MANDRAKE OREGON DUCKS MASCOT PROFESSIONAL

Cudo won the job as Crunch, and at 20 years old found himself playing in the NBA. At the time, only about half of NBA teams had mascots, but for expansion programs they were an important hedge, an added element of entertainment. Just after college, Cudo learned that the NBA expansion team Minnesota Timberwolves would have a mascot for their opening season. (His roommate was usually away for the weekend.) It was a far cry from Chicken-level celebrity, but he could have done a lot worse than a badass mammal like Thundar. On game days, before heading into the football arena, Cudo would blast Guns вЂ™N Roses and dance around his dorm room to get pumped. (Soon after Cudo graduated, Native American names throughout Minnesota were dropped, and the Braves became the Blaze.) During college at North Dakota State University, he dabbled in theater and did some cheerleading, before finally winning the part of Thundar, the NDSU bison. High school would have been a good time to don his first costume, but CudoвЂ™s school, the Burnsville Braves, didnвЂ™t have a mascot.

MANDRAKE OREGON DUCKS MASCOT PROFESSIONAL

In professional mascotting, he saw a third way, the perfect combination of sports and entertainment. Yet Cudo was also coming to grips with a harsh reality that confronts most teenagers: the difference between someone who is fit and coordinated, like himself, and someone with the talent to be a world-class athlete. вЂњIf I told him he couldnвЂ™t go somewhere, heвЂ™d stay in the driveway and shoot baskets all the time,вЂќ his mother recalled. The mattress on the floor meant Cudo could even jump and flip while singing for friends, his sister, or no one at all.ДЄs a teenager, Cudo was well known in the principalвЂ™s office not for anything serious, just the goofball infractions of an attention-seeker who couldnвЂ™t sit still. Cinderblock walls, concrete floor, a stereo and turntable-it was the perfect tween concert hall. Growing up in suburban Minneapolis, Cudo was a natural performer, singing along to Kool and the Gang, Billy Joel, and REO Speedwagon in the basement of the familyвЂ™s вЂ™70s rambler. In The Chicken, young Cudo saw socially acceptable rebellion, a childlike joy in doing what we arenвЂ™t supposed to do. But he also knew The Chicken вЂњmust be laughing his ass off,вЂќ must be delighting in the chance to break rules and norms for the sake of good clean fun. вЂњHe was the center of attention, just having some harmless fun with an all-too-willing audience.вЂќ Cudo knew at some level that the guy in the costume was working, in the earned-income sense of the word. He scanned the crowd and sure enough, in the stands above the far sideline, he saw what was happening: The Chicken was being passed hand-over-hand by the masses. Late in the match between the Kicks and Sounders, there was a moment when the stadium was suddenly buzzing. CudoвЂ™s mother, Carol, says her son thought the Chicken вЂњwas the coolest thing ever, oh my gosh!вЂќ Cudo would watch The Chicken on television, mesmerized. He liked soccer, but he was really there to see The Chicken, who by that time had such star power that he performed in cities beyond San Diego. That spring, Cudo attended a professional soccer game at Met Stadium in Bloomington, Minnesota, between the hometown Minnesota Kicks and the Seattle Sounders. It was 1980, Cudo was 11 years old, and the wildlife in question was the famed San Diego Chicken, alternatively known simply as The Chicken. But that was the case for young Jon Cudo. Not many people see another person dressed up as poultry and think, That is what I want to do with my life. He even read the 1995 business book Just Do It: The Nike Spirit in the Corporate World, hoping it would provide insights into the company ethos. He had tried to anticipate interview questions and resolved to do some talking about sport and authenticity. (The fuzzy Crunch suit usually prevented such injuries.) вЂњThe tryout was nerve-wracking,вЂќ the man recently recalled. For one stunt, his arm hit the rim of the basket so hard that it drew blood. Inside the Bo Jackson Fitness Center on the companyвЂ™s sprawling campus, the manвЂ™s jumps, dunks, half-court shots, and dances impressed the Nike team.

The man, who was in his seventh year playing Crunch, the high-flying mascot of the Minnesota Timberwolves, figured, вЂњWhat the hell?вЂќ He packed his bags, including his favorite trampoline, and headed to the airport. Nike executives wanted to fly him to the companyвЂ™s Beaverton, Oregon, headquarters for a tryout session. In the summer of 1996, a professional sports mascot working in Minneapolis received a top-secret invitation.

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