Coming in Hot
As I fastened the velcro, my power surged.
With each zip, button and pull of red material I became stronger, burying my nervous, awkward 18-year-old persona under layers of fortifying fabric. Minute by minute, I morphed into a powerful, invincible force — an unapologetic antithesis of the person underneath. The sudden change looked something like a sweatier, clumsier and less cool version of The Hulk’s transformation.
That’s how I felt, but to the naked eye, it would’ve appeared a little different. Something like a pale, scrawny adolescent squeezing giant red bags into a cramped community center locker room, making awkward eye contact with a man at the urinal and proceeding to spend 20 minutes fumbling over buttons and snaps and zippers before emerging parade-ready as Cy the Cardinal: beloved mascot of Iowa State University. Yes, the Iowa State Cyclones’ flesh-and-blood representation is a bird with teeth rather than an anthropomorphic rotating air mass. There’s an explanation, but it’s neither interesting nor relevant enough to dive into here.
Though I’d earned a gig on the mascot squad at tryouts the previous spring, this was my first time stepping into the role. I had skipped breakfast, my stomach bubbling with 18 years’ worth of anticipation. I’d grown up around Iowa State athletics, the cardinal and gold crowds creating a flash of excitement on the otherwise barren Iowa plains. I’d trained myself to quickly spot Cy in the crowd, following his antics when games inevitably went south. Something about an oversized bird whizzing down the sideline on a kick scooter quickly takes your mind off the on-field action, providing a welcome, whimsical respite from looming defeat.
I always fantasized about becoming Cy one day, and now I was on my way to fulfilling my own strange little dream. With Cy’s body unceremoniously stuffed into large bags in my back seat, I raced through corn fields toward the small town of Huxley, Iowa, where I’d be featured in their annual Prairie Fest parade.
After transforming in the tight quarters of the men’s locker room, I strutted out the door. Even smothered and constrained by dense material, I’d never felt so liberated. Football jersey on my back and head held high, I felt my confidence and energy increase with each step as I walked out of the air-conditioned building into the humid, 90-degree Iowa heat. Woof. In the hot summer weather, the magic started melting away a bit, but I was still excited to give this town an unparalleled show of Cyclone charisma.
Tripping over the giant, talon-shaped platforms housing my actual feet, I walked over to about a dozen cheerleaders and dancers I’d never met, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. Objectively, scientifically speaking, they were certainly the highest concentration of hot people this small town had ever seen. But I tried my best to bob in and out of them, referencing my brain’s archive of Cy memories to play my part with dramatic head shakes and sassy tail flips. Minutes earlier, I’d have never considered approaching this group, but Cy’s self-assurance never faltered. For the next hour or so, I got to borrow this bird’s cocky demeanor, unwavering confidence, and powerful, albeit wordless, voice.
Right before we took off, a parade official let us know we’d be walking the entire route — roughly a mile in total, with the sun beating down the whole way. Inside the costume I briefly thought, “We’re walking for how long?” but Cy’s wordless, beaming smile projected nothing but enthusiastic gratitude and utter excitement.
The first block and a half was incredible. I weaved back and forth, high-fiving screaming children on both sides of the street. I stole hats, I teased Iowa Hawkeye fans, I danced to an endless loop of Iowa State’s fight song. I was killing it, I was a star, a bird god among men. Block two, my ambitious energy waned, and my pace slowed. As my breathing got heavier, I thought, “Oh — I was not prepared for this.”
Soon, I was more sweat than man. On top of the blazing weather, I was wearing a 25-pound bird suit, blanketed in suffocating synthetic feathers. I felt like I was being melted into a liquid, boiled and then thrown into a fire. Unable to fulfill its temperature-regulating function, perspiration rained down my face, blurring my vision with the salty sting of a newly purposeless excretion. My once-energetic high fives turned into half-hearted waves, my arms weighed down by gallons of sweat. Buoyed by a lifetime of built-up anticipation, I pressed on.
Around block five, right before the judges’ table, my profuse sweating stopped. Medical professionals will tell you this is not a good sign. While going through the motions of pointing and clapping, breathing in stale, sweat-scented air from inside the mascot head, I started to feel sick. That notorious pre-vomit waterfall of saliva rushed into my mouth, but I fought back. I would not go down in history as the puking Cy, and especially not on my very first appearance.
But while trying to remain the fun, lovable symbol of school spirit I had so long revered, my stomach seized. The announcer bellowed a welcome to the “Iowa State spirit squad and Cyyyy!” and I dialed up the excited gesticulation. This sudden burst of frenzied movement sent my weakened body down a path of no return.
Fortunately — fortunately? — my breakfastless morning saved me from the worst (i.e., filling my four square inches of breathing room with a deluge of unwelcome vomit). My stomach contracted before mounting an escape, attempting to catapult itself through my esophagus and out of my mouth. As the fight song blared, I gagged and convulsed, Cy’s perma-smile hiding my retching body from the roaring crowd. The unknowingly sadistic townspeople cheered on as I trudged along the road in physical, emotional and spiritual agony.
I had good parents who taught me a lot of valuable lessons. But no one ever mentioned the best way to handle dry-heaving while walking through a parade as a giant red bird. There’s no wikiHow article for that. And no grayscale Gatorade commercial had yet breached this athletics-adjacent hell. School spirit replaced by survival instinct, I soldiered on, my throat trying to cash puke checks from a stomach that quite simply did not have the funds.
I had no lifeline. Any pause would set me even further behind, enveloped by an unrelenting procession of dancing children, flying tootsie rolls and old-fashioned cars. My arms waved and simulated human gestures, but mentally, I was elsewhere. Giddy cheers of “Cy, over here!” echoed through my drenched helmet, but I couldn’t give these small voices their moment in the sun with Cy — I was suffering through my own. Heat exhaustion pushed on my insides like a cheap college kid trying to wring the last ounce from a clearly empty toothpaste tube.
Slowly, my stomach calmed, but my body was wiped. I looked around at the cadre of male cheerleaders surrounding me, jealous they didn’t need foam and cloth to form a mirage of muscles, or enlarged bird feet to assertively strut through new territory. These cheerleaders tossed their female counterparts in the air, caught them and boldly marched forward while casually holding their dainty feet. Mere feet away, I struggled to hold up my own head, falling and catching myself with each yellow-clawed step.
I fought my way through the rest of the parade, faces passing in a blur as I silently chastised myself for all the times I’d taken my properly hydrated, well functioning body for granted. Soon enough, I was bursting back through the community center doors, collapsing in a sopping, energy-sapped heap back on the cool, soothing tile of the locker room. I’d fulfilled my childhood dream, albeit not in the most graceful way. I vowed to be more ready for the next event, and not waltz in assuming I’d excel.
Still, the rush of the experience lingered in my mind. Even masquerading in mascot form, the crowd’s reception of Cy administered an artificial injection of confidence strong enough to carry me through my first days of college and beyond. As I navigated my way back to school, weak arms clutching the steering wheel at 10 and 2, I gave myself a mental pat on the back for getting through it. An open road and four more years of firsts stretching before me, I began looking forward to a do-over at my next event.
Sometimes, great relationships start off rocky. I knew my story with Cy was far from finished, even if my first appearance had been stained by a lack of physical preparation — and maybe a bit of stomach acid.