Being a college mascot is no easy task

Courtney Crowder | USA TODAY Sports

The ear-splitting cheers of 14,000 fans collided with the bright notes of a small but excitable pep band as the Iowa State University basketball team stormed the court during a recent game.

Following just behind them, too careful of his feet to keep up with the players, was an ISU super fan.

Despite never playing a second of competitive basketball, the fan took his place among the players, basking in the crowd's reverence and clowning in the spotlight.

He didn't have a seat that night, but wandered the aisles, often sliding down stair railings. He was hounded by paparazzi in the form of fans with camera phones, who paid for their pictures with high-fives and hugs. He stole spectators' popcorn as often as he stole their hearts. (The popcorn he gave back, but the hearts he kept.)

Most important, he never, ever gave up hope that ISU could win.

His name is Cy, and he's a mascot.

Despite the smile permanently plastered across his beak, portraying Cy, who celebrated his 60th birthday in October, is harder than it looks. In addition to keeping up with their schoolwork, the five students who inhabit Cy must try out for their spot on the squad and spend about 100 hours in the suit each year.

In the summer, they go to cheer camp to perfect their moves and hobnob with other mascots, and in April they will compete in the National Cheerleaders Association mascot championships.

And, yes, it's hot and smelly in the suit, but the joy on fans' faces and the growth each student experiences while being Cy makes the warm funk a mere nuisance, those portraying Cy say.

An hour before the game, John Michael Collins, who goes by Michael, was sitting in a room deep in the bowels of Hilton Coliseum, surrounded by practicing dance team members and chanting cheerleaders.

A hyper-introverted industrial technology major, the fidgety, long-haired senior seemed out of place. Next to him, a large bag — out of which a yellow foot and a red felt feather peeked — offered the only physical foreshadowing of what was to come.

"I hate being the center of attention as a person," Collins, 21, said, "but when I'm mascoting, it's not me that is the center of attention, it's Cy. It's still me inside the suit, and it's still my personality, but everybody just sees the mascot."

Right now, he's Clark Kent, but one quick change later, he's Superman.

When the buzzer sounds, Cy starts his rounds, traipsing between the rowdy students and the more orderly adults. Cy passes a man listening to the radio while watching the game and mimes stealing his headphones. The man grins and gives Cy a high-five.

No matter how serious a fan is, Cy can coax a smile.

"Cy is the greatest mascot in college basketball," said Andrea Brunk, a 33-year-old alumna. "He makes sure people have fun, and that makes the game better. It makes the entire experience better."

The students on ISU's mascot squad are different ages, hail from various places and study dissimilar subjects, but one thing unites them: a love for ISU.

"We are all super fans," said Kirsten Caffrey, 21, a senior on the squad.

Traer Schon, 19, a sophomore mascot, agreed: "I grew up loving Cy. When we would come to Iowa State games, I was always fascinated by Cy, and I would watch him in the stands. That drove me to be interested in mascoting and to try out for Cy."

Schon's story is emblematic of a mascot's public relations power, said Benji Gray, national mascot program director for the Universal Cheerleaders Association.

"Mascots started out as a brand marketing tool for universities," he said. "A kid comes to an athletic event with their parents, and they could care less about the game. All they are watching is this crazy character down on the floor who is doing all these stunts and dances. As that child grows, their love for that mascot fuels a love for the school, and, hopefully, that kid will grow up and go to that university."

Universities are ever-mutating animals with students turning over every four years and the teaching staff every couple of decades. The mascot, however, stays constant.

"The campus grows and changes, but there is one thing that never changes, and that's the mascot," said AJ Mass, a former Mr. Met mascot and author of "Yes, It's Hot in Here: Adventures in the Weird, Woolly World of Sports Mascots." "You go back as an alumnus after you graduate, and your mascot is still there.

"It's really easy to forget that there's a kid in there working his heart out," he added, "because you're like, 'Oh, yeah, that's our mascot. Of course he's here.'"

There are a couple of rules when it comes to being Cy. First, he doesn't speak, and, second, he doesn't stand still. Even when he squats momentarily, ducking because of action on the court, he's playing with someone's hat while trying to take another person's "clone cone."

"No one wants to see Cy sit down, so you have to be on the whole time," Schon said. "If you sit down, you've got to make that part of Cy's thing. What would Cy do if he was sitting there?"

The students' agility in-suit is remarkable when you consider the costume weighs almost 20 pounds and is made of extremely nonbreathable material. Collins said the suit was dry when he put it on for a recent appearance, but had added what felt like 10 pounds of water weight by the time he took it off. (Not to worry, Cy huggers. Mascot coach Kelli Baker said an equipment manager regularly launders the suits.)

"It's a grueling job," Mass said. "Putting on the suit for an hour is the equivalent of an eight-hour job for most people."

And, yes, it's hot. Gray said conditions inside a suit can be 20 degrees to 50 degrees warmer than the outside temperature, so those late August football games can be difficult to muster through.

"You have to build up a stamina," Schon said. "It's physically really hard on your body, and you have to be able to keep your energy up the whole time."

The key, Gray said, is discipline. A good mascot works out frequently and regularly adds dance moves to his or her repertoire.

"Fans look at the mascot and think, 'Oh, he's so funny,'" Gray said, "but the person inside that suit is really, really, working diligently to create the most entertaining experience for the fan."

Or, as Gray likes to tell his students: "If the fur ain't flying, then you ain't trying."

Cy makes his way to the band area and pretends to conduct. He's a family-friendly, kid-loving bird, but he's known to pull pranks on unsuspecting spectators.

"He comes over to the band all the time," senior Holly Prier said. "He'll take our piccolos and pretend to play them or take our mouthpieces. He's always making us laugh."

"The best part of Cy is that he's unpredictable," added Megan Kruger, a 34-year-old alumna. "You don't want a predictable mascot."

Two types of students become college mascots, Mass said: the extroverts who crave attention, and the introverts who discover the freedom to express themselves inside the suit.

The kids who currently play Cy are decidedly the second group — especially Collins.

"He's very quiet," Baker said. "You wouldn't think of him as somebody who is very outgoing, but once he gets in the suit, he kind of transforms."

The suit offers Collins an unfiltered opportunity to be himself, he said.

"When I put on the suit, I am seeing a part of my personality that I don't normally see because all social norms and constructs are taken away through Cy," he said. "I know I am inside a mascot suit, but the large majority of people don't know it's me, so I can do whatever I want and not be judged for acting in a way that I normally wouldn't."

Think of Cy as a sort of alter ego. The students might be too timid to dance or initiate interaction with strangers, but when no one knows it's them, it's game on.

"Once you get into the costume, you realize that there's a side of your personality that you've been hiding," Mass said, "and you think, 'Why do you hide that, because it's a wonderful thing.' People who take what they get being inside the suit back into their personal lives grow exponentially."

As the game wraps up, Cy comes across a 5-year-old girl wearing a Cy shirt and holding a Cy doll. Her eyes bulge out when she sees the big giant bird. She's speechless as he invites her onto his lap.

"She'll stay there all night unless I tell her to move," said her mom, Stephanie Ronlaff. Whenever they come to games, she said, they watch for Cy.

Collins looks like he's run a marathon when he takes off the costume. He pauses, breathes out and says moments like the one with the little girl are the reason he does this: "I am tired, but I made a bunch of people's days, and it doesn't get better than that."

The other Cy inhabitants agreed: "I never realized it before I was Cy, but everyone loves Cy," Caffrey said. "He just brings happiness into their lives."

Collins will graduate this spring. He isn't putting all of his eggs in the professional mascoting basket, but he would be interested if a gig came up.

"Seeing joy in someone else helps me to pause and remember that happiness is a possibility in life," he said. "I'm not saying I'm depressed by any means, but we all have our days, and mascoting is my outlet. It helps me to be a happier individual, and if I could share that joy, I would do it in a heartbeat."

Crowder also writes for the Des Moines Register, a Gannett property.