In his 25th year, Phillies’ ice cream man ‘Frankie Two Scoops’ is still grateful just to be at the ballpark every day

Before Mike Schmidt became the greatest player in Phillies history, he scooped ice cream in Dayton, Ohio. His parents owned a restaurant — Jack’s Drive In — and throughout high school, Schmidt spent his summers dipping frozen desserts into chocolate sauce. He jokes that, at the time, he was more famous for that than his athleticism.

So it made perfect sense that Schmidt, 10-time Gold Glove winner and slugger of 548 home runs, would form an immediate bond with Frank Mazzuca upon his arrival in Philadelphia.

Mazzuca — better known as “Frankie Two Scoops” — is the Phillies’ press box ice cream man. This season marks his 25th with the Phillies, a job that has allowed him the opportunity to cross paths with athletes he rooted for from afar.

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Schmidt is the epitome of this. Mazzuca, 82, can rattle off his statistics, but he can just as easily rattle off his ice cream order — sea salt caramel — and the names of Schmidt’s wife and children. Schmidt calls Mazzuca his “go-to guy.”

They first overlapped when Schmidt joined the Phillies’ television broadcasts in 2014. He noticed Mazzuca’s ice cream bar, and told him about his family’s restaurant. Schmidt likes to jokingly critique Mazzuca’s scooping technique.

“He let me come behind the bar and dip ice cream myself once,” Schmidt said. “I said, ‘Let me show you how to do this, Frank.’ ”

They have become close. Schmidt will visit him before his broadcasts on Sundays, and Mazzuca will keep in touch over the winter. They send each other Christmas cards, and check in on holidays and birthdays. But Schmidt isn’t alone.

Over the last 25 years, Mazzuca has left a lasting impression on media members and former ballplayers alike. He has fans across the country and the sport, from Jeff Francoeur to Bob Uecker to Keith Hernandez to John Smoltz.

It’s a job that has given him joy, day in and day out, from his mid-50s into his early 80s.

“Some people want me to take a rest, but I’m not tired,” Mazzuca said. “And it makes me happy. It’s because of the people. We’ve got people of all ages, different backgrounds. This place is like a large church, with lots of different pews.”

Mazzuca grew up by the corner of 10th and Fitzwater Streets, on south Hutchinson Street. His mother was a tailor and his father made paintbrushes. He spent his childhood going to games at Connie Mack Stadium. He’d sit in left field, where there weren’t individual seats but wooden benches. He said he’d pay 50 cents for a ticket.

He fell in love with the Whiz Kids. Outfielder Del Ennis was his favorite player. Mazzuca played some baseball himself, throughout grade school at St. Paul’s, and high school at Bok Technical. He was a pitcher and a first baseman.

After graduating, Mazzuca began working at First Pennsylvania Bank as a salesman. He and his wife, Nancy, married in 1966 and moved to Northeast Philadelphia, which is where they still live today.

“We’ve been married 58 years,” Mazzuca said, with a grin. “She’s very fortunate.”

Mazzuca worked there for 40 years. He took a retirement package in 1999, only to discover that a life spent mostly at home was not a life he wanted.

“The bank gave me one year’s pay, so, I thought, what the hell,” Mazzuca said. “I lasted about three weeks. I was honestly losing my mind. I get up, I read the paper, go to Wawa, get my coffee. I’m home. So, I’ve done the paper. I’ve done the coffee. What else am I supposed to do? Watch Jerry Springer all day?”

A few months later, he went to a Phillies game at Veterans Stadium and noticed employees walking around the ballpark with badges and different colored shirts — blue for security, green for the grounds crew and white for ushers (or hosts and hostess, as Mazzuca calls them).

Mazzuca decided to apply. He began work in April 2000 as an usher in the 700 Level of Veterans Stadium — which turned out to be a harrowing assignment.

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“I mean, I was so far up there, the ballplayers looked like freckles running around,” Mazzuca said. “Nobody sat there. Why? Because there was always fights. There was [high school] fights between Father Judge and Cardinal Dougherty or the Villanova students vs. St Joe’s. The only time it filled up was when the Yankees came into town or it was opening day.”

That lasted for about two years. After his second season with the club, Mazzuca’s supervisor, Jerry Polatano, asked him if he’d like to move up to the press box. His first job was sitting at the cash register collecting meal money. Then he moved to the salad bar, the hot food bar, and finally, the ice cream station.

Unlike Schmidt, he did not have any ice cream experience — aside from “buying it from Giant and eating it out of a pint.” But he came to love it. Over time, Mazzuca began using some creative license. He started to make banana splits on Sundays. He brought in water ice and sherbet in the summer, and picked a “Rookie of the Year” flavor each season.

His personality shined through. One day, in 2014, one of his coworkers, Frank Dickerman, gave Mazzuca a nickname.

“Frank worked in our command center,” Mazzuca said. “He was from South Philadelphia. You’ve got to understand. If you live in South Philadelphia, you talk funny, and you always have a nickname. Like, I had an uncle, nicest guy in the world. They called him Veins. Veins! Why did they call him Veins? Because his arms were all full of veins. Or they’ll call you Big Head. Or Egg Head. I swear, it’s true.

“So, Frank worked down there, and he came up to see me one day, he says, ‘Hey, Two Scoops!’ And that’s how it came about. And then people started hearing it. And it stuck.”

At first, Mazzuca was a little overwhelmed. Now that he was working in the press box, he found himself face-to-face with the very players he watched on TV. But as a former salesman, he knew how to hold a conversation with just about everyone and realized that ballplayers were no different.

He liked to give them grief, and did not hold back. The first time he met Francoeur, the former outfielder and first-round draft pick who is now an analyst for the Atlanta Braves, Mazzuca reminded him of his short-lived stint with the Phillies.

“I said: You played with us, and you stunk! And now you’re announcing, and you’re pretty bad at that, too!” Mazzuca said with a laugh. “I have fun with Frenchie. Every time he walks in here, I holler out, ‘Get the women and children off the floor!’ And he says, ‘Oh, I’m not gonna harm nobody!’ ”

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There are other examples. Mazzuca likes to tease longtime Cardinals and Mets first baseman Hernandez, who now works for the SNY broadcast crew. One time, when Hernandez was waiting in line for ice cream with Gary Cohen and Ron Darling, Mazzuca gave Cohen and Darling a compliment.

“I says, ‘Gary, you remind me of a CEO of a big corporation,’ ” Mazzuca said. “And I says, ‘Darling, you remind me of the president of that corporation.’ And then Gary says, ‘Well, what about Keith?’

“And I says, ‘To be honest with you, he reminds me of Gilligan of Gilligan’s Island.’ ”

That one got a laugh. A few years later, in 2022, Hernandez said on the air that he “hates” to cover Phillies games, because “fundamentally, [and] defensively, the Phillies have always been just, you know, not up to it.”

Mazzuca had a field day with this.

“He needled me the next year, when I came back,” Hernandez said. “He said, ‘I didn’t think you’d come back to Philly. I hope you got a bodyguard.’

“He’s just a great guy and an affable man who knows his baseball. He’s one of those guys who you just can’t help but like. And, he’s the ice cream guy, so that’s always a weak spot for me.”

Mazzuca knows he is lucky and he doesn’t take this job for granted. He said that in his 25 years, he hasn’t missed a day of work.

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“It’s definitely a blessing,” he said. “I mean, I get away with so much in here. Like [supervisor] Kathy [Killian] says, ‘Just watch what you say.’ She used to work in human resources with the Phillies. A lot of times, people will tell me, ‘Frank, that broadcaster is going to take you to HR.’ I say, ‘What’s HR? Home run?’ I’m just kidding. I have fun.”

Mazzuca likes to joke, but he has also made a very real impact on the people around him. Killian said many of the younger employees who work in the press box dining room have gravitated to Mazzuca as a mentor.

“It’s a natural thing, because he’s a good human being,” Killian said. “So, you might say he’s like a dad or a grandpa or a big brother to them. He’s the guy that if he sees you walking to the train, he’s going to say, ‘Hey, do you need a ride home?’ And take you home, not just to the train.

“I also know that in the kitchen, there are some times where young people have sought his advice because they don’t have a grandpa. They don’t have a dad. And he’s a pretty honest, kind, and hardworking guy.”

Mazzuca typically shows up to the ballpark early, so he can watch batting practice. He’ll collect foul balls and put them in a bag, so he can hand them out to young fans. About six years ago, he was leaving work when he saw an elderly man and his grandson.

The grandson, whose name was Robert, had multiple sclerosis. He was in a wheelchair. His parents had died in a car accident, so his grandfather was now his primary caretaker. Mazzuca introduced himself and handed him a baseball.

A few months later, he received a letter at work. It was from that same elderly man.

“It said, ‘I met a fella by the name of Frank, badge No. 86,’ ” Mazzuca said. “’And he gave my grandson a ball. I just wanted him to know that my grandson passed away. But in his coffin, he wanted the ball. So he has the same ball that Mr. Frank gave him.’ ”

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These are the moments he cherishes the most.

“That still gets me over here,” Mazzuca said, touching his heart. “I still have that letter.”

As he enters his 25th year with the Phillies, Mazzuca has been reflecting on his tenure. His coworkers see him as an inspiration for working into his 80s. He isn’t so impressed. He compares himself to an “old pair of sneakers hanging up on a wire.” There isn’t much to celebrate, in his opinion.

But the Phillies think otherwise. Killian has been asking Mazzuca how he’d like to commemorate his anniversary, and, in true Frankie Two Scoops fashion, he has given her some out-of-the-box ideas.

“I told her I’d like a bobblehead of me. I’ll hold the scoop,” Mazzuca said. “Can you imagine that? Oh my God. I mean, I don’t want a statue next to Schmitty outside the ballpark, but if they want to, they can go ahead.”

Most of all, Mazzuca is grateful. He knows that most people his age aren’t spending their later years at the ballpark. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I don’t do it for the money,” he said. “I’ve got a good family life. I do this for my friends. To me, if you retire, you retire, you worked your years, you get your due, and that’s fine. But what the hell are you staying home for?

“I mean, the big guy upstairs, he’s sitting at a table, and he’s got a big book. Turns a page every day. If your name is on that page you say, ‘Check, please!’ You’re out of here. Mine is all the way in the back, I hope. The good people go first, which is why I’m still around.

“But joking aside, it just makes me happy to be here. When the Phillies go on the road, I still work lunches. I don’t have to work lunches. But I do it because I like the people. Sometimes, I think, what if they hadn’t given me an application? I mean, where would I be? I’d probably be at home, 70 pounds heavier. That’s no fun.”