(Cue thunderclap. A shadow ripples across the water. Somewhere, a stadium organ screeches off-key...)

Long before the Mississippi Mud Monsters ever stepped onto the diamond, something was lurking in the swampy heart of Central Mississippi. Before there were ballgames and fireworks, before there were hot dog races and seventh-inning stretches, there was just mud. Thick, ancient, mysterious mud.

No one remembers exactly what the swamp was called, but its waters once covered the land where Trustmark Park now stands. Most of it was drained and paved over—but if you look just past the trees off Old Brandon Road, a little patch remains. Foggy. Forgotten. Forever odd.

And that’s where Fish came from.

What is he, exactly? Scientists refuse to say. Witnesses disagree. He’s got the whiskers of a catfish, the fins of a gar, the belly of a corn dog, and the boundless energy of a creature raised on stadium lights and rally caps. Some say he was formed when a foul ball crashed into the swamp during a lightning storm, awakening something ancient beneath the muck. Others insist he’s always been there, lurking just out of sight, watching baseball through the reeds... and learning.

He was never like the other swamp critters. While they napped or snapped at flies, Fish practiced sliding in the mud. He mimicked announcers, waved invisible rally towels, and dreamed of high-fives and hot dogs. On quiet nights, he could hear faint echoes from the nearby ballpark—the roar of the crowd, the crack of the bat, and once, a haunting tomahawk chant that drifted through the trees like a memory from another era.

And then… silence. The team was gone. The lights dimmed. The echoes faded.

But monsters don’t disappear. They adapt.

When the Mud Monsters arrived, Fish felt something deep in his scales: purpose. This wasn’t just another team—it was his chance. His story. His stage. He flopped out of the swamp, stood proudly (and somewhat slimily) at the ballpark gates, and let his giant googly eyes do the talking.

The fans saw him. They felt it. They voted.
And Fish became real.
Oh-fish-al. Legendary.

Now, when the lights go up at Trustmark Park and the music kicks in, Fish rises from the shadows like a creature out of a forgotten film reel—part mascot, part myth, all mud. Whether he’s dancing on the dugout, causing harmless chaos on the concourse, or launching T-shirts with no regard for trajectory, Fish brings the full power of the swamp to every single game.

He’s not just a mascot.
He’s Fish.
Your mascot.
Your monster.
Straight from the ooze that time (and minor league construction) almost forgot.

Fish’s Swamp Stats

• Height: 6 feet (7 in cleats)
• Weight: Changes with the tides
• Speed: Faster than you'd think—especially near nachos
• Throwing Arm: Enthusiastic but directionally challenged
• Slide Style: All in, all the time

Favorite Ballpark Snacks

• Nachos with extra “swamp sauce”
• Cotton candy (blue = tasty, pink = cursed?)
• Funnel cakes
• Anything dropped by startled fans

Signature Moves

• The Mudslide Shuffle
• The Fin Wiggle Wave
• Dramatic Dugout Reveal
• The “Did He Just?” Dance Break
• Surprise T-shirt cannon ambush

Likes

• Loud theme nights
• Homemade signs from little monsters
• Unattended snack trays
• Baseball blooper reels
• Retro horror movies (he thinks they’re documentaries)

Dislikes

• Leaf blowers
• People who call him “a costume”
• Rain delays (Fish gets soggy and cranky)
• Gators who can't take a joke
• Anyone who forgets to cheer

Offseason Activities

• Mud yoga
• Writing swamp poetry
• Watching late-night monster movie marathons
• Practicing mascot poses in reflective puddles
• Waiting… always waiting… for Opening Day