Seattle's toughest jobs in sports

Seahawks laundry crew

The sweet, sweaty smell of success

The smell of feet hangs thick in the air.

The sweaty feet of sweaty men who've spent the past 90 minutes running around a field soaked by one of Seattle's June-vember rain storms.

And now the Seahawks' full roster of 80-some men are shoehorned into one locker room, peeling off clothes drenched with the effort of an offseason workout.

Somebody has to wash this mess. Actually, some bodies. Jason Manning, Kyle Stillwell, Kevin Ries, Zach Struck and Nolan Myer (sometimes). They work in Seattle's equipment room, responsible for using detergent and elbow grease to keep the Seahawks Downy soft.

When training camp begins in late July, they'll put in 15, maybe 16 hours a day so the Seahawks can prepare for the season without yesterday's stink sitting on their skin.

The job isn't an easy one. In fact, it starts our list of the toughest jobs in Seattle sports.

They are jobs that are easy to overlook but are crucial to the day-to-day operation of a sports enterprise. Work as essential as it is underappreciated, and sometimes requiring a strong stomach.

Imagine reaching into a hamper to grab an armful of clothes that weighs more than 45 pounds and then carrying it to the washing machine. Now try doing that without getting your nose too close to the mess, which was even more important two years ago when Isaiah Kacyvenski was here.

Kaz was the sweatiest person in the league. At least Gatorade said so. The company brought Kacyvenski to its testing facility, had him exercise and measured his perspiration. He broke the record previously set by Chad Brown, also a Seahawk.

"So at one time, you had the No. 1 and No. 2 sweatiest guys in here," Manning said.

Good times. Well, not always, because there were some days Manning went to get Kaz's gear, which was inevitably inside out and also weighed down by 10 pounds of sweat.

"That's why you've got the latex gloves," Manning said.

The gloves are required to pick up the dirty laundry, and then thrown away. No touching the clean clothes with those gloves. Or the counters. Got to keep things sanitary.

Football players aren't slobs. Nate Burleson and Deion Branch even apply Febreze spray to their shoulder pads. But that's not going to completely erase the stink — or the stains — from the three-hour battles that take place every Sunday, especially when games are played on grass and grass stains are added into the mix of blood, sweat and tears.

The crew starts cleaning as soon as the truck returns from the airport after a game. San Francisco is tough on the laundry guys, given the combination of the 49ers' grass field and the Seahawks' white pants. Arizona's not so bad now that the Cardinals play in their new stadium. It used to be worse when they were at Sun Devil Stadium and there was so much paint on the field.

There is an enzymatic stain-blaster for blood and grass stains. Another works on grease, especially for stains from the eye black that players put on their cheeks. Then there's a special cleaner. Nobody's quite sure how it does the job, but it's been known to work wonders on any red wine stain found on the shirtsleeve of a team employee coming off a long night.

Other red stains aren't so small.

In June, Brandon Mebane came in from a minicamp practice, blood all over the front of his jersey. Out came the enzymatic cleaner and the detective theories, because that blood came from somewhere.

Mike Wahle's jersey provided a drop or two of clues. Turns out Wahle cut his hand, and because he was lining up across from Mebane in practice, he left the defensive tackle looking like he was hurt.

Two hours later, the evidence was gone. Washed away.

EcoLab makes the removers, and it also provides the detergents that are piped into the three washers. Four buckets are combined in different dosages depending on what code is entered into the washer. There's one for towels, another for Dri-FIT materials.

The first loads start at 7 in the morning after the coach's locker room is checked. The last loads on this day of June minicamps will run about 4 p.m. or so. A busy day entails more than 30 loads. A June minicamp is a relatively modest 16 in the corps of three washers and three industrial-sized dryers. The dryers are so large that when the lint traps are cleaned out at the end of the day, the crew uses a full-size broom to sweep the fluff out of the bottom.

People like to say football is a battle and the players are warriors. Well, then this is their armory. The crew inflates the helmet lining, screws on the facemasks and then when it's all over, they're the ones who pull the shoulder pads off the players.

Julius Jones wants tights without zippers. Lofa Tatupu asks for socks that reach the middle of his calf. The first pair he's handed are too new.

"Can I get some that are a little more worn in?" he asks.

The equipment guys can tell you Chris Gray has the longest uniform. His shirt has a tail so long it could work as a dress. Gray's from the old school. He doesn't like his jersey untucked, not ever, and the extra-long jersey prevents it.

Julian Peterson and Patrick Kerney play in jerseys that are two, sometimes three sizes too small. Harder for offensive linemen to grab ahold of them, and after most games, the equipment guys cut the jerseys off, surgeons with scissors slicing from the bottom of the jersey all the way to the neck.

They'll wash Peterson's jersey, too. Get the stains out and have it stitched up and scrubbed clean even though it won't be worn again in a game. It's part of the job. Everything gets cleaned. Absolutely everything.

Doppler, Storm mascot

We'd like to say playing Doppler is no sweat. But that would be a lie.

Fifteen minutes from tipoff and Doppler is in jeans and flip-flops.

Well, technically he's not Doppler just yet.

He's the guy who will climb inside Doppler's skin, wearing his size 22 feet and the cherry red fur costume of the Storm mascot. The guy who's going to spend the next two hours sweating. Profusely.

The costume is like wearing one big blanket, only it has a hula hoop at the waist. The head must weigh 10 pounds and juts up so high that he has to look out the mouth hole, and on this summer night, the suit will stay off until right about the time the national anthem begins.

"I don't want to put it on until I have to," he says.

That's when the real work starts for the man who plays Doppler in the summer after a full NBA season as Squatch, the Sonics' fur-coated mascot.

The ground rules for this story are his name won't be used. Anonymity is required for this job, even if it would be a stretch to call this "work." At least not in the typical sense. He's got a storage shed full of remote-control cars, electric scooters and anything else that might be funny, including a device capable of shooting six cans of silly string simultaneously.

He's 33, married with two children and works full-time as a mascot for the city's pro basketball teams.

As Squatch, he's run a 5-mile race in the full fur suit — "I had to stop a couple times, though." He has dunked a basketball while doing a back flip off a 16-foot ladder and performed at a game the same day he had a poisonous reaction to a jellyfish sting.

All that was as Squatch, the macho daredevil. Doppler is the comedic counterpunch, big on laughs and in the belly. He's the ball of red fur who will celebrate his birthday on July 10. Phoenix's Scorch will be there. So will Haley, the Houston Comets' mascot, and San Antonio's Silver Fox.

It's a spectacle and a special challenge because sometimes mascots use these birthday parties as an opportunity to push the boundaries with antics they'd never try on their home floors.

Doppler's more likely to make a joke of himself. He shakes his belly to the beat of the music, sits on the lap of unsuspecting fans and knows how to lose a game of musical chairs at just the right time.

That comedic timing is the result of many years the man spent inside other costumes. He was a tiger in high school, was Cam the Ram as an undergraduate at Colorado State and for a couple of months he worked in Denver as a yeti for the Colorado Avalanche before coming to Seattle in 1999.

Mascoting is both a full-time occupation and a verb.

"You can get scholarships mascoting," he says.

He didn't. He majored in business, but took his first professional job before earning his degree and a few months later came to Seattle to work as Squatch. Mascots run across all sports, but basketball is the one that truly offers a stage with regular intermissions that open up the court for daring feats and comedic skits.

Squatch suffered a knee injury that required surgery a few years ago, a crash that Wile E. Coyote would've winced at. He was on inline skates, propelled by a giant slingshot to a ramp at the three-point line. The jump would push him to the rim, where he'd dunk the ball, then fall to the mats below.

Except Squatch landed between the mats, his right skate coming to a stop and damaging the meniscus. The injury eventually required arthroscopic surgery.

No disabled list for mascots. Squatch was back a couple of days later, his knee wrapped and his stunts a little more tame, at least for that game.

Doppler's routine is strictly below the rim. It's the costume that's the real challenge. The head is a hockey helmet surrounded by foam and the costume is so tall it's necessary to duck to pass through a doorway.

He wears a lightweight fabric cap like so many football players, keeping the sweat out of his eyes. He stands in front of a fan when he's off the floor.

And before a game, he waits until the last possible moment to put the whole thing on.

Seafair cleanup crew

Seafair's a lot of fun — unless you have to clean up the mess.

The couch didn't fit in a garbage can.

Neither did the refrigerator.

Those were just two items left behind at the site of Seattle's biggest summer party. That's Seafair, the three days when Genesee Park is a place for boat races, sunburns, and in at least one instance last year, furniture left near the finish line.

Months of planning and preparation go into Seafair, then five days and more than 50 people go into the cleanup. There are 35 members of Seafair's "Green Team," 10 volunteers and 10 members of the Seafair staff.

They put on latex gloves and set to cleaning up. It starts Monday with cake-and-coffee day. This is an exercise in euphemisms and wishful thinking.

Something solid squishes or oozes or plops onto the ground? Oh, that's just cake.

Something drips out of the garbage onto your leg? Don't worry. Must be coffee.

"That's how we keep our sanity as we go around Genesee," said Dan Wartelle, Seafair's public relations director.

He'll be out there cleaning up the mess in August. So will all 10 members of the Seafair staff, right up to the president.

Three tons of material was recycled last year. There were 235 portable toilets and those Honey Buckets had 6,000 gallons of waste pumped out of them.

There are unexpected finds, too. Like the 20 gallons of cooking oil that one vendor left behind, and last year, that fridge and couch that made their last stands on the park's north shore.

Sonics ticket sellers

Maybe the Sonics are having trouble selling tickets because, well, they're not for sale.

Significant challenges. That's how CEO Danny Barth described the Sonics' difficulty selling tickets.

Hmmm. Wonder why? Maybe because the team traded its top scorer in 2007 and watched the No. 2 scorer leave in free agency and then went out and — surprise — put a historically bad product on the floor?

Or maybe those challenges are because of that nettlesome little fact that the team's out-of-town owners have asked and received the league's permission to move the team to Oklahoma?

Or maybe, just maybe, the team is struggling to sell tickets because, well, tickets are not for sale.

At least not on Tuesday when a call to the ticket hotline (206-283-DUNK) was answered by an automated recording. Press 0 for a company directory. Punch 3 to speak to someone in guest relations. There is no option to purchase tickets.

After being transferred to guest services, a friendly fellow named Matt answered. He's asked about tickets.

"We're kind of at a holding point right now with the trial and everything," he said.

Oh, yeah. The court case in which a judge will either let the Okies wiggle their way out of town or make them stay here for two years and deal with the "significant challenges" of selling tickets to a city that knows the owners will pull the team out of town as soon as they can.

It's a job so difficult the owner isn't even quite sure how to do it, if the team is forced to play two more years in Seattle.

"We're going to have to learn how to do that," Clay Bennett said back in April.

Mariners public relations

Try putting a positive spin on this shipwreck of a season.

"Can you confirm Richie Sexson will be on the flight to Atlanta?"

That's what this miserable Mariners season has come to. The Mariners hadn't even started a news conference to explain the firing of John McLaren and already the question was, "Who's next?"

Being the cartilage at the joint between the franchise and the media can't be a lot of fun right now. The media is searching for answers and explanations for why everything went so wrong.

The players, coaches, managers and front-office types are getting tired of talking about it.

Especially the pitcher for whom the team traded five players; he approaches interviews like they're a puzzle to be solved with the fewest words possible. The clubhouse has been so empty after some games this season that after one game, the general manager ordered towels and food withheld until players talked to members of the media.

That was shortly before a news conference to announce his firing.

Just wait until the next trip — and the requests for a roll call on the team bus — to try to find out who else got tossed overboard.

Emerald Downs urine-sample collector

A cup on a stick. A horse. Good luck.

When people ask Meghann Hall about her summer job, she usually opts for the official title: veterinarian's assistant.

The nickname for her job out at Emerald Downs doesn't exactly fit on a résumé. "Pee catcher."

"So classy," she jokes.

As a vet's assistant, she's responsible for collecting urine samples from horses for steroids tests. The sample is collected in a cup that's attached to a 2-foot stick. The assistants hold the cup under the horse in a barn stall and, after getting the sample, divide it into batches and seal it up.

Every horse that wins a race gets tested, plus each horse that's claimed, plus other horses selected by race stewards and some just by random tests. The top three finishers in a stakes race get tested. There can be 15 to 20 horses tested some days.

"It's a job that someone has to do meticulously," said Sally Calkins, a state veterinarian. "I think it demands a lot, and we couldn't do this without our vet assistants."

Hall began working at the track in 2004 when she was a high-school student in Auburn. She grew up around horses and got an up-close look at how things worked at the racetrack. She is 21 and attends Arizona State, where she's studying supply-chain management with the goal of working in fashion merchandising.

Hall and the other assistants at the track follow a horse designated for testing to the barn, where they help the groom bathe the horse, give it plenty of water and follow the horse's normal cool-down routine.

Some horses need 30 minutes of walking, others 60, and then it's time to go into the stall.

Some horses don't mind when the stick holding the cup is placed underneath them. Others do, so the assistant hides the stick behind her back as she approaches. Whistling is another trick, a skill Hall had to learn on the job.

"They start paying attention to the sound," Hall said. "Whistling is supposed to relax them."

Danny O'Neil: 206-464-2364 or doneil@seattletimes.com