too, the mask’s nostrils matching my own. This meant breathing fresh air as opposed to the stuff tainted by the effluvium of the former suit’s cranium. It was as if the thing were fashioned from my own skull.

“Well, how does it feel?” Alyson asked with anticipation, her eyes a twinkle like a grifter closing in on a mark.

“This is great,” I replied. “Much more comfortable than the old costume.”

Nutting as the Green Behemoth with veteran Spidey Jeremy

I was surprised when Alyson revealed that the mask was molded from Grayson’s head. Sure, he was one of Marvel’s go-to Hulk actors, but his head was rounder than mine, which is more narrow. Then a couple of years ago—after re-connecting with another former Marvel character actor, Mark Nutting on Facebook—I discovered that it was he on whom Bruce Banner’s infamous alter-ego’s noggin was fashioned. I’d only assumed it was Grayson’s, because Nutting most often portrayed Captain America—a damn fine Cap he was too—and had never performed as The Hulk to my knowledge. It’s a wonder us character thesps never suffered from multiple-personality disorder!

Nutting’s face was prominently vertical and angular with a chiseled, manly jaw—much like the thinner character in the classic, computer-animated Dire Straits video for “Money for Nothing”—which made him perfect for the Star-Spangled Avenger. While also shaped more north-to-south than east-to-west, the mien of Yours Truly would be described as less manly, more Muttley. And my jaw line appeared as if it were molded from Play-Doh. There was a reason they kept me in a mask!

It was then that I noticed Alyson’s over-the-top enthusiasm. She’d always enjoyed showing me cool new things the department was working on because, as the only comic-book geek among the performers, I got downright giddy whenever she revealed the latest, and she’d get a thrill from the inevitable Snoopy dance I’d go into. But she was nigh-salivating and on the edge of creepy upon discovering the updated Hulk topper fit me.

“Why?” I finally asked, narrowing my eyes.

Turns out my suspicions were correct—she was up to something—but the fears that accompanied them were unfounded. Alyson was looking for an actor to portray The Hulk at that year’s NBA All-Star Game in Salt Lake City, Utah, and Nutting was unavailable. It hadn’t dawned on me until later, that much like the prince’s attempts to find the damsel with the foot that fit the glass slipper in Cinderella, Alyson had gone through a string of my fellow performers before getting to me. How else to explain her intense relief when I slipped on the Hulk head so effortlessly? Okay, so I wasn’t Alyson’s first choice… or second… or third… But I didn’t care; I was the one going to the NBA All-Star Game!

More precisely, it was the “NBA Jam Session”—a week of basketball-themed festivities leading up to the big game—at which the Hulk, along with fellow superheroes Spider-Man and Wolverine, would be appearing. But it was an important event nonetheless. No surprise, veteran Jeremy would be donning the webbed red-and-blue. And although I can’t recall the name of the Wolverine performer—I’ll call him “Joe” for the purposes of telling the tale—I do remember his portrayal of the feisty Canadian mutant as being spot-on. Out of costume, Joe was funny and a pleasure to hang with. The fact that we were hand-chosen by the director of the department for this auspicious appearance spoke volumes. Alyson would also be on hand, further proof of the gig’s gravitas. Us heroes were to be on our best behaviors. Not that we were ever anything less.

I know what you’re thinking my ever astute Bloglodytes: my selection had more to do with fitting the Hulk costume. But truth be told, Alyson was not about to jeopardize this major undertaking with anyone less than someone in which she had the utmost confidence. She would’ve dropped the character from the gig entirely had she not found the right person for the job. I’d been with her as Spider-Man two years earlier at Super Bowl XXV (see “Football Hero”), so my worth at VIP affairs had been proven. Still, I had more than a few years as Spidey under my belt when I was selected for that job and this would be my virginal portrayal as Bruce Banner’s Gamma-irradiated alter-ego.

Yours Truly as ole Jade Jaws, posing with Wolvie before hitting the court. The nifty NBA bag at lower left was awaiting each of us heroes when we checked into the hotel;
it was filled with All-Star Game souvenirs,
including caps and t-shirts.

There was less worry about the fit of the rest of the costume. Like the walking sofa that preceded it, the new Hulk suit was one size fits all, that size being the one all the actors—except the Wolverines who were noticeably shorter—conformed to. The torso was much like Iron Man’s chest piece, a hard molded shell which rested upon the wearer’s shoulder’s, but otherwise barely touched the performer therein. Thus, one did not feel like the meat stuffed into a sausage casing as was the case with the suit of old.

Once donned, the performer’s hips shared in carrying the weight of the piece, which included the shoulders and extended to the elbow joint. From that point the forearm and hands—each combined in single pieces—were sculpted from the same rubber used in the facial construction. These lower ulnal segments were removed only at the cleaners, meaning the actor stepped into the upper body maneuvering his appendages down the arm cavities much like a doctor being helped into his surgical gown.

The chest cavity encircled the neck base—the rear slit of which could not be seen behind the mask’s thick mullet—which extended a few inches past the collar bone. It connected with an eyehook at the top and a heavy-duty zipper running down the spine. The Jade Giant’s hands fit like a glove… literally. The actor’s fingers slipping into their psychedelic verdigris counterparts, enabling movement of the digits. I wouldn’t be playing the piano as the character, but I could open and close my fists.

Covered segments on the chest, sculpted to emulate musculature, effected the Hulk’s massive irradiated physique. The rubber areas were also designed as such—there was even a large artery running down the underside of each forearm—and accentuated with airbrushing. A frayed shirt—fastened with well-placed and minuscule transparent snaps—ably cloaked the spinal zipper and the connective openings at the elbows.

The Incredible Hulk issue—#402, cover dated February 1993—which was on sale at the time of the NBA All-Star Game

Since the dramatis personae needed mobility, the butt and upper leg area was not rigidly constructed, but rather similar to the costume of yore: padding, cleverly camouflaged by the character’s signature concord capris. No belt was needed. An adjustable set of two-inch-wide canvas suspenders affixed to the pants held them in place and aided in carrying the weight of the torso. The female side of a strip of Velcro sewn into the waistband of the Jade Giant’s Jordaches attached to its male counterpart, which circumnavigated the base of the torso, concealing the gap where the two body segments met.

Only the femoral section of the leg was padded. The wearer’s knees were left unimpaired for maneuverability but again hidden by the pant legs, which extended several inches past the patella. Back to the hard molded material of the torso for the calves and feet, the bottom of which were lined with heavy rubber treads, which elevated the wearer three inches, ensuring the hero’s hulking over most everyone around him. But the Great Green Galoot’s massive tootsies were designed in such a way as to appear actual—albeit gigantic—without so much as a hint of industrial sole showing.

The brilliant Hulk design came out of California-based costume creators, Shafton, Inc., the same company that later created the awesome Thing suit and less-than-perfect re-imagined Iron Man ensemble (see “The Thing Is” Parts I, II, III, IV, V and VI). The whole enchilada was massive and would needed crating; a mere duffel bag would not do. But it was a tremendous costume, far cooler than its predecessor. Unfortunately, it was no less heavy. Still, the new suit wouldn’t be sopping up the performer’s sweat, increasing its mass as a gig progressed. And thankfully, the breathing was vastly improved over the previous model—no vomitous stench!

Shafton, Inc. crafted this Sleestak ensemble for the release of the the Land of the Lost movie

Now I had to find my inner Hulk; how would I interpret the character?

Gary stuck to the naïve, child-in-a-giant’s-body approach most remember from the comics: a simple-minded keg of dynamite, easily set off by the grandest attack or the merest misunderstanding. Of course, his portrayal never encompassed the former aspect and worked well with the previous suit’s stuffed-toy design and bubble-headed visage. Grayson’s Hulk was similarly child-like, but more of a youth with a severe case of ADD. He’d barrel through throngs of kids and wrestle them like a full-grown Bull Mastiff that had retained the wits of a puppy.

As with my characterizations for other heroes I’d portrayed, my Hulk would draw inspiration from the costume and the Green Behemoth’s current representation in the comics. Temper that with the general public’s perception of the character, which was part 70’s TV series—Lou Ferrigno’s savage unspeaking id to Bill Bixby’s calm scientist super-ego—and Stan Lee’s early “Hulk smash!” representation, and you can envision my take on the Jade Giant.

Much like the creature in the TV series, the updated
Hulk costume sported a mullet

By 1993, under the deft hands of popular scribe Peter David since the 80s, The Hulk had gone through a series of personality alterations, from deep-green, mindless, super-rampager to charcoal-gray, less powerful canny schemer to a melding of all that’s gone before, including Bruce Banner, the root from which the other’s bloomed. He’d become a lime-green—emulating the new togs—intelligent powerhouse who you still wouldn’t like when he was angry. Unfortunately, the hoi polloi were unfamiliar with this aspect, so I occasionally spoke in the third person and threw in some bad grammar to boot to satisfy the ignorant. The voice was gruff, but not evil; pure Grover when confronting wee ones, but with a trace of Oscar the Grouch’s snide tone when dealing with adults.

“Hulk think Tin Man is pain in groin!”

More unwieldy and less graceful than Daisy Fuentes, portraying the Hulk would be far removed from playing Spider-Man. Gone was the freedom and agility of the Web-Spinner. Normal stairs were out and I’d have to be vigilant in confined spaces. I’d also be dealing with heat issues for the first time . . . heft! Moving about with an additional thirty pounds or so was the type of workout to which I was unaccustomed. But at least the suit wasn’t painful to wear, like Iron Man’s, and surprisingly, it offered arguably the best vision of any of the costumes which included headpieces in their designs.

Pshaw! Piece o’ cake!

NEXT: A Stranger Walks Among Us!

Wedding Photo

Amazing Spider-Man Annual #21 featured the wedding of Peter Parker and longtime gal pal Mary-Jane Watson and was printed with two covers, one for newsstand distribution (right) and the other for the direct market (left). Attendees at the mock wedding on June 5, 1987, at Shea Stadium received the latter version.

With the 2010 baseball season officially under way with Sunday night’s come-from-behind Boston Red Sox win over defending World Champion New York Yankees, it seemed apropos for me to recount my 1987 meeting as Spider-Man with members of another team from the Big Apple, also defending World Champions at the time.

The gig was my third Marvel job overall; a photo shoot geared to producing a poster, which would be handed out in goodie bags to all attendees as they entered Shea Stadium on June 5. The occasion? The mock-wedding ceremony of Spider-Man and Mary-Jane Watson prior to that evening’s game, a loose interpretation of what would be transpiring in the Amazing Spider-Man comic book at that time, in which Peter Parker sans costume would be marrying his vivacious red-headed gal as part of the 25th Anniversary celebration of everyone’s favorite Web-Swinger.

As mentioned, I was to don the red-and-blue, my second time doing so after my infamous jumping-out-of-a-cake appearance as the Green Goblin at Spider-Man’s swinging bachelor party several weeks before. Why veteran Spidey actor Jeremy wasn’t taking up the mantle for this important event, I don’t know, especially since he was the webbed portrayer for all wedding-related media events leading up to and including these pre-game nuptials. I was a mere newbie, still wet behind the webs.

This promotional photo of Spider-Man’s impending nuptials was taken during a press conference, maybe the prior commitment that prevented the actor beneath the mask, veteran Jeremy, from participating in the poster photo shoot.

I vaguely remember there being another more prominent appearance booked at the same time. That would certainly explain where Jeremy was and the absence of any Marvel Publicity Department personnel. Add to that the schedule of the Mets players participating in the photo shoot, which was certainly unalterable; the fact that it was a weekday afternoon gig—a contributing factor in my being the only Spider-Man actor otherwise twiddling my thumbs watching The Price Is Right at home during that time—and the fact that the shoot would not entail an active display of my rookie Spidey prowess or my speaking with the media; and my call to webs—as it were—for this momentous shoot seems plausible. Basically more factors had to align than those needed for the successful invasion of Normandy on D-Day for me to ever be considered for such a prestigious job (Did I mention my low self-esteem?).

The World Champion Mets had just beaten my belovèd Red Sox the season before in the infamous—or famous, depending on who you were rootin’ for—“Bill Buckner” World Series. Since the faux nuptuals would be taking place on their home turf at Shea Stadium, several members of the Mets would be participating. It would be a dream come true for any Mets fan, but a stab to the heart for me. Isn’t it ironic? Alanis Morrisette…you have no idea!

Captain America, The Incredible Hulk, and Firestar—or rather the actors who would portray them—and I convened at the Marvel offices, where we were driven to the field. The guy playing Iceman was to meet us there. These were the only superhero costumes Marvel had at the time. Suits for villains Green Goblin and Dr. Doom existed as well, but were wisely omitted. The theme was “super heroes,” after all.

We dressed in the visiting team’s locker room, stepping out onto the field as they would have during a game. Soon we were joined by a quartet of uniformed Mets heroes: Lee Mazzilli, Roger McDowell, Wally Backman and Darryl Strawberry. What kept me from taking a bat to their heads was the sick satisfaction of knowing that the centerpiece to this surreal tableau of Mets stars and comic book heroes; the man around which the Mets players gathered; the star of a poster that was to be given out to thousands of Mets fans; was a devout Red Sox fan… Bwah-ha-ha-ha!!!

Not buying it, huh? How about if I told you that I was paid exorbitantly (I wasn’t) for an hour’s worth of work? Okay, I admit it; there wasn’t much that was cool about this gig for me. Until the end of time when describing this moment to my friends and fellow Sox fans, there will be a spiritual asterisk that reads, “Yeah, but you had your photo taken with the ’86 Championship Mets!”

Ironically, the only one of us superheroes who was a Mets fan was Gary, the actor playing The Incredible Hulk, whose enthusiasm and full enjoyment of his heroes was greatly curtailed by his confinement in the padded cell that was the Hulk costume.

This gift bag—given to everyone who entered the ball park the night of Spidey’s wedding—contained the Spider-Man comic mentioned above and other goodies

By far, the Hulk costume was the most taxing of all the costumes, at least when I began working for Marvel. Other than the head, each part was basically a stuffed toy, seven components in all. First, the wearer stepped into the lower torso and upper legs, which were clad in The Hulk’s signature ripped purple pants. The “bare” feet/shins/calves sections extended to the knee, high enough to meet the upper legs/lower torso subdivision. Hulkie’s lavender leggings continued beyond the knee, thus cleverly concealing the joint where the aforementioned elements met. There was a 2–3 inches built into the sole of the feet to heighten the actor within. The chartreuse tootsies were designed around the entire area, so the fact that they were essentially platform boots wasn’t noticeable. Of course, the design only exacerbated the unwieldiness of wearing the suit.

The head was donned next. It seemed to be constructed from the same hard substance as the Green Goblin mask. At least, the fumes smelled similarly and had that same wonderful “stoned” effect on the wearer. Contrary to the Green Goblin’s mask, the Hulk’s was not painted, but covered with the same soft green fabric that was used to cover the other body parts of the costume. The neck flap was long enough to be tucked into the chest cavity, which was put on like a hospital gown, with the opening in the back, closed up with a succession of eye hooks. The hands were the final piece. Pushing one’s hands into them was akin to fisting a teddy bear.

The actor within looked out Jade Giant’s mouth, which was covered in hard black mesh. I use the term “looked” loosely, as the vision in The Hulk’s mask would be deemed legally blind. The peripherals were nil and the added height made it impossible to see up to five feet in front of the wearer. In order to shake hands with children, the actor would have to crouch as he bent forward, otherwise he’d tip over.

So as not to scare the kiddies, the mask was sculpted with a less-menacing visage than one would expect from the Green Behemoth. Oh, who am I kidding? He looked goofy. The mask’s bushy, black Oscar-the-Grouch–esque eyebrows, shock of matching tousled hair and bemused grin gave him the sort of relieved look one would expect on someone who’d just passed a stone. “Hulk, SMASH!” would be the last thing one would expect to hear out of him. “Ah-h-h-h-h… I’ll never eat atomic burritos again,” would be more likely.

Hulk Mark still glows from the sweat of wearing the costume at another appearance, where, in a moment of adolescent silliness, he shows off what happens when the Hulk gets excited as opposed to angry (For the record, that's a toy football in his pants; he was not that happy to see me!).

Once ensconced within, the Hulk actor was covered with as much as six inches of stuffed heavy fabric in places and carried an extra thirty pounds of weight. The rule was “twenty minutes in, twenty minutes out.” Any more and the actor risked fainting. Plus, as the costume absorbed the wearer’s sweat, of which there was copious amounts, it became heavier as the appearance wore one. Multiple day appearances didn’t allow enough time for the costume to dry out completely, so it was progressively damper and heavier from day to day. Should I mention the “heady” bouquet of Hulk appearances past that would intensify within the noggin as the lucky performer inside perspired?

All these factors made the Hulk costume the only one that an actor not only needed help donning, but also necessitated chaperoning at all times. Given the limited vision, the Green Behemoth risked trampling wee ones rushing in to offer a hug or shake hands below his line of sight. If children stood within five feet of The Hulkster, they didn’t exist. The attendant would alert the performer, at times physically guiding him to ensure little Johnny wasn’t squashed like a bug. It was also the assistant’s job to monitor the time and “excuse” the Hulk, every twenty minutes, so the actor could cool down and rehydrate.

Another of the treats in the wedding gift bag was this Spider-Man pin commemorating the Web-Swinger’s big day

Once we helped Gary into character and escorted him onto the field, he was on his own. There was no risk of stumbling over anything let alone a small child. And he remained in costume for the entirety of the time the players were on the field with us. Born and raised in Queens, Gary was a lifelong Mets fan, yet he couldn’t even hold a pen, let alone ask for an autograph. And he wasn’t exactly getting a clear view of the Mets players through the small black-mesh maw of the Hulk’s face.

The actor playing Iceman had only recently moved from California and as such may have been a Dodgers, Angels, Giants or Padres fan, not that we could tell with his incessant whining about being fat and how he planned to get liposuction to correct the problem as soon as he’d saved enough. In that regard he was not shy about asking how much each of us was making for the shoot. I had never met a more vacuous individual. He was pathetic. He hardly had “love dimples” never mind love handles. One word buddy: sit-ups! Interesting how exercise was never brought up as a possible solution. He probably still wonders why Barbara never called him back for another gig. Considering the disparaging reviews us “vets” gave his performance and personality, I think we all would have went on strike if she had tried to hire him again.

Meanwhile, Trudy, aka Firestar, had her hands full trying to politely shake off the roaming hands of Roger McDowell who followed her like a stray puppy and persistently tried to pick her up. There is a reason why the former pitching ace has the biggest grin in the poster.

McDowell seemed to be the only Met enjoying the situation—albeit for reasons other than comic-book appreciation. Mazzilli, Backman and Strawberry only ceded their looks of scorn to smile when the photos were being taken. And if you look closely at their visages on the poster, you’ll notice those smile are forced. Perhaps they thought we couldn’t hear clearly in the costumes, because their under-the-breath grumblings about having to participate in the shoot were easily audible.

Even when Mark as Captain America approached each with an outstretched hand in greeting, their lackluster responses and dour countenances were palpable. And Mark was just being polite. He wasn’t even a sports fan never mind a Mets fan. In fact, knowing his relatives and friends would be envious of his meeting these superstars, Mark had us quiz him on their names as we drove back to the Marvel offices so he’d remember them when his relatives asked.

“Okay, don’t tell me. There’s Mazola, MacDonald, Hackman and Raspberry… No, no… wait! It’s Strawberry, MacDougal, Backfield and Mazola…” And it seemed no matter how many times we’d correct him on one, he’d misfire on the others. It’s hard to remember anything when one has no vested interest in the subject matter.

The shoot itself couldn’t have taken longer than 15 minutes. Once the players assembled—several minutes after the characters—the photographer pulled everyone into formation, integrating both sports and comic heroes equally. As Spidey was the raison d’être for this odd tableau, I was placed prominently in the front. My initial poses—signature Webhead moves—were quickly shot down by the photographer. His “vision” included Spider-Man clutching the knob of a baseball bat, held upright between his spread legs and grabbed by Lee Mazzilli and Wally Backman. Can you say, suggestive?!!

I get the “heroes” theme, using members of the Mets, who had just won the World Championship, making them heroes in the eyes of New Yorkers where the wedding would be enacted and the poster distributed. But there was no reason for Spider-Man to be holding a bat, never mind in such an uncharacteristic way. I think the photographer may have had me confused with another superhero.

They should’ve hired Peter Parker!