About twelve thousand fans are assembled at the Van Andel Arena in Grand Rapids, Michigan, to attend a minor-league hockey game of their beloved Griffins. I’m there, too … as a mascot dressed in a pink gorilla costume.
I’m packed like a sardine with two other apes inside the belly of a Zamboni. There’s not much space to move, much less breathe. My synthetic, furry costume clings to my sweat-soaked skin, and I can’t see even one fan.
Photo courtesy Grand Rapids Griffins on X
As the Zamboni starts to move, I’m thinking of the Carolina Hurricanes mascot who suffered a seizure attempting the very same stunt the previous year. I feel like I’m in a skating coffin, attending my own burial at a hockey game. As the Zamboni rolls out into the blacked-out arena, my costumed cohorts and I are silent, anxiously waiting.
Within moments after going on to the ice, the Zamboni opens its trunk, dumping out me, my cohorts, and our bags of bananas onto the ice. As I slide out, I duck my head down to avoid hitting it on the Zamboni’s mouth. Although my head makes it out unscathed, my knee bangs the ice when I land.
With twelve thousand faces peering down at me under the glare of the arena’s lights, I ignore the pain. As we had rehearsed, I ran across the arena (no easy task when swaddled in an oversized gorilla costume with a molded rubber head that often covers my eyes). With everything I have, I thrust T-shirts into the mass of humanity. Barely able to see, I keep chucking. For whatever it’s worth, I’m demonstrating my athletic prowess, or lack thereof, in a professional arena.
The rest of the night is a blur. I disperse into the crowd, playing with kids and dancing with ladies and only ladies as instructed—until it’s time for our second routine, a tried-and-true favorite. In this routine, my fellow gorillas invade the visitors’ bench, only to discover such indiscreet objects as lingerie, which had been discreetly planted earlier in the evening.
Photo courtesy The Gazette
My cohorts furiously toss them onto the ice until an enraged referee—yours truly decked out in zebra garb—skates in and attempts to put an end to their antics. Without missing a beat, another gorilla and I get up in each other’s faces, raising our arms and screaming at the top of our lungs like former Baltimore Orioles manager Earl Weaver used to get into it with umpires.
After going at it for thirty seconds or so, the gorilla points his right arm, my cue to turn around, so that the other gorillas can douse me with huge buckets of water.
I play it big to the packed house, screaming in shock. Sure, it was cold, but I didn’t feel it. As thespians like to say, I am in the moment.
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Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available, illustrated by Coverkitchen
