June 6, 2000.

D-Day.

Well, my D-Day.

It was a game like any other — the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim (they were just the Anaheim Angels back then) were at home against the San Francisco Giants in the middle of the summer. But there was just something missing in the stadium that day. The team knew it needed a spark, something to push the Angels into the new millennium in an exciting way.

That’s when I got the call. I had spent most of the season to that point trying to get the team’s attention. I knew I could help the Angels — I just needed a chance. I don’t know if it was me getting loose in the front office and causing thousands of dollars in damages or simply my unbridled enthusiasm for the game of baseball, but on this June day, the Angels were ready for me.

I appeared on the video board in the middle of the game with the words “RALLY MONKEY” on the screen, jumping up and down and screeching, getting the crowd pumped up as I know I was born to do. And when I reappeared the next inning, the magic was here to stay. The crowd ate up the moniker and the team was energized in a way no one had ever seen before. It was like they were possessed, coming from behind to beat the Giants 6–5. A star was born.

For the next couple seasons, I found steady work with the Angels utilizing my best skills — namely jumping up and down and making a ton of noise. I would only appear when the Angels were trailing or tied by four runs or fewer after the sixth inning, but I didn’t mind. I felt like I was the most important piece of the team.

And then in 2002, the Angels found themselves in the World Series against my nemesis, the Giants. It’s impossible to quantify my impact on the team making it to the World Series that fall, but I’d put the number somewhere close to 100% my doing. Management, the team, the fans — everyone knew what I meant to the organization.

This was the fever pitch of my work. I was everywhere — on the video board, in the team shop, all over TV. You couldn’t walk five feet in Southern California without someone saying, “God bless that furry little Rally Monkey. He’s so handsome.”

But we weren’t World Series champions just yet. That season, I guided the team through 18 comeback wins, and when we found ourselves down in Game 6, I knew I had to dig deep. Down 5–0 in the bottom of the seventh and facing elimination to Barry Bonds, I implored the team to believe in the power of the Rally Monkey with every once of their being.

And then it happened: Scott Spiezio hit his three-run homer, the team scored three more in the eighth, and we took the game 6–5. Two days later, we did it! We were champions. I should have been on top of the world. And, for a bit, I was. I was now rallying Angels fans to party harder than they ever thought possible.

But even after the run we made together, after experiencing the greatest high in baseball, I wasn’t named the Angels’ official mascot. And I still haven’t been, even as my presence always looms, and the team remains one of the few MLB clubs left without an official mascot. (Though that hasn’t stopped Major League Baseball from licensing and selling my schtick. I love a good banana, but I like money, too.)

Sure, I’ve done all the interviews, and of course I love the bobbleheads and dolls. But I want to be in the trenches with the team every single game, getting so worked up that my handlers have to hold me back from flinging my feces at the opposing team. (Sorry boys, it’s just in my nature, and I’m letting it loose the moment you look away.)

I think it goes without saying that every team needs a mascot. We are often the deciding factor in a team’s ultimate success, and there’s no team I want to be successful more than the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim.

Every year, my New Year’s resolution is to continue the good fight and to never give up on my dream of one day becoming the Angels’ official team mascot.

This year is no different.

Will this be the year I jump up and down on the video board at Angel Stadium, screeching the Angels to victory… as an official member of the team?