The jersey subtly hanging in the background served as the clue. But as Henry Rojas sat down to film a video service for his church group known as the Community of the Wild Goose, he wasted no time revealing the synopsis of his message.
“I’m gonna talk about why I left performing as the Phoenix Suns Gorilla,” Rojas said.
It’s a story he’s shared countless times with student assemblies, addicts in rehab centers and professional colleagues. Normally, he compares the restrictions of his physical mask as the original Suns Gorilla to the metaphorical masks we wear as humans to conceal our true, vulnerable selves. It’s a relatable and unifying analogy.
But the message takes on a deeper meaning today, with the COVID-19 pandemic prompting us to wear actual masks to protect ourselves and others from a virus we cannot see or feel. Rojas holds up a surgical-style mask, then a cloth one. He asks viewers to think about how it feels to only have partial air flowing in and out, and to know that no one can see if you’re smiling.
“I kind of did that for a living for a long time,” Rojas said.
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Rojas became one of the world’s iconic sports mascots by happenstance in 1980, the result of a singing telegram request that went awry. Ask him about that decade of his life, and he’ll still enthusiastically reminisce about the memorable performance bits, brushes with celebrities and emotional rush of arena applause.
Inside, though, Rojas was in an identity struggle. As soon as each game performance bit ended, the mask felt “suffocating.” But if he walked away from a dream job, who would he be?
By unmasking himself, Rojas discovered his true calling. And he’s dedicated his post-Gorilla second act to helping others do the same.
“We’ve got to be creative and use this opportunity to stop and sit for a minute and think about who we really are and who we’ve made ourselves out to be,” Rojas said. “Yes, I’m taking this opportunity to tell you, you are loved nakedly without your mask.”
Growing up in the Phoenix west-side neighborhood of Maryvale in the 1960s and ’70s, Rojas idolized Connie Hawkins and the Suns. But he was also a natural entertainer and comedian, dancing at restaurants and mimicking television programs featuring Dick Van Dyke’s visual comedy, Red Skelton’s pantomiming and Rich Little’s impersonations.
He got a job at Eastern Onion Singing Telegrams, which normally sent him out for gigs in a tuxedo. But one 1980 client paid more money for a singer to wear a gorilla suit while singing during a timeout of a Suns game at Veterans Memorial Coliseum.
“To think that I would be going to the place where I dreamed of playing, but going as freakin’ Chuck E. Cheese,” Rojas said, “that was humiliating, I was trying to get out of it, and I couldn’t get out of it.’”
The 23-year-old drove his brown Toyota Corolla to the Madhouse on McDowell in full costume. When Rojas arrived, an usher was supposed to direct him to the telegram recipient in the stands. But the usher never returned, and when fans caught a glimpse of Rojas, he began dancing.
“The crowd got really into it,” Rojas said. “I was making the best of an awkward situation.”
The next morning, Rojas heard KOY Radio complimenting his impromptu performance. Others began ordering similar telegrams, just to get Rojas back to the Coliseum. The Suns officially hired him for that season’s playoffs, and a mascot was officially born.
Henry Rojas’ version of the Phoenix Suns Gorilla didn’t dunk like the current one does today. (Barry Gossage / NBAE via Getty Images)Rojas’ Gorilla was not the high-flying dunker of more recent iterations. His entertainment style was rooted in animated physical comedy, impressions and improvisation. He’d react to current events or the opponent visiting town, making runs to Goodwill to acquire props or costumes.
Ultimately, his portrayal was a gorilla attempting to be human — a description first coined by former Suns vice president Tom Ambrose.
When the “Rocky” theme song played, for instance, he’d run up the stairs to the top of the bowl. He wore a slicked-back wig resembling Pat Riley, prompting the then-Lakers coach to walk over to Rojas during a timeout, stare him down and attempt to grab his fake hair (Rojas also reached for Riley’s head, of course). When Rojas impersonated Michael Jackson at an All-Star game, Magic Johnson and Isiah Thomas joined him in the moonwalk.
“The coaches and the referees were such participants in it,” Rojas said. “That was what was really quite unique about it. The players, I think, took it as a badge of honor if I made fun of them on the court.”
And the emotional high, Rojas acknowledges, was incredible. He often would not fall sleep until the early morning. While winding down one night, he unexpectedly saw a clip of himself on The Late Show with David Letterman, imitating Refrigerator Perry at the just-completed game.
Rojas clearly had a knack for connecting with a massive audience — without ever saying a word. But his time as the Gorilla also proved his ability to form deep personal connections. A prime example was Ronnie Williams, Rojas’ right-hand man as a “zookeeper” crew member from ages 13 through 19.
Williams said he learned responsibility by taking care of the Gorilla’s suit, brushing the hair and sprinkling it with baby powder to eliminate static following a cleaning. When Williams’ mother told him he needed to get a real job, Rojas started paying Williams so he could stay at the arena off the streets of a rough neighborhood. When Williams became overwhelmed by the abundance of silverware at a fancy breakfast while accompanying Rojas at 1984 All-Star weekend, Rojas noticed, leaned over and whispered each utensil’s purpose.
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Williams considered Rojas a father figure, opening up to him about personal heartbreak, where to attend college or other life obstacles.
“Henry was able to listen and gain your confidence and your trust, and you’d spill your guts to him,” said Williams, who has maintained a 40-year friendship with Rojas. “He steered me in the right direction on so many nights and occasions when a (teenage) kid could have made a lot of wrong and different choices.”
With others in the Coliseum stands, however, Rojas could only communicate in character with his deep eyes. Over time, he could not wait to pull the Gorilla mask off as soon as he left the court.
But Rojas was being paid well. His family and friends relished in his neat job. And who voluntarily left the Suns?
“I’m trying to figure out, ‘Who am I now?’” Rojas said. “I can’t take a job at Jack in the Box, God forbid. Because if they went through the drive thru, they’d say, ‘Hey weren’t you the Gorilla?’
“It was inwardly a very freeing thing. But it was a very scary thing, too, because now what?”
When the Suns announced at a 1988 game that Rojas was retiring, crates of bananas were hauled in to cover the court. When Williams looked over at Rojas, tears were running down his black makeup.
“Everyone that came up and hugged Henry and said their goodbyes really didn’t understand why we were in tears and feeling the way we were,” Williams said. “Because it was kind of an embarrassment. It was not the best feeling at all. It was the saddest moment, I think, for Henry as the Gorilla.”
Eric Simonson felt “pretty lost” when he first arrived at Calvary Healing Center to combat his alcoholism 3 1/2 years ago. He viewed his life like the letter “V” — that every bad decision he made pushed him further away from God.
So when Pastor Henry assured during one of his nightly group talks that God was still there even in our worst times, it captured Simonson’s attention. They scheduled a one-on-one meeting, Then, Rojas started talking about the Gorilla, and the masks we all wear.
“That really became kind of the driving force in my recovery,” Simonson said, “was trying to look at what masks I was putting on, and how to remove those masks and just become more comfortable with who I am on a daily basis.”
Perhaps Rojas’ life transition appears natural. He had made countless public appearances as the Gorilla, seeing the joy his presence brought to hospitals, classrooms and other events. But when he was first asked to speak as Henry Rojas, he wondered what he had to say.
Turns out, Rojas’ personal journey as the Gorilla was universally relatable. He perfected a 45-minute address for school assemblies and business functions. He began working with the homeless, women with eating disorders and those battling substance abuse, most recently at Calvary for six years.
The heart of his message is a call to strip away the false-face masquerade — labels such as job title, financial status or medical diagnosis — to reveal one’s true, authentic self. With addicts, for instance, he reminds that the bottles of alcohol and vials of heroin are nothing without their human host, and it’s possible to leave them be.
What you do is not who you are, he stresses. Yet walking away from one of those masks is scarier than starting something new.
“But it’s the most courageous thing you can do,” Rojas said.
Rojas is now using his spiritual direction certificate to focus on his own venture. He created the Community of the Wild Goose, which in non-pandemic times holds Sunday gatherings in the North Mountain Visitors Center.
He chose the Wild Goose name because, to the Celtic Christians, the animal symbolized the holy spirit — “untamable, free and unpredictable,” per the organization’s website. So it makes sense that Rojas describes his services as “quirky,” or that Simonson calls the Wild Goose “the least churchy church you could go to.”
Attendees are free to get up in the middle of the message to grab more coffee and donuts. Rojas calls his weekly announcements “goose droppings.” The community’s website describes that “laughter is fairly recurrent, children make noises, spills occur, we run out of chairs and cause great commotion in getting more out. … there is occasional holy heckling, and you might even see a tear due to a personal epiphany or even an amen that sounds more like ‘holy s#*!’”
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One time, Simonson brought a Lutheran-pastor friend to a Wild Goose Sunday service. The friend said, if he were giving out school letter grades, most aspects would receive a D-minus or an F.
“Until we got to communion,” recalled Simonson, who is now the executive director at Spirit in the Desert Retreat Center in Carefree. “He said he had a tear rolling down his eyes, because he said it was so powerful.”
These days, Rojas’ Facebook videos provide a glimpse into his nontraditional style.
In a message titled “The spirituality of enchilada sauce,” Rojas sits in his kitchen with two large chili peppers in a bowl of water. He explains that the fruit’s exocarp is the outer skin that protects the flavorful endocarp from the world’s elements. To use the endocarp in sauce, the chili must be opened and patiently run through a strainer. And sometimes, the exocarp needs to be physically pushed to the side to allow more endocarp to flow through.
The exocarp represents our ego, Rojas reveals. The endocarp — the good stuff — is our inner being.
“We say to the ego,” Rojas says, “’Thank you for protecting me at one time. Thank you for protecting me from the dangers outside. But I’m good now. You can step aside.’”
Today’s version of the Gorilla feels foreign to Rojas. Being a gymnast is more important than having comedic timing, he says. The mascot cheers on the Suns no matter what, rather than siding with the fans who may be disappointed with on-court performance.
“I’m not diminishing it at all,” Rojas said. “I just would have never held a sign that says ‘Noise!’ … Sometimes it breaks my heart that the Gorilla is being told to do things that I probably would not have done.”
But that organizational shift does not take away from the character’s impact on Rojas’ life and teachings, including in the middle of a pandemic.
During that Facebook video message, Rojas further explored the concept of unmasking by sharing a story about a visit an elementary school. He first spoke as Henry, then slipped on the Gorilla mask and gloves while concealed behind a sheet.
“What if they like the Gorilla more than they like me?” He thought to himself while hidden. “What if speaking wasn’t good enough?”
Naturally, the kids erupted into cheers as Rojas emerged as the Gorilla, dishing out high fives while running through the crowd and (accidentally) through a nearby door that led to a closet. When a teacher brought Rojas back out without the mask, students lined up for autographs.
He signed the first one with a swooping “The Gorilla,” just like he always had. A young girl looked at Rojas, perplexed.
“She goes, ‘No, I want your name,’” Rojas recalled. “That’s when I realized I made the mistake of thinking that what is inside wouldn’t be good enough, that it wasn’t valuable enough. That’s been the message since then.”
On screen, Rojas then brought out a prop he never displays on its own. He lifted the Gorilla mask into the camera’s view. It had been smashed in a case for many years, he said, and was wearing sunglasses to cover the eyeholes.
Rojas held it next to his actual face. It was the visual representation that Rojas made the mask, not the other way around.
“If I were to take this Gorilla suit and throw it onto the court, it ain’t gonna dance,” Rojas said. “It’s what’s inside that brings it to life.”
(Photo courtesy of Henry Rojas)
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