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By Andrew Kantar, professor of English

    For three years I was the mascot for one of America's largest universities. That meant donning my awkward costume for football, basketball, hockey and even track. I appeared on national television and entertained thousands of people every week.
    I was the University of Minnesota's Golden Gopher.

A Rodent's Life
    I graduated from West High School in Minneapolis, known more for its artistic alumni than its sports heroes. Actress Tippi Hedren, star of Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds, went to West High, as did Harry Reasoner of ABC News. I learned biology from Mr. Houck who also taught James Arness, best known as Matt Dillon on Gunsmoke.

Professor Andrew Kantor still has the costume he wore to become his alter-ego ­ Goldy the Golden Gopher.

    When the time came to select a college, most West High kids heard the same thing from their parents, "Why would you want to leave home when you have such a great school in your own backyard?" Therefore, most of us who went to college ended up going to the University of Minnesota.
    In the fall of 1970, I became a member of U of M's Marching Band. It was a fraternity of 212 men, no women allowed. There was a drum major, a male baton twirler and the university mascot - Goldy the Golden Gopher. The position was vacant because the former gopher had been accepted into law school. Becoming Goldy was like being confirmed to the U.S. Supreme Court (minus the respect): you could stay in the job as long as you wished. There were no term limits.
    USA Today ranked being a mascot among the 10 worst jobs in sports, right down there with sparring partners, rodeo bullfighters and (I'm not making this up) urine-sample collectors. Yet I wanted to be the Gopher. The person in that suit had the freedom to climb scoreboards, mingle with dignitaries, polish bald heads and sit on girls' laps.
    During my tenure as Gopher, I tangled with other mascots like the Michigan Tech Husky who tripped me with a hockey stick between periods, I was nearly impaled by a javelin, and I lost the trust of the football team after a temporary replacement (a co-ed I recruited) pinched everyone on the bench. But perhaps my greatest adventure came during my first hockey season.

Tough Crowd
    I suited up for the first time in December 1970. My costume consisted of a scruffy yellow body with a papier maché head sporting the kind of stupid grin that gets people punched in bars.
    My inaugural appearance was at a hockey game. I had to wear skates because people expected Goldy to get out on the ice at Williams Arena and hit the puck around between periods. My bent ankles and instability simply added to the slapstick.
    Hockey fans are among the most aggressive in sports. Once, I went up to a little boy about eight years old. His father smiled cheerfully and said, "Hey, look! It's the Gopher!" To which his kid responded by hauling off and belting me with a hard right cross to the head. I expected the father to admonish him, but I forgot I was at a hockey game. "Atta boy! Give it to him!" he encouraged.
    There are two important things to know about wearing the Gopher head: 1) it's beastly hot, and 2) it reduces your vision to 20/400, which is legally blind. Because of the wide placement of the eyes, I only had peripheral vision. On occasion, I would peek through my buckteeth, but for the most part I relied on the eyeholes.
    One night, as the Zamboni was making its elephantine laps, I thought I would simply walk out and wave from center ice. I approached the edge of the rink and began to wave - until there was no more ground beneath my feet. No one had bothered to tell me about the eight-foot-deep hole that got temporarily uncovered so the Zamboni could dump its slush.
    Suddenly I was waist-deep in ice water. Removing my gopher head, I realized that I was in a maze of rusted pipes that resembled some dank medieval sewer. As arena staff pulled me out, I felt a piercing pain in my leg. Once fully out, I saw that blood had completely soaked through the yellow fur.
   

Kantor entertained fans of all ages during his years as the U of M's mascot.

As police escorted me to the hospital, one guy said to his son, "Look at his leg, Billy - the Gopher got caught in a trap!"
    Hockey fans, I think I mentioned, are a tough bunch.

Hanging It Up
    Two years into my stint as Goldy, the university finally responded to calls for a new costume. I was measured and fitted for a plush, $300 costume, which in 1972 was a lot to pay for a mascot suit. The fur was a rich, thick gold with attached mitten paws. It was magnificent!
    The best part was the giant head.
    Inside was a hockey helmet with a chinstrap so it was snug and comfortable. The eyeholes had black-mesh screens with animated eyes painted on them. If I was ever again interviewed on national television - as I had during the Minnesota-Michigan homecoming game - the interviewer wouldn't have to stick the microphone in my eyehole.
    Each time I climbed into that famous pelt I was liberated. I entered a world where I could be completely uninhibited, unencumbered by the obligations of being human. The costume freed me from myself long enough to excite the imagination of children and to make adults feel a little more childlike.
    When it came time for me to retire, the university let me keep the old suit as a souvenir. Now, whenever I see that limp fur and deformed head hanging from our basement ceiling, the memories flood back.
    For a few years, every Halloween one of my children would suit up. And each year as we trick-or-treated, someone would inevitably exclaim, "Aren't you a cute little squirrel!"
    I never had the heart to correct them.

Look for other installments of "Before They Were Professors" in future issues of Crimson & Gold.