Musings from Arledge: Big Ten mascot Battle Royale

I have good news and bad news. The good news is that I can write whatever I want. Nobody cares. Raise your hand if you care. See? Nobody. That’s good news for me. You might be more ambivalent about it.

The bad news: this is a tough time of year to write about USC. It’s easier at other places. If you’re a writer for an Oregon site, you’re probably busy creating new conspiracy theories to explain the latest decommitment or clicking the required number of times on Dan Lanning’s newest social-media stunt. (The boss needs ten clicks! Pronto!) UCLA writers are, I don’t know, doing investigative reporting into how the new Big 10 money will allow the administration to buy additional tarps to cover all the empty seats at the Rose Bowl this year. 

But, alas, USC writers don’t have it so easy. USC recruiting is essentially wrapped up at this point, at least for a few months. We can’t talk much about that. Fall camp hasn’t started, and when it does we won’t be able to watch it anyway. And with Alex Grinch gone, my anger never really boils over so much that I need to write something just for catharsis. There’s just not a lot going on.

Most writers would see this as an opportunity to coast, maybe sit around for a month and do next to nothing. But that doesn’t work for me; I coast year-round. 

I could write about some frivolous topic with little connection to college football. But that’s not the way we do it here at Musings. Here, we seize on the opportunity to dig into the really critical issues below the surface, the stuff other people are afraid to touch, the stuff that can make or break seasons, careers, dynasties. The stuff that matters.

Today: Who would win a Royal Rumble between the Big Ten mascots?

You’re welcome. Let’s jump in.

Wait! Not yet. I’m not talking about a tournament. I just want to explore what would happen if you threw the Big Ten mascots into a giant cage at random intervals with only one rule: whoever is left alive at the end, wins. Everybody else gets a participation trophy, just like all the cheap plastic filling trophy cases in Eugene (and, ironically, come from some of the same slave-labor facilities as Uncle Phil’s shoes). 

Okay, now let’s get going. 

Wait, sorry, there is one other rule: mascots can use tools only if those tools are something you would expect that mascot to have in real life. So Sparty can have a long spear and a shield, obviously, and he can also carry a short sword, because the Spartans carried them into battle even though they were primarily phalanx fighters. But Sparty can’t have a chainsaw. That would be ridiculous. And this is serious stuff, people, not ridiculous. 

Now we can get started. 

Out of the gate I am going to dispense with the many mascots that aren’t bad enough to be funny and aren’t good enough to be real competitors. I mean mascots like Maryland’s terrapin, Testudo. First, we won’t tolerate any competitor whose ring walk would take the better part of an hour. That’s bad TV, and TV runs college football these days. 

Second, while it’s true that Testudo has a hard shell for protection and can probably snap and even draw blood if you got too close to him, it’s also true that all you have to do is flip him on his back and he’s finished. Any toddler could do it. If your mascot would get toppled by a two year old stumbling around in drunk-like toddler fashion while wearing only a diaper, then your mascot is absurd. Testudo’s out.   

The same goes for Goldy Gopher. Some of you, like me, may have taken from CaddyShack that gophers are wily and difficult to kill. I’m no longer convinced they are. An alternative interpretation of the film is that Carl Spackler might just be an idiot. 

I mean, imagine for a second what happens when Nebraska’s Herbie Husker walks in. He’s bound to have a shotgun, right? Doesn’t every Midwest farmer have a shotgun? And being that he’s a Midwest farmer, it’s about 50-50 that Herbie served in ‘Nam and knows how to shoot. Herbie, meet Goldy. Goldy, meet Herbie’s shotgun. Goldy’s out. See? That’s a waste of time. I’m not discussing the merits of Goldy Gopher in this competition.

Same with Harry the Husky. Admittedly, he’s a good boy. But I’m pretty sure any of the human mascots can get his surrender merely by offering him a treat and rubbing his belly. That’s not a legit competitor in a cold-blooded competition like this. 

Iowa’s Herky the Hawk is also out. Hawks are cool; that’s not the problem. Although, like Iowa’s offense, I doubt Herky’s ability to score. I don’t see a hawk taking down a bear or a lion. But that’s not the problem, either. The problem is that Iowa isn’t the Hawk state, it’s the Hawkeye state. And Herky is a hawk rather than a hawkeye.

I used to find it strange that Iowa named their mascot not after an animal but after an animal part. It’s not the Detroit Lion Manes or Colorado Buffalo Hoofs. But, of course, that’s not what a hawkeye is. Iowa became the Hawkeye state when a newspaper editor in Iowa declared it so, and it was apparently based on the character Hawkeye in The Last of the Mohicans. That’s cool, right? Cool character from a classic novel? 

No, it’s not. You can’t name your state after a fictional character who lived outside your state. If some Minnesota newspaper guy decided one day that Minnesota was the James Bond State, and the local university called themselves the Minnesota James Bonds, we would die laughing. So Hawkeye is a silly name, and Herky the mascot isn’t the character Hawkeye anyway. He’s an animal that has part of Hawkeye’s name in his name. All of this is ridiculous. Herky’s out. 

That Purdue locomotive, the Boilermaker Special? Okay, kind of awesome, actually. But it’s hard to imagine him winning the Battle Royale. All you have to do is stay off the tracks and wait for him to run out of coal. 

And Purdue has basically conceded the point. Knowing that inanimate objects aren’t great mascots, they have come up with that unofficial mascot Pete who is some kind of metal worker with a giant sledgehammer and who looks a little bit like the kid from Mask, which suggests Pete might have spent a night with Cher. 

Ordinarily that would make him a legit competitor. Ugly and skilled in sledgehammering? Okay! You can kill stuff with a sledgehammer! But he’s an unofficial mascot, so it doesn’t count. Pete is out.

So that really leaves two separate competitions. First is the battle between the two most ridiculous mascots, the two lowest seeds, the Oregon Duck and the Ohio State Buckeye. 

If we’re being honest, and we always are here in Musings, the Buckeye is an embarrassing mascot. It’s a nut that people can’t even eat; it’s like a poisoned almond, squirrel food at best. An institution with the history and resources of Ohio State should not have a mascot that is little more than the walnut’s defective little cousin. You can’t win the Battle Royale with a small, inanimate object. At best he could only be a projectile used by another competitor. Which means he should finish last except…

For the Oregon Duck. Don’t get me started on the Duck, which is … well, actually, entirely appropriate in light of Oregon’s history and tradition. Ducks were put on earth, as best I can tell, so people can shoot and eat them. Or for weighing witches, if you’re a man of science. And according to scientists, it’s apparently unsafe even to throw bread to ducks. What kind of mascot can you be if a child throwing pieces of Wonder Bread your direction leads to a Code Blue? (This discovery must have come after my childhood, or my mother was truly a monster, for I distinctly remember being encouraged to throw bread to ducks. I can only guess at the number I killed.) 

Oregon likes to pretend that ducks are cool and can ride motorcycles. Well, not drive them, exactly; sit on the back and hold the big, strong man driving the bike like the Duck is some sort of Hell’s Angels girlfriend. But the truth is that Ducks can’t ride motorcycles, even if they do long to be bikers’ girlfriends, and they’re not cool. They’re weak. “Sitting duck” means something defenseless for a reason. There are exactly zero ducks that can ride motorcycles. One for every Oregon national title.

So in the matchup between the two lowest seeds, what happens? At first glance the Buckeye seems to be little threat to the Duck, being that it can’t, you know, move or anything. But I think I like the nut here. The Duck’s webbed feet and beak simply cannot break through the Buckeye’s hard outer shell. Throw 100 buckeyes and 100 nuts into the arena, and I’m guessing at least one duck, in desperation—and let’s not forget, the Duck is the representative of the Big Ten’s least-prestigious academic institution—would come up with the brilliant idea to swallow a buckeye whole. At which point he’d choke and die. 

So after an hour, you’d have 100 intact buckeyes and 99 living ducks. If we ever had this competition, the Buckeye would earn a bonus check for his win, the money to be deposited in an Ohio State collective, which would be a tremendous relief for Ohio State fans who, it seems, have come to believe that their program doesn’t have any money to buy recruits. Which must be heartbreaking, especially as it’s unprecedented for them.

That leaves us with the real competition involving the human mascots and the apex predator mascots. The real contenders, in other words. 

But let’s first deal with Joe Bruin who, at first glance, sounds like a contender. Bears are apex predators, freakishly strong with sharp claws and powerful jaws. But a little research discloses some fundamental problems with this particular bear. According to Encyclodia Britannica, “Bruin, a character in French folklore and in the Roman de Renart, a medieval collection of beast tales that satirized human society by bestowing human characteristics upon animals. In the Roman de Renart, Bruin is a bear who is wedged into a honey-filled log by the hero, Reynard the Fox. The name of the character, ultimately from Middle Dutch bruun (“brown”), has come to be an appellation for any bear.” And according to the Oxford Dictionary, bruin means “a bear, especially in children’s fables.”

So we’re not dealing with a Polar Bear, a Grizzly, or even a large black bear. You can’t find Joe at the zoo. Joe Bruin is a non-descript bear—nobody cares enough to identify the particular species—that appears in children’s fables, most embarrassingly in a French fable, where he is tricked into a disastrous end by a smaller, weaker animal who only needed a brain to win. 

All of this—French, children’s stories, dim wits—suggests that the Bruin is too soft, too dumb, too inept to win. His powder-blue outfit also screams non-contender, and, besides, he really should be wearing a beret and eating a baguette anyway. So I’m not entering Joe Bruin into the competition. The foolish beast would likely wander onto the tracks and be unable to get out of the Boilermaker Special’s way because he’s miming like he’s trapped inside a box. Or he’d get stuffed into a log by the Duck as the Frenchies originally wrote it. Either way, no thanks, Joe.   

That brings us to the two big cats of the competition, Willie the Wildcat from Northwestern and Nittany Lion from Penn State. For some reason, Nittany Lion doesn’t have a name. They never thought to give him one. Seriously, that’s it, they just call him “Nittany Lion.” Northwestern at least had the foresight to give their wildcat the name “Willie” instead of just “wildcat.” That’s a pretty significant oversight, and it makes me think Nittany Lion can’t win this thing. 

Here’s the story from Wikipedia: “The mascot was the creation of Penn State senior H. D. ‘Joe’ Mason in 1904. While on a trip to Princeton University, Mason had been embarrassed that Penn State did not have a mascot. Mason did not let that deter him: he fabricated the Nittany Lion on the spot and proclaimed that it would easily defeat the Princeton Bengal tiger.” 

First, Joe, no it would not. Mountain lions are small appetizers for a Bengal tiger. Second, Joe, there are no mountain lions on Mt. Nittany or anywhere else in Pennsylvania. They’ve been gone since the 1800’s. So why choose that name? (In fairness, I’ve been to Chicago many times and have yet to see any wildcats there, so there’s that.) Third, Joe, you didn’t finish the job. You didn’t name the lion, and neither has anybody else in the last 121 years. 

Joe from Penn State came up with the mascot because he was embarrassed, but I think he still should be. 

I don’t believe in a mascot who doesn’t believe in himself, and if this generic lion hasn’t given himself a first name after 121 years, he doesn’t. I like Willie the Wildcat to send the Nittany Lion to extinction like the rest of his line. 

I might even favor Biff the Wolverine over nameless lion. Biff is a legitimate mascot because he has teeth, claws, and a bad attitude. But he’s also only the size of a medium dog. It’s hard to imagine he or Willie winning this thing. Any of the human mascots would have a major advantage with their man-made weapons. Even Lil’ Red—we’ll get to him in a minute—could take Biff out with his shotgun, Old Yeller style.

Bucky Badger is similar. Badgers are mean little creatures—and honey badgers had a nice pop-culture run a few years ago—but they’re still too small. American badgers only get to be about 20 pounds. You could just walk up and kick a badger like you’re playing kickball at recess. They’re defenseless enough that their close cousin, the skunk, relies on stinking really badly to scare away predators. If you’re like an animal that has to resort to obnoxious smell as the primary means of self-defense, you’re hopeless in this battle. 

Besides, badgers are annoying. We literally used “badger” to mean “to harass or annoy by repeatedly asking them questions or telling a person to do something. It implies a persistent and often irritating pressure, similar to pestering or nagging.” We’re not being joined by an annoying rodent the size of a small dog who will probably adopt bad smell as his defense. Bucky’s not winning anything.  

So this competition really comes down to the humans. You have Sparty, who was no doubt trained from birth to be a warrior in that hellhole known as Sparta. (No philosophy, no culture, nothing at all except for a warrior society dedicated to holding onto their slaves. So they’re good at killing.) 

You obviously have Traveler, ridden by Tommy Trojan. Another ancient warrior. All bias aside, he’s awesome.

And then you have the top seed, Herbie Husker. We’ve already talked about Herbie. He brings the only modern weapons to the competition, which gives him an enormous advantage. 

But Herbie has a weakness, one I don’t think he can overcome: Lil’ Red. 

I don’t know how old Lil’ Red is, but he can’t be much older than 5 or so based on his features and, somehow, he already towers over his dad. He’s some kind of mutant kid who can’t fit through the door of the kindergarten class. It’s like one of those 50’s movies where radiation makes something ten times its normal size, which is scary.

Probably because he already towers over every adult in the state, Lil’ Red feels he can do what he wants, so he wears his hat sideways just to disrespect his old man. He also spends most of his time upside down for some reason, and that doesn’t convey seriousness. 

And let’s be honest about Lil’ Red for a second: he’s not very smart. I don’t know if he’s ever been diagnosed with any kind of medical condition, but if he had grown up in town instead of the sticks, he probably would have been. I’m not going to speculate, but just look at him. You see it, too. I know you do. 

So Herbie has a problem. He has two crafty, ancient warriors determined to take him down, and he can’t focus completely on defending himself, because he also has to defend his slow, rebellious, eight-foot-tall, brat of a kid who’s probably standing on his head again. 

Tommy and Sparty will use the General Zod strategy. Remember when Zod started to attack the people to distract Superman once he realized Superman actually cared about them? Tommy and Sparty will do the same. Lure Lil’ Red over with candy or the promise of some dirty magazines, and that dim-witted brat will fall for it every time. He’ll just wander over, take the Snickers, and stand on his head, even as Herbie is screaming at his son to stay behind the hay bails and out of the fight.

And once Tommy and Sparty have the kid, Herbie will have no choice but to surrender. Lil’ Red will go back to shirking on his chores and putting firecrackers in frog’s mouths, and Herbie will be back in time for another six-win season for the Huskers. Life will return to normal on the plains.

So that leaves two. And these enemies know each other well. Sparty got the best of Tommy in Homer’s epic, and Sparty is clearly juiced to the gills. 

But this feels different. That earlier fight between Spartans and Trojans wasn’t mano a mano; Sparty had all of Greece with him—a thousand ships’ worth, we’re told—he had help from the gods, and he had Achilles. And even with all that he still only won when a non-Spartan tricked Troy with a really unfair stunt. Pretending to give a gift that’s not really a gift in order to kill somebody isn’t gentlemanly or cool. Try that at a birthday party and everybody will hate you. Don’t do that.  

And let’s not forget that while Tommy lost that battle and his home, Tommy’s fellow Trojan Aeneas left and founded Rome. And the Romans came back and put a major whuppin’ on Sparta and the rest of the Greeks hundreds of years later. So I think you could say the Trojans got the last laugh.

And that means this is anybody’s fight.

In a hand-to-hand fight, Sparty might be the favorite even though he’s used to fighting primarily in a phalanx. But this isn’t hand-to-hand. Sparty is an infantry warrior who is all by himself against a skilled, mounted cavalry warrior. Tommy can use his speed to close the distance—just not in a straight line. Tommy knows that Sparty’s only chance is to get Tommy or Traveler with his spear during the approach, and Tommy takes evasive action. Serpentine, Shel, Serpentine! Sparty chucks the spear, misses, and despite Sparty’s enormous, prime-Arnold build, his pecs are no match for a charging war horse. Traveler stomps Sparty. Game, set, and match. 

Traveler and Tommy accept the prize money, the adulation of the crowd, and the traditional gifts befitting the winner: roasted duck and a comfy bear rug.