NEWPORT ­ I am standing in the bowel of the building. Chuck Paiva, a tall and tanned man, has led me here.

We're beneath the bleachers of Cardines Field, home of the Newport Gulls. We're about to enter The Nest, cleverly disguised as a supply room.

It's windowless and dark. Paiva, the team's general manager, is standing in the doorway, and he's smiling. He knows what awaits me.

“Here you go,” he says.

The door swings open, Paiva steps back and I see what will soon become of me. I see enormous orange shoes resembling the webbed feet of some giant waterfowl; I see a huge mask, too, of what appears to be a sea gull's head stricken with elephantiatis; and I see a white and weighty body suit covered with fur, not feathers.

It's a nearly 90­degree day. I'm wondering if I'm too young to die.

Paiva doesn't think so.

“Come on,” he says. “Get going.”

So I get dressed, which is not a pretty process. But in the end, I am transformed. It is a mystical, magical and powerful passage.

Now, I'm a mighty mascot, a birdman of baseball, a dirigible of delight, an errant knight in avian armor. I am The Gull.

Don't mess with me.

I leave The Nest. I step out on to the sidewalk that encircles the stadium. I'm walking with flipper­like feet, like a scuba diver, but not quite as gracefully. I'm more like Godzilla stomping on the buildings of Tokyo.

Very young children cry and hide at the sight of me, seeking solace from their parents.

It's all so Kafkaesque. And this is my Metamorphosis. But I'm thankful. A gull is good. It's better than being a bug.

I do, however, wish I could see where I'm going. Through my mask's mouth, I see my feet, flopping about below like giant beached gold fish. Through my mask's eyes, I see the sky. Everything else is a mystery.

I'm an accident in waiting. That is if I don't pass out first. I'm suddenly feeling nostalgic for oxygen. Until now, I never realized just how much I really enjoy it.

I'm standing in front of the stadium now. This is good.

Children worship me. They hug me and pat me and ask for my autograph. Now, I never want to leave this world.

Adults who pass in cars can't help themselves either. They sheepishly smile and wave. For they, too, believe in the bird.

But I don't want to be just another gull at another game. I want to be a great sea gull, right up there with Jonathan Livingston.

I want to flap my wings, swoop and soar. I want to fly.

Suddenly, I am.

I'm floating down Thames Street now, with the wind whistling under my wings. I'm hovering a few feet above Joseph Strong, the team's president. He's in his Subaru station wagon, which has a sunroof. I'm standing in it.

My wings are out to my sides, as you might imagine since I'm a bird. But to all the pedestrians I pass, who turn and cheer as though I'm their leader, I look — with arms outstretched as though quieting an adoring crowd — like a badly reincarnated Richard Nixon or maybe Mussolini.

That's it. I'm Il Duce!

I assume the position. I cross my wings on my chest and smugly nod my beak. But something happens. I nod too high. I hadn't calculated for the wind.

It catches beneath my beak, which acts as a solid sail and pushes my head backward. It's driving my mask up on my face, pressing my body into the edge of the roof and pulling me from my perch.

My wings are on the rim of the roof now, not for effect, but for my life. I'm hanging on, fighting the force of true flight.

My head is turned up, as though I am proud and noble. But the fact is, with this wind, I can't help it. I'm desperate and helpless, and pinned in this position until the car slows down.

I'm learning a lesson in aerodynamics.

On the way back to the stadium, I remember to keep my beak down. It's better this way. I look mean and menacing, like one bad bird. I've got my game face on.

Inside the stadium, everyone reaches out to me, touches me, feels that I am real.

Two young women want to pose for a picture with me. Our arms are around each other, mine around their shoulders, theirs around my lower back.

The camera clicks. The bulb flashes. And the woman on my right pinches me in the vicinity of my tail feathers.

That's right. She goosed The Gull.

And before The Gull knows what to do about it, I am being led away. A little boy has me by the hand and wants me to meet his mother on the other side of the stadium. He wants to show her what he has found.

So I go. And on the way, someone yells “Look at the chicken!”

This galls The Gull.

I think an ornithology lesson is in order. But I resist the urge to go into the stands to settle things.

I think of Wesley Meeks of Middletown. Usually he's the man behind this mask, who I affectionately refer to as Father Gull.

When he speaks from inside the mask, his voice is ominously rich and resonant, kind of like Darth Vader.

I want him to say something sublime, like come to the seaside, the dark side or maybe just the sidewalk. But he doesn't.

He, however, does say something that saves my seafaring life. He gives me good advice.

“You can go up into the stands,” he says. “But remember you've got to be able to come down.”

So I sit down in the front row, which is not a good thing. Now, I'm nose to bill with the children. The temptation proves too much for them. They knock on my helmet; they look through my mask's eyes; they try to do chin­ups on my beak.

But that's not the worst of it. All night, inning after inning, they threaten me. These innocent, doe­eyed children come to me and tell me the same thing: “I'm going to tackle you.”

I've heard about this. Father Gull told me. There was some sort of tradition. It was euphemistically called Get The Gull. But he said it had stopped, that it had gotten out of hand.

“They were just supposed to run to me,” he says. “But they tackled me. It was just beat up The Gull.”

I can't worry about this now. I've got a job to do, a crowd to excite and a fool to make of myself.

So I dance.

But I do so with an elegance and dignity rarely associated with sports mascots. I waltz. I rhumba. I fox trot.

I look like a dork.

Let's face it. I'm a big, fat, flightless, featherless bird, and it's beginning to show. Everyone laughs at me, regardless of what I do, which I guess is the point.

No one takes me seriously, not even City Manager Michael Mallinoff. I see him along the first base side. I have some serious questions for him. But he cuts me off with one of his own.

“Did you ever think you'd end up doing this?” he says.

Obviously, he isn't taking me seriously either. But that's okay. I know he's just jealous.

A gangly, pre­adolescent boy approaches. I put out a wing for a high five. I get a stiff­arm to the ribs instead.

This ruffles my feathers; okay my fur.

I put my wings to my hips and cock my beak upward a bit as if to say: Come on! You want a piece of this?

He just laughs. But the young children, they love me. Suddenly I realize there are none around me. They're all gathered along the left field foul line. And the stadium announcer is calling me to right field.

So I go. But when I get there, I fall to my knees. I shake my head no. I put my wings together in prayer. I know what's going to happen. Then it does.

“Get The Gull!”

The children run. I waddle. Now everyone knows: I can't fly. But I can hide.

I sneak up behind the first base umpire, who doesn't see me coming and doesn't know what's going on. He sees the kids rumbling right at him, about 100 of them thundering across the outfield. He seems shocked. He raises his hands in a gesture of wonder. Then he turns around and sees me. My cover is blown.

So I bolt. Okay, I plod. I do the best I can with my flipper feet, which don't take me far. After a few comical steps, I am down. And they are there. They're on top of me, piling on, laughing, smiling and crushing me like roadkill.

I'm back in The Nest now. I'm removing my elaborate sauna suit. And beneath it all, I find my T­shirt and shorts aren't so much wet as they are drenched.

I feel like George Bailey, fresh from the river, in It's a Wonderful Life. I want to live again!

Humanity, take me back. I threw it all away, and for what? A fleeting chance to be a bird, only to find emotional and physical exhaustion.

I tell you it's for the birds. And I'm a man.

I'm also tired, thirsty and hungry, not to mention a little bit embarrassed. So I go. I fly the coop. I leave The Nest. I need to put something in my stomach.

For some reason, I feel like fish.