When Sean Jacobsohn ’94 attended a Golden State Warriors game in 2022, he received a well-intentioned promotional item with an untimely sponsorship. The item: a nine-inch-tall replica of starting guard Jordan Poole. The sponsor: FTX, described on the bobblehead’s box as the team’s “official crypto platform and NFT marketplace.”

“This was right around the time FTX was imploding,” says Jacobsohn, a lifelong collector and successful executive and venture capitalist. “I realized right away I had something here.”

Enter Jacobsohn’s Failure Museum: a personal collection of artifacts showcasing a wide range of failed companies, products, and ideas. The collection began with the bobblehead and now includes everything from botched launches, such as cans of New Coke, to formerly viable products that lost their purpose, such as Blockbuster membership cards.

It’s a cheeky hobby with a deeper purpose. In addition to showcasing each item online, Jacobsohn shares his thoughts about failure on his blog and LinkedIn page, detailing what business leaders can learn from each unique misfire. Because as good as success is, Jacobsohn says it’s the failures that are frequently more revealing — and common.

“Not a lot of people like to talk about failure and lessons from failure, but really, most companies fail at some point,” he says. “Even the most successful companies have had to pivot, and many of the most successful entrepreneurs have had a failed start-up before. I’ve found that you really need to learn from failure and learn quickly.”

Mequon to Silicon

These days, Jacobsohn uses his expertise and position to help entrepreneurs and their companies build successful teams, find new opportunities, and raise funds. He also sits on 10 company boards and serves as a board observer for four more.

He’s come a long way since his first taste of entrepreneurship as a teenager, when he combined his lifelong interests in sports, collecting, and business. “I bought entire memorabilia collections from other students and sold the pieces for a lot more in aggregate,” Jacobsohn says. “That helped me pay my way through college.”

Growing up in Mequon, Wisconsin, Jacobsohn knew he wanted to attend one university and one university only: UW–Madison. Seeking a well-rounded business education, he declared majors in finance and marketing at the Wisconsin School of Business while minoring in international business. Along the way, he founded a student-based sports club, got involved with school entrepreneurship programs, and over the course of four years, watched the Badgers go from a one-win football team to Rose Bowl champions.

As he neared graduation, Jacobsohn spotted an interesting job ad in the Badger Herald for a position at Prudential Financial, which became the launchpad for his business career. He then earned an MBA at Harvard Business School, joined three early-stage companies that eventually went public, and became involved in angel investing.

In 2014, he was recruited by Norwest Venture Partners, a $12.5 billion global venture capital firm in the heart of Silicon Valley that has investments in more than 700 companies.

“I continue to network with entrepreneurs and product leaders to see what opportunities they’re looking to start,” says Jacobsohn, a partner at Norwest. “I’m always looking for companies in spaces that I think are ripe for disruption.”

In other words, he helps businesses successfully launch and operate … and not become fodder for the Failure Museum.

Turning Lemons into Lemonade

Businesses and products fail for any number of reasons. Maybe a product was ahead of its time or entered a saturated market. Maybe a business ignored customer feedback or had the wrong leadership team in place.

While Jacobsohn has identified primary reasons for failure — he frames them as the “Six Forces” — what’s universal is that no business leader sets out to fail. Jacobsohn’s blogging doesn’t mock or point fingers, and his open-minded approach has earned him fans, including some executives who have directly experienced failure themselves.

When he first blogged about Juicero, a tech-infused juicer that hit the market in 2016 and now lives in the museum, the company’s original CEO reached out to Jacobsohn, and the two sat down for an interview. Other business leaders soon followed suit, giving Jacobsohn and his readers a unique and unfiltered perspective.

“I’m one of the few people deeply interested in their stories,” he says. “Allowing them to tell their side of things can benefit a lot of entrepreneurs.”

Since launching the Failure Museum, Jacobsohn’s personal collection of items has grown significantly. Through donations and his own forays into eBay, he’s amassed more than 1,000 artifacts, all of which can be viewed online at the website failure.museum. Products, companies, toys, sports memorabilia: it’s all there, and even Wisconsin has representation in the museum. Among other items, Jacobsohn owns a program from a 1926 NFL game between the Chicago Bears and the Milwaukee Badgers — and no, that’s not a printing error.

Pro football was much less popular than college football at the time, and the thinking was that by naming a team the Badgers, Wisconsin fans would pay more attention to them,” Jacobsohn says. “Milwaukee and Green Bay actually played each other 10 times. Green Bay won nine of those games, they tied once, and people stopped going to the Milwaukee games.”

Some recent acquisitions to his collection include Amazon Dash buttons, textured Brush-Ups teeth wipes from Oral B, and Heinz EZ Squirt ketchup, which came in colors such as bright green and purple. Jacobsohn also maintains a wish list of items he hopes to add to the collection — everything from LaserDiscs to Colgate frozen meals. Each new item provides another opportunity to generate insights into failure, and Jacobsohn says the public response to his work on the topic has been overwhelmingly positive. He’s also landed in the pages of the Wall Street Journal, among other news outlets, as a growing number of journalists take interest in his unique collection.

Jacobsohn wants you to come away from the Failure Museum feeling optimistic — because with the right mindset, failure can lead to innovation. After all, a product like the Apple iPhone might not exist as we know it today without a few Newtons or Pippins (look them up) along the way.

“Failure can be your springboard to success,” Jacobsohn says. “You shouldn’t fear failure and shouldn’t be afraid to take risks.” •

What does “go there — wherever there is” entail?

When researching a book on legendary Packers football coach Lombardi, Maraniss convinced his wife, Linda, to move to Green Bay, Wisconsin, to experience the minus-17-degree environs of Ice Bowl fame. There, he met Lombardi’s paper boy, golf caddy, and the piano player from his favorite supper club.

In 1991, “going there” required ditching a rental car in a tiny Oklahoma town and cajoling a pilot at a small airstrip to fly him to Norman in an open-air, two-seater plane, despite a terror of flying. The goal was to make Anita Hill’s press conference on sexual harassment allegations against then–Supreme Court nominee Clarence Thomas. “My need to get there in time overwhelmed all of my fears,” he says.

Though Maraniss spent only two years as a UW student, they were crucial ones in shaping his journalistic spirit.

“I attribute my entire sensibility,” he says, “to Madison and to the University of Wisconsin.”

“Ink in My Blood”

David Maraniss arrived in Madison in the summer of 1957 in a two-tone Chevy packed with his parents and three siblings, shortly before his eighth birthday. His beloved Milwaukee Braves were on their way to winning the National League pennant and the World Series, and his father, Elliott Maraniss, had secured the job that “saved our family.”

This was five years, seven cities, and three newspaper jobs after Elliott was blacklisted by the House Un-American Activities Committee and fired from the Detroit Times — an experience recounted in David’s book A Good American Family. Elliott turned to the Capital Times, with its reputation of standing up against McCarthyism.

“I was born with ink in my blood,” David wrote for his Pulitzer profile. “My grandfather was a printer in Brooklyn, and my father spent most of his career as a newspaper editor straight out of The Front Page, with a gruff demeanor, soft heart, and instinctive sense for the news.”

Maraniss often tagged along with his dad to work. Elliott once introduced him to colleagues by saying, “He’s going to be the best writer of all of us.” That is a moment Maraniss never forgot. “It propelled me in some ways,” he says.

Maraniss needed that extra push as he struggled to figure out where he fit into the family. His younger sister, Wendy, who died in a car crash in 1997, was a brilliant classical pianist. “I had two older siblings who were pretty much geniuses, Jim and Jeannie. They went to Harvard and Swarthmore and got 1600s on their SATs, and I was the dumb kid in the family.”

The romance of the old-time newsroom in downtown Madison drew him in. “Reams of copy paper, dark blue carbons, glue pots, pneumatic tubes, thick markup pencils, cigarette butts on the linoleum floor, the [copy desk] manned by old guys in suspenders with flasks of liquor stashed in the bottom drawer,” recalls Maraniss. “That was the newspaper milieu imprinted on my brain, and I loved it.” At age 19, Maraniss began writing for his father’s paper and for the next five years worked there and at Madison’s WIBA radio. He repurposed wire service copy from the Washington Post, including the famous reporting by Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein on President Richard Nixon and Watergate. His own beats were sports and student protests, topics he returned to later in his career.

Maraniss calls his UW–Madison experience “a tumultuous time,” packed with chess matches in the Rathskeller and basketball games in the Red Gym. After his sophomore year in 1969, he married his high-school sweetheart, Linda, and the next year, their son, Andrew, was born. Linda recalls sending David to the store to buy diapers; he came home with a Simon and Garfunkel album instead.

He dropped out of the UW, although in 2014 he was awarded an honorary degree and notes, “It was a disaster that turned into a wonderful thing.”

“The University of Wisconsin affected me mostly by osmosis,” explains Maraniss. “The whole sensibility of the school and the Wisconsin Idea and ‘sifting and winnowing’ — it soaked into my body in a way that probably no course I could have taken would have done. I’ve been shaped by that progressive notion of academic freedom, the truth, trying to connect learning to living.”

Maraniss, now working full time on his books, still lives in Madison for part of the year, and he calls the Memorial Union Terrace his favorite place in the world.

One-Day Masterpieces

At age 25, Maraniss headed east to the Trenton Times, and in 1977 he started at the Washington Post. His journey to becoming a legendary reporter — earning his first Pulitzer for reporting on Bill Clinton in 1993 — was not without its speed bumps. He shares a time when his reporting went sideways: his coverage of the 1976 Democratic National Convention.

“It was my first political campaign, and I was covering Jimmy Carter at my first job outside of Madison. And I wrote an opening paragraph that probably had 10 or 12 dependent clauses in it.”

“Davey,” his editor told him upon reading it, “try diving off the low board for a while.”

Those are surely not words Maraniss ever said to his own reporters. Along with distinguishing himself as a writer, he served as a Post editor, and people who’ve worked for him describe him as patient, encouraging, brilliant, and sensitive. The latter is a trait he attributes to his mother, Mary, whom he describes as a “preternaturally calm woman, not easily provoked.”

Journalist Anne Hull’s work exposing mistreatment of veterans amid the squalor at Walter Reed hospital won the Washington Post a Pulitzer Prize for Public Service in 2008. Maraniss worked with Hull on that series as her editor.

Her job as a national enterprise reporter put her on the road for months at a time. “It can be a lonely process out there,” says Hull. “What made it so great was David Maraniss. He made me feel like I had a partner in the reporting.”

She praises his ease at building the “scaffolding” of a story. They also had fun. She’d share mixtapes of music reflecting the location and themes of her reporting. When editing together, she’d join him for his routine reporter lunch of egg salad on rye toast with a V8 juice.

“He’s a gift that rarely ever happens in a newsroom,” says Hull. “He’s extremely smart, extremely well read, but you’d never know it because he doesn’t flaunt it.” At the Post, reporters could observe Maraniss in his glass office. Every few hours, he’d emerge in his socks and make a newsroom round, earning him a moniker from Hull: the Shaggy-Headed Shambling Shaman.

He was in that fishbowl when he composed what became known as a “Maraniss masterpiece” in just one day: a 9/11 article that is taught at journalism schools around the country. Maraniss conceived the story while sleeping, scrawled out a one-page outline, taped it above his computer screen, and began typing at 6 a.m., four days after the terrorist attacks. He produced a chronological narrative about dozens of daily routines that were forever altered by the event.

Maraniss repeated that process in 2007 as part of the team covering the Virginia Tech mass shooting. That story, also written in one day, contributed to another Pulitzer.

Due to his atypically serene newsroom demeanor, he was often the good-cop contrast to such editors as Ben Bradlee or Bob Woodward. His approach paid off when Janet Cooke insisted she had not made up her Pulitzer-winning 1980 story about an eight-year-old heroin addict. Around 1:45 a.m., after 11 hours of pressure from the team of editors, Maraniss asked the others to leave the windowless conference room.

“I knew she would not be able to lie to me,” he explains. “Without in any way approving of what she did, I understood the horror she must have been facing at the moment, being exposed as a fraud.”

Alone with Maraniss, Cooke confessed.

Today, the Pulitzers serve as paperweights on his desk. And Woodward is a golf partner, close friend, and a fan. “Besides being a great journalist and a great writer, he is always interested in what a story means, where it fits into the morality of people and country,” says Woodward. “Without being self-righteous or self-important, he shows what’s right, what’s wrong, and what are the implications. I’m not overstating it to say he’s a moral force.”

“I’ve Got to Do His Biography”

The morning after Clinton was elected president in 1992, Maraniss woke up in a motel outside Little Rock, Arkansas, reflecting on how well he’d come to know what made the president-elect tick over the past year.

“I’ve got to do his biography,” thought Maraniss, who has a fierce competitive streak, whether it’s getting the story or winning a game of Scrabble. “I don’t want someone else doing it.”

That began his career of writing books. His mission remained the same: “Search for the truth and use deep reporting and common sense in its pursuit.”

Last year, the Wisconsin Historical Society received proof of just how deep Maraniss’s research goes when he donated 150 boxes filled with thousands of notecards, binders, tapes, and photographs from his books. Whether the subject is sports or politics, his books explore racial justice — another thread he traces back to his father, who was commander of an all-Black unit in World War II.

“Clinton was a product of the segregated South, and he wanted to change that,” he says. “Vince Lombardi was very strong on race and gender issues, even as he was old school in so many other ways. Rome 1960 is about Muhammad Ali, Abebe Bikila, Wilma Rudolph, and what they had to endure. The Obama book, obviously, deals with race. Once in a Great City does, too.”

Maraniss’s current obsession is Jack Johnson, the son of a former slave and the first Black heavyweight champion boxer back in 1908. He refuses to devote the steep commitment of time — typically three to four years — to a book unless the subject evokes a curiosity verging on obsession for him.

To do so, it must illuminate the sociology and history of America. And Johnson’s life hits on all Maraniss’s pulse points: racial justice, sports, politics, and underdogs. His working title is Ghost in the House, “a reference to what Muhammad Ali’s trainer would whisper to him in the ring before every match, meaning that Jack Johnson was watching him.”  

The Next Generation of Journalists

Ink as a genetic marker among the Maraniss clan has now been passed along to his two children.

His son, Andrew Maraniss, has authored four books of narrative nonfiction on sports figures tied to racial justice and underdogs. His daughter, Sarah Vander Schaaff, is a playwright and journalist whose career began at CBS News. During COVID, Maraniss did a podcast with Sarah for two years called Ink in Our Blood. His four grandchildren, who range in age from 11 to 20, are well on their way to becoming another generation of writers, from theater to poetry to sportscasting.

The Maraniss children describe their parents as “youthful.” David and Linda raised the kids as “one of the gang” with their friends.

Andrew tagged along to news conferences, met politicians, and pocketed Associated Press photos of the Milwaukee Brewers. The kids joined the Washington Post’s rotisserie baseball league, sang songs around the piano at Maraniss house parties, and played touch football every Sunday afternoon in the green grass under the Washington Monument.

“Bob Woodward was the first person who ever showed me a Walkman, and he got my sister and me some 45 records,” Andrew says. “So I grew up around these great reporters and editors, and it gave me the confidence to become a writer myself.”

“He’s very attuned to the younger generation,” Sarah says of her father. “And he’s actively engaged in the next generation of journalists.”

Indeed, Maraniss teaches classes at Vanderbilt University and views mentoring as among the most important facets of his work.

Philip Rucker is glad he feels that way.

Rucker, who was the Post’s national editor before recently making the jump to CNN, began working with Maraniss during the 2012 campaign cycle as he covered the Republican nominee, Mitt Romney. “David taught me how covering politics is not just about the politics, the slogans, and the strategies. It’s ultimately about the people,” says Rucker.

Their roles switched when Rucker became an editor. He worked on the piece Maraniss wrote with Sally Jenkins on U.S. representative Jim Jordan ’86, not as a politician but as a wrestling champion and coach.

And how was the copy Maraniss turned in?

“David’s copy sings like nothing you’ve ever heard before,” says Rucker. “He is a masterful composer of stories.” •

The 1986 comedy Back to School stars Rodney Dangerfield as vulgar businessman Thornton Melon, who joins his son Jason (Keith Gordon) as the world’s unlikeliest freshman at Grand Lakes University, a.k.a. the University of Wisconsin–Madison. It was filmed on campus 40 years ago, when a crew arrived with a modest $11 million budget and a supporting cast of midlevel actors, including a fledgling Robert Downey Jr. With help from a script cowritten by Harold Ramis (Ghostbusters, Groundhog Day), they made magic against a backdrop of Library Mall, Science Hall, and the Red Gym, beating out Aliens with the year’s sixth-highest-grossing movie.  

Director Alan Metter picked the UW–Madison location for its classic Big Ten charm, which reminded him of old-time sports movies. The Madison portion of the shoot kicked off on October 11, 1985, as thousands of would-be extras lined up to audition at the campus-area music venue Headliners. For nine days, the actors hit their marks in Wisconsin’s autumn light, striding across a carpet of multicolored leaves. The gorgeous UW setting proved worthy of its Hollywood closeup. During his time on campus, Dangerfield delighted the throngs of local gawkers as he filmed a scene on Bascom Hill in slippers and a striped bathrobe. At a news conference for the film’s premiere in June 1986, the comedian claimed he’d considered attending UW–Madison as a teenager, insisting, “I like the song ‘On, Wisconsin!’ ”

Whether or not that story is true (and most likely not), filming at the UW brought out the best in Dangerfield. It transformed him from a standup comedian who dabbled in movies to a screen icon with a distinctive persona. With Back to School, he took his place in the cinematic pantheon alongside his contemporaries Bill Murray and Eddie Murphy.  

A Role Model for Living Large

The movie introduces Dangerfield’s Thornton as a self-made millionaire who believes in education even though he’s barely seen the inside of a classroom. Concerned about Jason’s social struggles at college, he shows up at Grand Lakes University to serve as his son’s role model for living large. He wisecracks his way through the UW locations, bribes the school’s president (Ned Beatty), pays the author Kurt Vonnegut (playing himself) to write a paper on the subject of Kurt Vonnegut, woos a soulful English professor (Sally Kellerman), infuriates a combustible historian (Sam Kinison), and violates every known NCAA rule in an extravagantly silly finale with the campus diving team.  

Thornton offends everyone and everything, to the point where the film itself can be offensive. Though some of the jokes are now unamusing, and some of the attitudes unpalatable — as is true in many decades-old comedies — Dangerfield’s performance stands the test of time. He positions himself on the crass end of 20th-century comedy, combining the verbal wit of Groucho Marx, the physical inventiveness of Curly Howard, and the funny faces of Jerry Lewis.

Dangerfield brings his own twitchy, eye-popping, head-bobbing style to the mix. He even incorporates snappy one-liners from his standup act. “The football team at my high school, they were tough,” he barks, assuming his “I don’t get no respect” persona. “After they sacked the quarterback, they went after his family!” Following Caddyshack and Easy Money, Back to School offered nothing new in casting the comedian as a slob among snobs. But filming key scenes at sincere UW–Madison rather than in cynical Hollywood encouraged Dangerfield to express a previously unknown sensitivity. Here, he’s practically poignant. Thornton’s tenderness toward his son gives the ridiculous premise a whiff of credibility. His rapport with the English professor gives the love story an eccentric appeal. And his third-act dedication to passing his courses at Grand Lakes University gives the normally sarcastic Rodney Dangerfield the rare chance to touch a movie audience.

Facing a do-or-die test and the near-certainty of academic failure, Thornton delicately intones Dylan Thomas’s poem “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night.” To the astonishment of the university staffers who had underestimated him, he follows up with an impassioned statement of purpose: “I’m gonna pass this test! I’m stayin’ in school!”

Thornton scrapes by with D’s, but never have mediocre grades been so inspiring. •

Over the past 20 years, the UW–Madison assistant professor of art has shaped paper and cardstock into room-sized installation pieces, brilliantly colored collages, and densely patterned constructions that evoke mandalas, clockwork, and architectural models. In his paper sculptures, Velliquette leaves “no flat surfaces and not one spot unembellished, even in the spaces invisible to the viewer,” writes essayist Wendy Atwell in a 2020 catalog of Velliquette’s work. “He spends anywhere from 300 to 500 hours to make each one. He cuts around 5,000 pieces of paper that he rolls, stacks, and glues together, using a variety of techniques.” These techniques include the ancient arts of Chinese quilling and Japanese kirigami, which uses folding and cutting to make 3D objects.

Velliquette’s years of patient, focused exploration have resulted in some of the most ambitious, awe-inspiring pieces ever created with paper and glue.

From Performance Art to Paper

The artist’s dedication to paper evolved through chance and circumstance, a winding path almost as intricate as his sophisticated sculptures. As an undergraduate at Florida State University in the 1990s, Velliquette focused on performance and installation work. But as a student artist intent on creating performance environments, he needed affordable materials that were easy to source, deconstruct, and store. These early set pieces, which survive only in photos and video, were made largely with cardboard, paper, fabric, and paint. Loose and improvisational, they convey themes of discovery and play.

“My BFA was such a rich, wonderful experience,” Velliquette recalls. “I went into college not even thinking that art was an option, and I left so passionate and clear about what I wanted my life to be.” After taking a few years to travel and work odd jobs, he applied to UW–Madison for graduate study, still committed to performance and installation. Laurie Beth Clark, a professor in the art department, was his earliest advocate, sharing her video library and her knowledge of performance art history.

After Velliquette came out as gay, his work increasingly focused on queer identity. “I was creating characters in otherworldly environments that suggest the figure is on some sort of journey of discovery, although you never quite knew who it was or where it was going.”

With Clark’s encouragement, he began systematically documenting these performances and soon found a receptive audience for his videos on the international lesbian and gay film festival circuit. For a graduate student, this was a tremendous vote of confidence. After graduation, Velliquette took a job as a videographer on a cruise ship, and in his free time, he used the ship’s video equipment to explore new characters, costumes, and stories. While he describes this experience as an important period of self-exploration (the actual work, he says, was “terrible”), a subsequent move to San Antonio, Texas, proved much more fruitful. There he found teaching gigs at local colleges, a shared studio space, a community of fellow artists, and opportunities to design several room-sized installations.

“Studio work was sporadic,” he says. “I made quick art with lo-fi materials assembled aggressively with layers and layers of ornamentation. There was a sense of urgency to what I made, aggravated by the manic bursts of time I spent in the studio that doubled as my bedroom.”

Giant Eyeballs and Goofy Monsters

Velliquette’s first cut-paper works are vivid pictorial images, fantastic landscapes of waving grasses and seas of fire populated with tiny figures, outstretched hands, and giant eyeballs. Goofy monsters peek out over walls or between ocean waves; bright rainbow hues offer hope, countered by falling drops of blood or tears. Lovingly detailed and brilliantly colored, these apocalyptic dramas would be unnerving if they weren’t so beautiful. Velliquette also explored simpler compositions: single blooms and still lifes, lively cartoonlike creatures, eye-popping colors, sharp outlined shapes, and passages of delicately scissored texture. A rich repertoire of motifs and basic forms — eyes, hands, profiles, stars, serpents, and more — recurs throughout Velliquette’s work, and he has returned over and over to comical, lumbering beasts that sport huge eyeballs, toothy mouths, and lolling tongues.

During a 2009 Arts/Industry residency at the Kohler Company in Wisconsin, he imbued these creatures with new dimension by creating beast figurines in porcelain. Charmed by the little 3D figures, Velliquette decided to try using paper to make sculpture. He had already been pushing the limits of paper collage by layering shapes, gluing spiky blossoms into place, and curling thin strips into loops and ribbons, but this was an entirely new direction.

Rather than building an image up from a sheet of paper, he began using heavier cardstock to form fully three-dimensional beasts, totemic abstractions, and large towers. Through trial and error, Velliquette learned what worked and what didn’t. His paper beasts gradually grew shaggier, stranger, and much larger in scale; the totemic forms and abstract symbols stretched into ever more eccentric and elongated profiles; and his virtuoso towers rose as high as 12 feet. The drama, humor, and nerve of these ambitious works caught the attention of critics and curators, and they cemented Velliquette’s reputation as one of today’s most innovative paper artists. According to Virginia Howell, director of the Robert C. Williams Museum of Papermaking in Atlanta, not only is Velliquette “incredibly talented in his own work, but he understands and sees connections between contemporary artists and the papercraft traditions of the past. He’s a fantastic advocate for paper and is able to share why this humble material is so important to work with.”

Velliquette’s expanded technical repertoire informs every aspect of his studio practice, from new site-specific works and reliefs to public art pieces. Starting in 2010, his schedule of exhibitions, commissions, residencies, and teaching opportunities became filled to capacity.

Monochrome Masterpieces

It rises up in wordless gentleness and flows out to me from the unseen roots of all created being, 2021

Then came the pandemic, and Velliquette’s pace slowed way down. He spent a lot of time alone in his serene studio in downtown Madison, an orderly inner sanctum that thrums with creative energy and a sense of deep calm. With no looming deadlines or professional commitments, he found he had time to “just play and take as long as I wanted on a piece.”

His meditation practice was also deepening, and those hours of concentrated focus supported his ability to slow down, lavishing hours of attention on a single piece. As Atwell writes in her catalog essay, “Using his intuition and concentration, he builds up the forms that often involve repetitive tasks such as cutting the same shape 1,000 times.” The work that emerged from this period is strikingly distinct in his portfolio: monochrome, mandalalike abstractions that pair dizzying complexity with a profound sense of quiet. They invite a kind of devotional attention from the viewer.

Velliquette spends anywhere from 300 to 500 hours to make each of these intricate paper sculptures, cutting some 5,000 pieces of paper that he rolls, stacks, and glues together. The works have fanciful titles such as the one above: The fullness of experience in the emptiness of awareness, 2022

Velliquette starts with a symmetrical, four-fold structure, building out from the center in a series of improvised moves, each decision laying a path for the next. The repeated layers of simple shapes, the cut and pierced textures, the play of light and shadow, and the mystery of the interior spaces combine to create an ineffable whole. They evoke a sense of hush that seems worlds apart from the boisterous, polychrome excitement of Velliquette’s earlier work. These pieces demand a wildly impractical amount of time — he can only complete two or three in a year — but Velliquette has great appreciation for what he’s learned from this slow, meditative process.

“The looking experience happens in the mind; the eyes are just the tool, the mechanics to get it there,” he says. “I talk to my students about this a lot. It’s really an intimate experience, because you’re essentially putting something directly into somebody’s mind, that most intimate space.”

Passing on the Magic

Velliquette’s art class for non-majors draws close to 500 students per year in 30 sections. Among his stellar “Rate My Professor” comments is this one: “He was probably the best instructor I have ever taken a class with.” Photo by Bryce Richter

Teaching has been a constant thread throughout Velliquette’s career, from his sojourn in Texas to his current position as assistant professor of foundations in UW–Madison’s Department of Art. His first Madison gig was in 2005, when Clark invited him to teach a summer session on video production for artists. That summer he met his now-husband, UW chemistry professor Tehshik Yoon, and it soon became clear Madison would be his home. He began teaching more courses for the Art Department, and in 2009, he offered the first art class for non-majors.

Considered an experiment in the beginning, the course started with 20 students; it now has close to 500 students each year in 30 sections. His foundations courses — Drawing Fundamentals, 2-D Design, and 3-D Design — are an integral part of the art curriculum, and he places great importance on professionalism, careful documentation, and a disciplined studio practice — lessons first learned at the UW that have served him well as an artist. “Michael is a great teacher, but he’s also been one of the leaders in our department in thinking about teaching,” says fellow UW art professor Michael Peterson MA’91, PhD’93. “He’s been central to reworking our foundations curriculum. Our teaching is immensely stronger for his efforts.”

Velliquette’s current focus is a series of bright gold reliefs that combine layered, kaleidoscopic texture with the playful, iconic imagery from his earlier paper work: open palms, teardrops, giant eyeballs, and beasts. He uses these simple elements to conjure a sense of infinite space, a glittering, dream-like realm of symbols, shapes, and color. Immersive, expansive, and unabashedly beautiful, these mature works radiate peace, hope, and possibility. “Ultimately,” Velliquette says, “my work is about creating an experience that’s uplifting, to elevate a sense of happiness and kindness in the mind of the viewer.”

Jody Clowes is a curator, writer, and director of the James Watrous Gallery in Madison.

Published in the Summer 2025 issue.

hen Annika Hallquist ’24, MSx’25 reflects on her undergrad years at UW–Madison, she does so in halves: before AI and after AI.

Hallquist was a sophomore in November 2022, when the release of ChatGPT abruptly ushered in a new era of generative artificial intelligence. Initially, the industrial engineering student dismissed the AI chatbot as a “cheat tool.” But the following semester, the professor of her machine-learning class encouraged students to embrace the technology as something of a teammate and tutor — a tool that can assist with tricky coding tasks and reduce complicated concepts into understandable terms.

“I’m jealous seeing freshmen and sophomores take the incredibly hard weed-out classes that I took, knowing that they have AI,” Hallquist says. “I’d have to wait in a long line during office hours to get a coding project done. Now they use AI to help them if they’re stuck.” Still, she recognizes the value of her college education before AI and fears what skills incoming students might lose with its ease of use.

“I got the best of both worlds, because I had a really strong foundation in my coding skills, in mathematics, in chemistry, in physics,” says Hallquist, who’s now pursuing a master’s degree with a focus on AI. “It’s critical to have that foundation for a future career. You want to use AI as a tool, but you don’t want to use it as a crutch.”

Fortunately for Hallquist and other UW students grappling with generative AI, their university has emerged as an early leader in the field.

In February 2024, the UW launched RISE-AI, the first of several focus areas for the Wisconsin Research, Innovation and Scholarly Excellence (RISE) Initiative. The effort takes an accelerated approach to hiring specialized faculty, investing in research infrastructure, and promoting cross-disciplinary collaboration. It aims to bring an additional 50 AI-focused faculty experts to campus over the next few years — and with them, a new catalog of cutting-edge courses to help students prepare for a brave new world.

No need to wait, though. There are already enough AI courses at UW–Madison to fill several semesters of credits. So this spring, I sat in on four futuristic classes that span the fields of engineering, law, philosophy, and educational policy. In all of them, I found instructors equipping students with both the technical skills and ethical frameworks to address the biggest questions of our time.

Not that the answers are yet clear.

EEK! AI!

Aaron Aguilar PhDx’27 has been teaching Educational Policy Studies 123 for just two semesters, but he’s already noticed a seismic shift among students when it comes to the use of AI in the classroom.

“The patience that students have for professors who are like, ‘Eek! AI!’ is really over,” he says. “They know that AI is here and we’re going to have to deal with it.”

In the introductory course — Education, Technology, and Society: AI, Big Data, and the Digital Divide — the students are tasked with crafting an AI policy on behalf of UW–Madison.

Aguilar tells the students that every decision they make around permitting or restricting use of AI reveals what they value or don’t value about education. Policy choices have far-reaching consequences, both practical and ethical. “If you say, ‘I’m okay with AI proofreading papers,’ then you’re saying that you’re okay with students not developing or practicing proofreading skills,” he tells the class. “Or if you say that younger students need to develop the foundational skill before they use AI, now you have a conundrum. What’s the age? Where do you draw that line?”

Aguilar’s own policy for the course reflects the realities around the omnipresent tool. He allows students to use generative AI for writing assignments so long as they formally cite any language pulled from it and include a 200-word reflection on how they used it. But at the end of every class, he asks the students to close their laptops and handwrite a brief essay on a notecard.

“Instead of creating a policy that I can’t enforce,” Aguilar says, “I changed how I teach the class so I can get a constant perspective on their thinking process without guessing whether they used AI.”

AI is far from the first technology to disrupt education. But it’s a big leap from calculators to OpenAI’s deep research, which is so powerful it can produce a passable dissertation in a few days. At what point does assistance from AI encroach on true authorship? In class, the students search for consensus around permissible uses of AI in essay writing. Yes for checking grammar and punctuation. Maybe for brainstorming and organization. No for original writing. Many argue that AI shouldn’t replace our own creativity, critical thinking, and chances to learn from mistakes, but they struggle to clearly delineate those processes in the context of policy-making.

One group writes on the board: “We value the process of learning, human error being essential to academic growth.”

The exercise informs their big group project: the university’s AI policy. Having grappled with all the complexities, most groups opt against a campuswide policy. Instead, they encourage instructors to define what they want their students to get out of a particular class and assess how the use of AI can align with those goals.

“I was smiling a lot as I was reading their papers, because they were making conscious decisions,” Aguilar says. “They’re now beyond cheating is bad or don’t use AI to cheat. They’re more precise about where they think AI should play a role and why.”

ART VERSUS AI

Questions around AI and authorship extend beyond the classroom to the courtroom. In the AI & the Law seminar, UW students tackle emerging legal questions in such areas as copyright, data privacy, and liability.

Professor BJ Ard is an expert in the intersection of law and technology, and his latest paper notes that generative AI “defies the assumptions behind existing legal frameworks.” This is due to the technology’s multifaceted training and creation process. A generative AI model is trained on a large initial dataset of text, photos, or videos that informs its output of new materials. If I copy an artist’s work, it would be fairly clear how, why, and when I did it. If AI does it, those questions become incredibly complicated.

Do you blame the parties that curated the training data? The developers who trained the AI model? The end user who wrote the generative prompt and pressed the button?

Ard notes that the involvement of so many actors over time makes it difficult to identify the purpose of the copying, which can be decisive under some copyright tests.

Copyright registration is among the more straightforward legal questions around AI, and even then, it can be dizzying. The U.S. Copyright Office does not protect any machine-generated works unless the human author can claim substantial control over execution. AI artists are pushing the limits of that position.

Ard presents two case studies from author and AI artist Kris Kashtanova. The comic book Zarya of the Dawn received copyright protections for its human-written text and composition but not for its AI-generated images. Simple enough. But the artist’s Rose Enigma, an AI-generated artwork based on a hand-drawn sketch, resulted in this arcane decision: “Registration limited to unaltered human pictorial authorship that is clearly perceptible in the deposit and separable from the non-human expression that is excluded from the claim.”

Got it? (Good thing there’s law school.)

Throughout the seminar, Ard aims to demystify the technology behind AI. He gives students a baseline technical understanding of the decisions involved in training and designing generative AI software.

“Nothing about these problems is easy, but they’re also not totally unprecedented,” he says. “There’s no need to shy away from them because you’re not a computer scientist.”

After class, I ask Signe Janoska ’17, MIPA’19, JD’25, a law student who uses AI for work as a software engineer, what initially interested him in the Law 940 seminar.

“It’s an opportunity to wrap my head around the legal challenges governing AI under the guidance of somebody who understands that about as masterfully as you can, given its early stage of development,” he says. “It hasn’t given me all the answers, but it’s given me tools and perspectives that allow me to wrestle with the questions.”

ETHICAL EQUATIONS

Does AI have moral rights?

It’s a classic philosophical dilemma, and UW–Madison’s AI Ethics course explores it in depth. In an absolutist camp, students argue that humans are a distinctive species, with unique cognitive and emotional capacities, and therefore constitute a category of their own with exclusive rights. The gradualists argue that other animals — and perhaps one day, conscious AI — have relatively high capacities and deserve more consideration. But if you try to draw that line, how do you account for the limited capacities of some humans, such as newborns or comatose patients?

What makes Philosophy 941 unique is not these high-minded discussions; it’s the highly technical exercises that tend to follow. The new field of philosophy of AI addresses concepts such as algorithmic bias — errors in a computer system that create unfair outcomes for certain groups of users. Unraveling the causes requires both a philosophical and a mathematical approach.

“There are some hardcore math topics in this class,” says Professor Annette Zimmermann.

Issues around algorithmic bias hit close to home. Wisconsin’s supreme court wrestled with its implications in the 2016 case State v. Loomis, which challenged the government’s use of a risk-assessment software in criminal sentencing. The algorithm calculates the likelihood that an offender will commit another crime based on actuarial data. Proponents of the predictive AI tool argue that it mitigates potential human bias. Critics point to a ProPublica investigation that found that Black defendants are “almost twice as likely as whites to be labeled a higher risk but not actually reoffend.”

If AI is trained on flawed data, it can perpetuate the same biases. This is of particular concern to AI philosophers, since research shows that people tend to automatically trust the accuracy and objectivity of machine-generated data.

Earlier in the semester, Zimmermann spoke virtually at the AI Action Summit in Paris. With a new book, Democratizing AI, she’s emerging as a leading thinker on how governments and citizens engage with the technology.

“Decisions to deploy AI are currently made by a very small set of corporate actors, like OpenAI and Anthropic,” she says, noting that U.S. policy-makers of all stripes have shied away from AI oversight. “Ordinary citizens should be able to provide input on decisions that will affect them, either through direct participation or by elected representatives. It looks like neither is happening in this case.”

If politicians aren’t up for the challenges of AI, perhaps her students will be. The course has inspired Lydia Boyce ’25 to pursue a career in AI ethics after graduation — “to be part of the rising effort to establish an industry norm of more equitable and accessible AI,” she says. Zimmermann’s main goal is to help her students avoid superficial stances on AI.

“Right now, public discourse oscillates between two extremes — AI hyperism, which wants deployment without guardrails, and AI doomerism, which wants a complete deployment moratorium,” she says. “Both positions prevent people from reasoning critically about the opportunities and risks in these tools.”

WHAT’S BEHIND THE MAGIC

UW–Madison students needn’t go far to learn about the latest in AI from an in-demand engineer. Professor John Lee was on sabbatical at Apple last year and is now finishing a research project with NASA to develop conversational AI agents that measure and manage the trust that a human has in them. Their end destination? Mars.

“It’s to support teams doing deep space exploration, where they can’t easily contact Houston when they have a problem,” Lee says. “If you’ve seen the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey, it’s very much like designing [the supercomputer] HAL.”

In his course Industrial and Systems Engineering 602, students are tasked with developing their own AI applications by the end of the semester. You’d think that would require a lot of technical coding experience, but Lee notes that you no longer need to be fluent in the programming language Python. Now you can ask an AI tool like Gemini to write lines of code for you.

Lee teaches “what’s behind the magic,” focusing on how AI models are built and how they function so that students can use them effectively. The title of the course, AI for People, underscores the importance of designing technology around human-centered needs: to enhance our productivity rather than replace it, and to think through all the potential consequences of our decisions.

“You can give [the AI assistant] Dot your calendar, and it can remind you to give your mother a call on her birthday,” Lee says. “It’s like an assistant or companion. But if you design it in a way that automates that relationship, you can imagine Dot just buying flowers for your mother and you see the bill, or Dot calling your mother and impersonating you. Those are things that undermine your agency and automate you out of the process.” A hot topic around AI is its propensity to hallucinate and provide, with complete confidence, a demonstrably wrong answer. In one class, Lee tasks students with “tricking” AI. One student gets it to describe a nonexistent academic paper that she supposedly cowrote. Another asks for a list of famous people who have spoken at the UW. It wrongly includes Bill Gates, and when prodded about the topic of the speech, confabulates an entire story.

The students learn they can minimize hallucinations as a user by uploading supporting documents along with the written prompt — allowing AI to process new information instead of only relying on its original training data.

Even Lee is routinely awed by the growing capabilities of generative AI. To help me prepare for the class, he shared a podcast episode that explored the themes of his syllabus. It sounded just like any other tech podcast, from the engaging, informative breakdown of the topic to the natural, friendly banter between hosts. It took me 15 minutes to realize it was an AI podcast. Lee had generated the audio in a few seconds by opening Google’s NotebookLM, attaching the syllabus, and pressing a button.

GETTING THE MESSAGE

At the start of the semester, Lee was troubled to learn that a few of his students had avoided AI for fear of being accused of cheating or because of other concerns.

“People who can work well with AI will succeed, and those who can’t will be in deep trouble,” Lee says. “If you’re 10 times as productive as your coworker, guess who’s going to have a job at the end of the year when they have to make some cuts?”

Annika Hallquist, the master’s student whose undergrad experience was split in half by the emergence of generative AI, has heard his message loud and clear.

“On the very first day of class,” she says, “Professor Lee told us, ‘I don’t think jobs are going to be replaced. But I think people are going to be replaced with people who know how to use AI.’ ” •

“It’s like every difficulty you might be having in your own life completely melts away,” says Cecil x’26, a third-year Bucky who is pursuing a teaching degree. “Your only job is to be a giant magnet of love.”

This year, eight students get to be that giant magnet. For these select few — chosen during three days of intense tryouts each spring — nothing tops the thrill of a home football game at Camp Randall Stadium. It’s the marquee event, a massive canvas for Bucky’s wildest stunts, best dance moves, and most inspired improv shtick.

“It’s your own playground you get to goof around on,” says Nolan x’26, a biomedical engineering major and a third-year Bucky. “You just try to forget that you’re doing it in front of nearly 80,000 people.”

Last season, the September 7 matchup between the UW and the University of South Dakota Coyotes showed the complex Bucky Badger operation in action, from planning to execution to last-minute tweaks. It provided an object lesson in being Bucky: on the one hand, the overwhelming physical demands and performance anxiety; and on the other, the indescribable joy of pleasing a stadium’s worth of cheering UW fans.

“Bucky gets away with a lot”

A Badger football home game activates the entire Bucky squad — all eight students are required to be at Camp Randall. Three will take turns portraying Bucky during the game (a nod to the exertion required), while the others will retrieve props, run interference, film Bucky for highlight reels, or help hoist the “Bucky board” for the mascot’s popular airborne push-ups.

Bucky’s workday starts hours before kickoff at tailgate parties across campus. On this day, five students fan out to groups that have requested a Bucky appearance, including the ROTC Badger Battalion and the School of Veterinary Medicine. The students are careful never to intersect. (If you ever see two Buckys at once, something has gone seriously wrong in the universe.)

Later, in the warm-up to kickoff, Bucky works the crowd at Badger Bash, the rollicking tailgate party at Union South. Today, Cecil is in the suit. New Buckys revere the veteran. “He’s a blueprint for what Bucky should be — very animated, never still, great with props,” says Charlie x’27, a legal studies major and a first-year Bucky.

Despite the costume’s limited vision, Cecil careens full throttle through Union South, high-fiving fans. He arm-wrestles a burly guy, gives a grumpy man a back rub, seizes a plate of food and balances it precariously atop three soda cans.

“Bucky gets away with a lot,” says Zach x’27, a pre-nursing major and first-year Bucky. All the while, fans beseech Bucky for attention, some grabbing and jostling him as if there isn’t a real person inside. Michelle Brayer Gregoire ’95 of Milwaukee couldn’t be more respectful. She asks Bucky to pose for a photo with her and her mother, Mary Kathleen Conway Thurow ’65, age 81, of Baraboo, Wisconsin. Afterward, Gregoire squeezes Bucky’s paw. “Thank you for bringing so much happiness to so many people,” she tells him.

The scene repeats itself about 1,000 times on this day.

“Bucky pool party!”

Once Bucky finishes his Badger Bash duties, all eight students gather an hour before kickoff at the McClain Center, the indoor training space next to Camp Randall. It’s a high-stakes moment. During the fourth quarter of each home game, Bucky gets to put on a skit in front of the student section. But first, Bucky must perform it to an audience of one: Josette Jaucian ’97, director of the Wisconsin Spirit Squad.

Think of her as Bucky’s overlord, in a good way. (See sidebar.) She manages everything from the tryouts to requests for appearances. She’s not Bucky’s coach — there isn’t one; the veterans show the ropes to newcomers — but she is his protector.

“I remind the students that they’re not just representing the athletic department, they’re representing the university and the entire state,” she says. “They need to be family-friendly and smart about their choices.” That’s all to say that if there’s any controversial or questionable content in the skit, it’s not going to happen.

The eight students have a lot of autonomy in coming up with skit ideas, and they throw everything they have at it weeks before each game.

“It’s our two minutes during the game to really shine, to show off what we can do — props, crowd involvement, a well-crafted storyline,” says Jacob x’26, a mechanical engineering and data sciences major and a third-year Bucky.

At a brainstorming session for the Coyotes game, Zach, who will be the primary Bucky, pitches his skit idea to the rest of the Buckys.

“The weather is likely to be hot,” he tells them. “I think we should take advantage of that: Bucky Pool Party!”

The others love the idea. The next 30 minutes are electric. Ideas fly back and forth and build off each other. It’s decided: Bucky will wear a swimsuit and goggles and dive from the top of a milk crate into an inflatable kiddie pool filled with real water!

Two days later, it falls to Jacob to run the idea past Jaucian for preliminary approval. The other Buckys are there, too, anxiously awaiting her answer.

“No water,” she says immediately.

The Buckys are deflated but take it surprisingly well.

“We learned early on that when Jo says no, stop talking,” Jacob says. “You do not change Jo’s mind.”

There is grudging respect for her authority.

“She’s like our parent,” Nolan says. “There has to be a person who says you can’t have 10 lollipops for dinner.”

The skit is revamped — Bucky will jump into a dry pool filled with pillows. At the McClain Center before the Coyotes game, Jaucian gives the revised skit the thumbs up.

Zach and Cecil grab each other and jump up and down. “She said yes! She said yes!”

The Boss of Bucky

She’s known affectionately as “Bucky’s Mom.” And sometimes “Bucky’s Parole Officer.”

Perhaps no one loves Bucky quite as much as Josette Jaucian ’97 — or reins him in quite so expertly when he strays.

“Sometimes, as Buckys, the students think they’re invincible,” she says. “They’re not. There are rules.”

Jaucian, as director of the Wisconsin Spirit Squad, oversees the cheerleading, dance, and Bucky teams. She handles all the behind-the-scenes administrative tasks for Bucky, including coordinating some 600 appearances a year. She’s celebrating her 25th anniversary in the role.

“Day in and day out, Bucky’s all around me all the time,” she says.

Jaucian, a kinesiology major, was a Badger cheerleader throughout her undergraduate years, then stayed on as an assistant and rose up the ranks.

She fields complaints about Bucky (“He broke a table!”) but also gets to hear the praise — for example, “Bucky got my child to come out of his shell.” She zealously guards Bucky’s image. Once, when a fan from an opposing team tried to claim that Bucky had flipped him off, Jaucian enjoyed letting him know that the UW–Madison mascot has only four digits on each hand. It is mathematically impossible for Bucky to give someone the middle finger.

The Buckys speak of Jaucian with immense respect and a wee bit of fear.

“She’s the boss,” Nolan says. “You don’t want to get on Jo’s bad side.”

“As much as Jo is the person who has to say no,” adds Cecil, “she’s also the one who fights for us when we need something.”

Jaucian has done the job so long that she must occasionally remind herself of its specialness.

“If I step back a bit,” she says, “I realize how amazing it is to be able to make sure Bucky is out there making people happy.”

— D.E.

“I’ve experienced so much as Bucky”

The game clock reads seven minutes to kickoff. Bucky is waiting in a tunnel on the back of the Bucky Wagon, the restored fire engine that will take him onto the field. Zach is now suited up. (For logistical and sanitary reasons, there are eight suits, one per Bucky.) This is his first home game, and he has the biggest role of the day.

“When you hit the field on the Bucky Wagon, the whole world goes quiet,” Cecil says. “It’s like someone has put the volume on mute. Nothing else matters for a span of four hours.” Despite the pressure, Zach has been calm in the days leading up to his Camp Randall debut. He was a three-sport athlete in high school and thrived off the energy of crowds. That’s part of the appeal of being Bucky. “I was missing that feeling of a big game,” he says.

The Bucky Wagon zooms onto the field, sirens blazing and faux smoke billowing. Bucky disembarks at the 50-yard line and makes a figure eight with a giant W flag. He beelines toward the opposing sideline, then takes a sharp turn and heads to his rightful home in front of the Badger student section. The Buckys practice this maneuver many times, partly because they need to be prepared for the physical toll of carrying a massive, drag-creating flag while sprinting in a suit that weighs 33 pounds. “Brutal,” Nolan says.

Another physical test comes just minutes into the game when the Badgers score a touchdown. Zach cranks out seven push-ups atop the Bucky board as fans yell each number: “one … two … three …”

“The crowd will try to make you go faster,” Cecil had warned Zach before the game. “Don’t fall for it.”

The push-ups become cumulative as the Badgers continue to score. Once, Bucky had to do close to 600 at a single game. To prepare, each Bucky commits to doing at least 100 push-ups a day. They are also required to lift weights twice a week with the rest of the Spirit Squad.

By the end of the first quarter, the air temperature has climbed to the mid-60s — mild for fans but hot for Bucky. “It’s an extra 20 to 30 degrees inside the suit,” Nolan says.

In a seamless swap, Jacob wears the suit for the second quarter. He’s a pro, unflappable. “I’ve experienced so much as Bucky that nothing really fazes me anymore,” he says. “I went skydiving and felt no adrenaline.”

“Bucky is the gold standard”

Halftime finds the crew in a locker room taking a lunch break and consorting with “the enemy” — Charlie Coyote, the mascot for the opposing team.

“We try to be very hospitable, because we’d want that, too,” Jacob says.

Charlie Coyote is portrayed on this day by Caleb, a University of South Dakota law student. Turns out the Buckys know him from college mascot summer camp. Caleb is the opposite of a trash-talker.

“Bucky is the gold standard for Big Ten mascots and mascots in general,” he says. “No one beats Bucky in keeping the energy of the fans going.”

Caleb is also a little jealous. He points to his costume’s massive lower paws.

“Bucky gets to wear regular shoes. I’ve got these clunky feet. They’re awful. I can’t do push-ups with them.”

For the third quarter, Charlie is in the Bucky suit. Together with Zach and Jacob, the three have displayed an impressive range of creativity during the game. Bucky rides a cooler like a horse, bumps bellies with a member of the event staff, pretends to vacuum the end zone.

“The best part of Bucky on a game day is the unpredictability of it and the sheer spontaneity,” Cecil says. “Sometimes you think you’ve seen Bucky do everything, and then you see something new.”

Zach, back in the suit, performs the skit during the fourth quarter. Atop the milk crate, Bucky cannonballs into the kiddie pool after getting fans to clap wildly and yell, “Jump! Jump!” Five front-row fans raise scoring cards giving Bucky across-the-board 10s. Snippets of the skit appear on the jumbotron, visible to the sellout crowd of 76,061. This is the Holy Grail for a Bucky skit. The game ends with the Badgers triumphant: 27–13. During the postgame Fifth Quarter, Bucky is joined on the field by the other seven students out of costume. They release the stress of the game by roughhousing and tackling each other. All eight do headstands together and sway back and forth to “Varsity.”

“There is so much that goes into being Bucky that you can’t tell other people about,” says Cecil, who lives in a house near Camp Randall with four other Buckys. “To be able to share life with these guys inside and outside the suit is so special.”

“Sometimes when we’re together, we talk about Bucky way too much and have to say, ‘Okay, let’s cut it out,’ ” Zach says.

“Making Bucky better”

Back in the locker room after the game, the Buckys sit in a circle and debrief. There’s universal agreement that this performance was among the all-time greats.

“That was what I would want every game day to look like,” Jacob tells the group. “Every single one of us was in the suit at some point today. The amount we did, and the cohesiveness on the field, felt amazing.”

“In my three years here, I’ve yet to see a moment like what I witnessed during the skit,” Cecil says. “The whole crowd was into it. The chanting started at the bottom of the stands and went all the way to the top. Zach, I was so proud of you.”

Everyone wants to hear from the first-timers.

Charlie cops to having been nervous before the game but says he “became entranced in a flow state” by the end of his quarter. Zach feels like he started off a little stiff during the first quarter but gradually improved.

“Every time we have an event like this,” Zach tells them, “it shows the dynamic we have together and why I want to be a part of this and keep making Bucky better and better, because it’s all about Bucky.”

Not all games go this well. Sometimes there are communication problems or suit malfunctions. Regardless, every home game ends the same for the Buckys.

“No matter what happens during the game,” Jacob says, “we leave it in the locker room and walk out together.”

Doug Erickson is a writer for the UW Office of Strategic Communication and — full disclosure — a South Dakota native, ever so slightly sympathetic to the Coyotes.

Published in the Spring 2025 issue.

Wells: “If you’re a food lover, you get something out of every meal.” Photo courtesy of Patricia Wells

In the introduction to her James Beard Award–winning cookbook Simply French, Patricia Wells MA’72 describes the cuisine of acclaimed chef and restaurateur Joël Robuchon as cuisine actuelle, an approach to cooking that celebrates and elevates the essential flavors of seasonal ingredients.

“His rule was that our jobs as cooks — as chefs — is not to make a mushroom taste like a carrot,” she says. “Our job is to make a mushroom taste as much like a mushroom as it can.”

Wells credits her time shadowing the late Robuchon, considered one of the greatest chefs in the world, with a profound influence on her own cooking. But her reverence for simplicity and her thoughtful appreciation of seasonality — in food, in places, and in people — can only be described as Wells actuelle.

Over the course of almost 50 years, most of which have been divided between a chic Paris apartment and a charming Provençal farmhouse, Wells has traversed the culinary world with elegance and humility, regarded it with admiration and fascination, and rewarded it with sparkling homages to the life’s work of people who, like her, know what it means to truly love food.

“If you’re a food lover, you get something out of every meal,” Wells says. “Food offers so much pleasure every single day.”

In Wells actuelle, loving food is a timeless art form, and throughout her career, Wells has become an international authority on both fine cuisine and simple pleasures.

Well-Read and Well-Fed

Wells didn’t set out to be a food journalist, but Wells actuelle was in the works long before her first culinary byline was published. Growing up in Milwaukee in the 1950s, Wells (née Kleiber) can’t recall a meal that came from a freezer or a takeout bag.

“I grew up thinking I’d always have great food to eat,” she says. “Everything was homemade, and the cookie jar was always full.”

Wells’s mother, Vera, was a first-generation Italian American. Her maternal grandfather, Felix Ricci, came to the United States from the Abruzzi region of southern Italy in 1915. After landing in New York City, he traveled to Wisconsin to join a growing population of southern-Italian immigrants and established a dairy farm in Cumberland. Wells and her family paid regular visits there throughout her childhood.

Wells was also as well-read as she was well-fed. Her father worked for Gimbels department store and returned from buying trips in New York City with stacks of daily newspapers that his children pored over. “When I was in third grade, I remember we were writing on the blackboard, ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ ” Wells says, “And I wrote, journalist.”

She followed the scent of newsprint to the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee for an undergraduate degree in journalism before heading to UW–Madison for a master’s in reporting, specializing in art history. She moved to Washington, DC, where she was hired as a part-time editor at the Washington Post (the very same week as the Watergate break-in) and was given a column on art galleries.

It didn’t take long for Wells to tire of the art beat. In 1976, she moved to New York City to work as a copy editor for the New York Times, where she landed her first gig as a food writer under editor Craig Claiborne. It was also at the Times that she met her husband of nearly 50 years, Walter Wells.

In 1980, the couple moved to Paris for Walter’s new job as managing editor of the International Herald Tribune, an English-language newspaper with readers in 164 countries. Wells joined him as the Herald Tribune’s global restaurant critic. The move, a two-year sojourn that’s lasted 45 years, marked the beginning of Wells’s storied career as one of the world’s foremost voices on French cuisine.

An American in Paris

If Julia Child brought French cuisine to American kitchens, Wells actuelle teaches Americans to think like French chefs.

In addition to penning her restaurant column in the Herald Tribune, Wells became a prolific author. Just four years after moving to Paris, she released The Food Lover’s Guide to Paris, a robust collection of eateries and culinary storefronts that has gone through five editions and turned into an app. Paris was followed quickly by A Food Lover’s Guide to France (1987), Bistro Cooking (1989), Simply French: Patricia Wells Presents the Cuisine of Joël Robuchon (1991), and 14 more cookbooks and memoirs.

From 1988 to 1991, Wells was the restaurant critic for newsweekly L’Express and became the first American woman to hold such a position on a French-language publication. She’s won four James Beard Awards and has been recognized by the French government for her service to the country’s culture and cuisine.

But before Wells was embraced as an ambassador of France’s culinary scene, its old guard bristled at the prospect of their new American colleague.

“The French critics hated me!” she says. “They wouldn’t believe that not just a woman, but an American woman, was going to supersede them or compete with them.” Fortunately, Wells could only laugh.

“I remember one of the famous French chefs who was on TV said, ‘Oh, that woman, she’s just a hamburger lady from America.’ ”

None of this deterred Wells, who endured sexist sommeliers and research excursions during which she and her assistant were the sole women eating lunch in restaurants clouded with cigar smoke. As in her cooking, she remained diligent and meticulous in her research. “I would go three times to a restaurant,” she says. “One time with a female friend at lunch; one time with my husband on a weeknight; and one night on a weekend with another couple.” After the third visit, she would introduce herself (having made the reservation under another name) and ask to spend a day in the kitchen.

“Spending a day in the kitchen would teach you a whole lot about the restaurant,” she says. “That was such a luxury.”

It was through these kitchen visits that Wells forged many of her relationships with France’s esteemed chefs, including Robuchon. Observing the preparation and execution of a recipe and re-creating it in her home kitchen was also an invaluable culinary education that, true to her Midwestern generosity, she couldn’t help but share.

In 1995, Wells, along with Walter, opened At Home with Patricia Wells, an intimate cooking school hosted in their 18th-century farmhouse, Chanteduc, in Provence. Wells led small groups in weeklong classes designed to impart kitchen skills and techniques, and to deepen participants’ appreciation and understanding of French cuisine. Later, they opened a second school out of their Paris atelier.

In January, nearly 30 years after the first At Home with Patricia Wells cohort convened at Chanteduc, Wells taught her final class — Black Truffle Cooking Extravaganza, her favorite — officially closing the book on her culinary career.

Always in Season

“I was listening to a friend who’s a singer the other day. And I had thought earlier in the day: I don’t cook the things I used to cook 30 years ago,” Wells says. “And I was wondering, do you still sing the songs you sang 30 years ago?”

While Wells’s skill set may not suffer the strains of age like a vocalist’s pipes, her cooking has nonetheless shed its former extravagance in favor of something better suited to her present lifestyle.

“If I taught the recipes I’m making today, they’d say, ‘Why’d I pay for this cooking class? I’m only learning to steam or I’m only learning to sear!’ ”

But Wells isn’t teaching cooking classes anymore. She doesn’t have any more books coming off the press, and she won’t be reviewing a restaurant any time soon.

“I’m not sure I could be a restaurant critic for the modern cuisine of France right now,” she says. “Those chefs have a totally different palate than mine.”

Instead, her tastes have returned to the ones she knew before France, and the ones that have always endeared her to her adopted country. In a serendipitous antecedent to her later classification of Robuchon’s cuisine, Wells wrote in a 1979 New York Times column titled “Fish Boil: Culinary Tradition in Bunyan Country” that Midwestern meals are measured, in part, on the “unpretentious use of what is fresh and at hand.”

Today, she and Walter sear sea bass in oil, butter, salt, and pepper in their home kitchen and serve it with salad and wine. Dessert, no longer the show-stopping pastries of her heyday, is a homemade sorbet. Meals are prepared with ingredients from the timeless mainstay that has enchanted Wells in every season of the year since she first came to France: the local market. “We were out this afternoon having lunch in France, in Le Marais, and we were passing markets, and I just thought, ‘Thank God France still does everything in terms of season,’ ” she says. “People get excited about the opening of something, and it’s great that there’s a seasonality with everything.”

People includes Wells, who enthusiastically rattles off the bounty that featured in market stalls during their visit: walnuts, grapes, figs, sea scallops, and Vacherin Mont d’Or (a cheese only available from September through March). She laments the merchants who disappeared after markets were disrupted during the pandemic — including the peppercorn vendor who dubbed her “Madame Timut” after her preferred variety — and commends young people for taking up traditional trades like farming and cheesemaking.

“Sometimes I go to the market even when I don’t need anything,” she says. “Sometimes I go to the market and spend five euro just for the experience.”

Apart from the author herself, perhaps her beloved markets are most emblematic of Wells actuelle: gregarious, generous, good-natured, humble, homegrown, and at once both seasonal and timeless. •

UW undergraduate Magnus Swenson 1880, MS1882 had a hunch about what was causing the lethal infections. He soon initiated what Madison historian David Mollenhoff MA’66 believes was the first instance of a town-gown collaboration.

The engineering student did his senior thesis on the quality of Madison water, claiming that 96 percent of it was unfit to drink. The city’s residents had private wells and privies, often located within mere feet of each other, and they did not yet connect diseases such as typhoid with contaminated water. As Swenson took samples for his study, insulted citizens pelted him with stones and bottles, requiring a police escort.

To help Swenson complete his analysis, the Common Council encouraged him to set up a lab in the basement of the capitol — the predecessor to the Wisconsin State Laboratory of Hygiene. Soon after that, Madison had a central artesian public water supply and a sewage system. It was the first of many remarkable achievements for Swenson. Although the Wisconsin newspaper archive has some 2,200 entries about him, few people today have heard of him. And that is partly by design. The Norwegian immigrant cared little for getting personal credit or attracting attention to himself.

Yet he was a textbook example of the Wisconsin Idea, even before the concept officially existed, since he used the knowledge he gained at the university to benefit the city, the state, and the world.

Not bad for an impoverished boy who emigrated from Norway at age 14, narrowly escaping death.

Overcoming Stormy Seas

Swenson was born in 1854 in Langesund on the southern coast of Norway. His mother died when he was two, and he suffered neglect and occasional abuse at the hands of his stepmother. When Swenson was 14, his father’s rope factory burned down, so he and his two older brothers boarded the small ship Victoria for America to seek their fortune. Bad weather delayed their arrival, and provisions for what should have been a six-week journey ran out as storms tossed the now rudderless vessel about for 12 weeks. Swenson often escaped the misery on deck by curling up in the crow’s nest. Twenty-two of the 60 passengers died of starvation and exhaustion, and Swenson weighed only 48 pounds when he got off the boat on Anticosti Island in Quebec.

Swenson and his brothers made their way to Janesville, Wisconsin, where they lived with an uncle and aunt while recovering from their ordeal. Swenson attended school to learn English, and once he regained his strength, he became an apprentice to his uncle, who was the foreman in the blacksmith shop of the Northwestern Railroad. There he mastered multiple aspects of metalworking and was promoted to mechanic.

While Swenson was sharpening tools for workers who were building a bridge over the Rock River, he decided that he, too, wanted to become an engineer. So he came to Madison in June 1876 during commencement, only to find that commencement actually marked the end of a college career, not the beginning. But he returned to campus in the fall and threw himself into earning a degree, graduating with honors in metallurgical engineering.

Early on, Swenson manifested a relentless drive for efficiency. During a summer job surveying for a proposed railbed in the Dakotas, he noticed that his pack mule took even steps and virtually never deviated from its straight-line course. Instead of measuring the ground, Swenson decided to measure the mule’s step, and he and his partner took turns riding the animal and counting its paces. The two young men covered territory much more quickly than other surveyors, and it wasn’t until 50 years later that their technique was found out. Amazingly, when the roadbed was measured again decades later, the mule measurements were found to be accurate to within a fraction of an inch.

Swenson met his wife, Annie Dinsdale, at a class in the UW’s Washburn Observatory. The couple are shown during one of their trips to Norway. Photo courtesy of Mary O’Hare Lewis

Swenson met his wife, Annie Dinsdale 1880, MA1895, at the UW during an astronomy class at the Washburn Observatory. She had fainted, and the chivalrous Swenson carried her outside for some fresh air. They encountered each other again at a UW picnic and were soon engaged. Their marriage lasted for more than 50 years, and his letters attest that even decades later, he was still very much in love with her.

Leonardo-Level Inventor

After graduating, Swenson taught chemistry for three years at the UW. He helped found the College of Agricultural and Life Sciences (CALS) along with William Henry, the college’s first dean, and the pair served as the first two faculty members of the college, which had only two students in its first year.

Their first research project sought to improve processes for extracting sugar from sorghum. Swenson proved adept at combining chemistry and engineering before chemical engineering was even recognized as a field. His thesis on the chemistry of sugar won him a $2,500 prize from the USDA and an offer of a job running a sugar plant in Texas. Following a public experiment with a faulty centrifuge that sprayed sorghum molasses all over 400 of Madison’s leading citizens and local farmers, Swenson concluded it was a good time to leave town.

In his first year on the job, Swenson doubled the Texas plant’s output. He went on to design machinery that revolutionized the sugar industry, improving cane and beet processing so much that he became known as the Eli Whitney of sugar.

Swenson then turned to manufacturing all sorts of industrial equipment, and he set up factories in Kansas and the Chicago area. He was best known for his evaporators, which significantly improved manufacturing processes and were shipped all over the world. He invented a mining ore concentrator that became industry standard, as well as a cylindrical cotton baler, achieving a goal that had eluded the cotton industry for 50 years.

He also designed improved equipment and processes for the manufacture of soap, caustic soda, glycerin, glue, paper pulp, fertilizers, tobacco, pharmaceuticals, and other products. He even invented one of the first “horseless carriages.” After moving to Chicago, he turned his attention to ways to utilize waste byproducts, serving as a consultant to the meatpacking industry and to companies such as Procter & Gamble, Swift, and Colgate. His motto was “save the waste,” and conserving resources was a hallmark of his career. According to the Wisconsin Engineer magazine, he visited multiple plants around the country and encouraged manufacturers to install waste-saving devices. Although Swenson was awarded more than 200 patents in 10 years for various machines and processes, according to his biographer, UW chemical engineering professor Olaf Hougen PhD 1925, “He willingly turned over his inventions and his factories to others, without much regard to adequate compensation or credit. … He was interested in theory only insofar as it could be applied to practical uses.” Once he had mastered a machine or process, Swenson moved on and rarely even bothered to document his methods. Hougen credits this extreme pragmatism for Swenson’s exceptionally productive career.

Civic and Business Giant

By 1902, Swenson was wealthy, and he moved with his wife back to Madison so that their four daughters could attend the UW. But he couldn’t stay retired for long. He soon proved to be as proficient at civic work and business as he had been at science and invention.

In 1905, he chaired the building commission for the Wisconsin state capitol. The black labradorite stone at the base of the columns in the rotunda came from Larvik, Norway, “a bit of Swenson’s sentiment to the place of his birth,” according to Hougen. That same year, Swenson was named to the UW Board of Regents and served for 15 years, 10 of them as president. He was also instrumental in creating the UW’s Department of Chemical Engineering in 1905 and served on the building committee for the university’s Memorial Union.

Recognizing an underutilized resource in the Wisconsin River, Swenson financed and built the first hydroelectric plants west of Niagara Falls at Wisconsin Dells and Prairie du Sac, saving 200,000 tons of coal annually. Lake Wisconsin, created by damming the river for the plant in the Dells, was originally named Lake Swenson.

He also became president of the Norwegian-American Steamship company, returning to Norway for the first time in 1912 on the first steamship that the company built. According to his friend C. J. Hambro, Norway’s representative to the League of Nations, Swenson was so overcome with emotion to see his homeland again that “he threw himself on the soil of Norway and kissed it and wept.” During the visit, the king of Norway made him a Knight of St. Olav for his contributions to industry and science. Like many successful entrepreneurs, Swenson could have a prickly side. He often clashed with his former classmate Robert “Fighting Bob” La Follette 1879, LLD 1901, the storied Wisconsin governor and senator. When La Follette requested that Swenson, in his role as regent, remove Dean Henry from the agricultural college, Swenson asked if Henry had been inefficient. Upon being told no, Swenson said, “Well, then he remains, and so do I. I am not here to do your bidding.”

Both Henry and Swenson kept their posts.

Impressive on the World Stage

During World War I, Swenson chaired the Wisconsin State Department of Defense in an unpaid position. His organizational talents soon earned him a role as federal food administrator for Wisconsin. He encouraged citizens to grow gardens and observe meatless and wheatless days, making the state a leader in the efforts to conserve food for the war effort. His strict enforcement of food laws caused big businesses to try, unsuccessfully, to oust him. When future U.S. president Herbert Hoover was named national food administrator, he adopted many of Swenson’s ideas. The measures that Swenson developed in Wisconsin not only guided national efforts during the First World War, but they also became a model for food conservation during World War II. When Hoover became the director of postwar relief in Europe, he chose Swenson to distribute food aid to the Baltic countries, and the two remained good friends for the rest of their lives.

Swenson threw himself into relief work, perhaps due to his own experience with hunger. In Denmark, according to Hougen, the Danes admired the “tall, stately man with gray hair and blue eyes. … They marveled at his capacity for getting things done.”

When the American Relief Administration arrived in Libau, Latvia, with food supplies, the Copenhagen press reported that “it encountered complete chaos and the most abject helplessness on the part of the populace.” It seemed impossible to find any way to transport the desperately needed food. But Swenson was undeterred. When asked how he planned to distribute the supplies, one news report marveled, Swenson calmly answered, “‘By building a railroad.’ And in an incredibly short time, the road was completed and relief trains departed regularly for stricken parts.” Under Hoover’s orders, Swenson bent the rules to get food to starving people. He ignored official ports of entry, and when other countries became indignant, Hoover sent a telegram in code saying: “Lie about everything. Keep food moving.” When Swenson discovered that the Swedish government was engaging in price gouging with American-supplied salt pork, he reported it to the press, which resulted in an immediate end to the practice.

But Swenson focused his initial efforts on Finland, which was the hardest-hit country. When he arrived, 60 percent of Finnish children had already died. In a letter to Wisconsin governor Emanuel Philipp in 1919, Swenson wrote, “The people of eastern and northern Finland have been subsisting almost entirely on bread made from the inner bark of trees and ground birchwood. … I think I am not overstating the case in saying that one-half of the population of Finland would have succumbed and the other half reduced to extreme weakness had it not been for the help that we were able to give them.”

When Swenson left, the grateful Finns declared a national holiday and feted him with music and bouquets of roses, moving him to tears.

An effort to respond to a Russian request for food aid did not go as well. Swenson negotiated with dictator Vladimir Lenin on behalf of Hoover, but Lenin angrily refused to meet Hoover’s terms, instead responding with a lengthy telegram directing abuse at Hoover and America.

While Swenson was admired for his ironclad integrity, Hambro said that he could be “hard to manage” in his service to what he saw as the truth. Swenson once defied a request from Hoover and President Woodrow Wilson to retract a statement that England had been unfair in its policies toward the Scandinavian countries. Swenson worked with an editor to craft a retraction, but in the end, he just couldn’t do it. “I will not correct that which everyone knows to be true, and I know that Hoover will agree with me,” he said.

Triple Genius

When Swenson died in 1936, the UW awarded him an honorary doctorate, his third UW honorary degree. “To the restless curiosity of the scientist, he added the practicality of interest of the inventor and the driving force of the organizer,” UW president Glenn Frank said in a eulogy. “To this hour the tradition and service of the college of agriculture bear the marks of this triple genius he brought to its early development.”

Swenson’s legacy lives on — not only as the originator of the industrial-efficiency movement but also in CALS and the Wisconsin River, in Madison’s water system, and in generations of Scandinavians whose ancestors survived because of his relief efforts. Swenson House in the UW’s Kronshage Residence Hall is named after him, and his Madison estate on Lake Mendota, Thorstrand, still stands.

But his name (Magnus appropriately enough means great or the great in Latin) is slowly fading from memory. A street off Thorstrand Road once called Magnus Swenson Drive was renamed in 1995. Circumstances have conspired to obscure our collective debt to this larger-than-life alumnus. But knowing how much his efforts helped to shape future generations probably would have been enough to move him to tears all over again. •

In a sparkling-clean silver cage, a black kitty rears up like a tiny lion, front paws in the air, jostling a shiny pink ball that a student just selected for her. A few feet away, a wiggly gray puppy tosses an oversized toy and smooshes it until it squeaks.

Through a door and down the hall, the owners of these and other animals wait patiently in exam rooms. As they pass the time, many concerns — not limited to their pet’s health — might weigh on their minds. At this veterinary clinic, those facing tough challenges seek care for their treasured companions.

Wisconsin Companion Animal Resources, Education, and Social Services, or WisCARES for short, provides veterinary medical care, housing support and advocacy, and other social services to Dane County pet owners experiencing homelessness, housing instability, or financial hardship. “WisCARES serves people who would not be able to seek care for their pets,” says Lyn Empey DVM’98, a veterinarian with the clinic. “Seeing how much [WisCARES clients] love their pets and would do for their pets, then being able to provide services for them and seeing them be so incredibly grateful — there’s nothing better than that.”

The program is led by the UW School of Veterinary Medicine, with support from the Schools of Social Work and Pharmacy. Its mission has four parts. The clinic works to keep pets with their families and empowers people to care for the animals through free or low-cost veterinary medicine. The team helps clients gain access to housing, social support services, and human health care. Student training is constant, preparing well-rounded veterinarians and other health professionals. And because the same societal challenges occur nationwide, WisCARES shares what it learns and models what is possible.

The team says a “one health” approach — connecting the dots between people, animals, and their environment — guides its work. It’s veterinary medicine with the utmost compassion for people, too.

Pets and Poverty

Based in south Madison, WisCARES is taking a local approach to a problem that is national in scope.

Within Dane County, one-third of households can’t afford basic needs. That number grows to 41 percent nationally.

About two-thirds of U.S. households have a pet, a segment that varies only slightly based on socioeconomic status.

In a recent national poll, the Humane Society found that 43 percent of pet owners couldn’t pay for their pets’ needs at some point due to financial reasons. Moreover, the organization estimates that 20 million pets in the U.S. live in poverty with their families, and 70 percent of those animals have never seen a vet.

Kristin Baert DVMx’25, veterinarian Kelly Schultz, and certified veterinary technician Haidi Rodriguez (right) assess Foxxy, a Bichon Frisé mix, for leg injuries.

“There is a huge group of people who simply cannot afford to go to a regular veterinary clinic,” says Empey.

Ruthanne Chun ’87, DVM’91, a veterinary oncologist and the program’s director, knows what you might be thinking.

“If you don’t have the money to take care of an animal, you shouldn’t have it. We hear that a lot,” she says. “Well, if I don’t have $10,000 to put my animal through a chemotherapy protocol, should I not have that animal? That’s crazy, right? So, where’s the cutoff when you make that kind of a statement?”

WisCARES encourages a more compassionate approach that acknowledges the causes of poverty, the downstream impacts of financial hardship, and the immense benefits that pets and people gain from life together.

“Any client who comes in, that human–animal bond, that connection, is so real and so beneficial,” says Liddy Alvarez, a primary care veterinarian who directs the program’s curriculum.

Willow Williams ’21, DVMx’25, now in her fourth year as a veterinary medical student, has worked at the clinic since 2019. The core of its mission, she says, is making sure that “we are able to support both animals and humans. WisCARES and other places that provide access to care are allowing people to stay with their pets, and that is invaluable.”

So Few Options

To qualify for WisCARES services, clients share proof that they have low income or are experiencing homelessness. About 10 percent of current clients are without housing. Many also face transportation, disability, and language barriers to care.

Clinic staff do what they can to reduce clients’ obstacles, providing cab service, Spanish translation, or accommodations for people with limited mobility — “little things to help when the physical task of treating their animal is difficult,” explains Kelly Schultz ’05, MS’11, DVM’15, WisCARES’s medical director and lead clinical instructor. “I hope the pet owners feel cared for and seen, because a lot of our clients move through the world in a way that is uncaring and invisible. … I want them to feel like any other pet owner.”

WisCARES was founded as a student initiative (see sidebar). The School of Veterinary Medicine adopted and expanded the program in 2013, starting humbly through street outreach. Next, it hosted two-hour veterinary clinics at the Tenant Resource Center and Salvation Army twice a month. Then came a physical space — a donated Quonset hut — where for several years they built their client base by word of mouth.

In 2018, the clinic relocated to a newly renovated facility. Its footprint grew dramatically, as did its services. It added surgery, dentistry, an X-ray machine, and in-house lab testing. It also expanded its hours to Monday through Friday and hired additional staff. Then the economic crisis of the COVID-19 pandemic brought an influx of new clients.

On the heels of its 10th anniversary, the team sees more need than ever.

“A lot of people call us every day, and we can’t see a lot of them. That can be tough,” Schultz says. “We would like to increase our capacity. There are so few options if you can’t afford veterinary care.”

WisCARES is an early adopter of serving vulnerable communities within veterinary medicine.

“As an interprofessional program that has a brick-and-mortar clinic open five days a week, we’re one of the first and only clinics leading that charge,” Schultz says. The team shares its experiences and knowledge nationally through presentations, publications, advisory panels, and more.

An Absolute Blessing

On average, WisCARES sees 80 to 100 pets per week. Appointments range from wellness exams and vaccines to disease management or dental work.

Sarah Laverty has used the clinic three times, most recently visiting with her 11-year-old cat, Princess. The onset of a chronic illness of her own in 2017 changed Laverty’s life course.

“I had worked a job for 19 years, made a good income, and then suddenly I’m disabled,” she says. “My income is not what it used to be.”

The clinic has “been an absolute blessing” to Laverty and her two cats, who she says mean the world to her. “Everybody’s so friendly and really engaged in the care of the pets.”

Elisa Rosas and her blue heeler, Rexy, have been clients of the clinic for about four years. “Everybody’s very nice. This place is great,” Rosas says while petting Rexy’s head after his checkup and nail trim.

Rexy is 14 years old and blind but still sets his inner clock to a daily walk with Rosas. “He’s waiting for me. We have a certain time, around three o’clock. So he’s ready,” she says. “He’s a good boy.”

Besides veterinary care, WisCARES provides clients with pet supplies. Toys, collars, leashes, pet food, crates of all sizes, beds, and practically anything else one might need for a pet are organized tidily from floor to ceiling in a warehouse space at the back of the clinic. Stacks of dog and cat food sit on rows of shelves nearby. Puppy and kitty packs are in another set of bins containing essential supplies for new animal family members. Donations make it all possible.

Social Supports

Sometimes, by caring for pets, WisCARES helps people care for themselves.

Their pet fostering program allows clients’ dogs and cats to stay for up to three months in a volunteer foster home. This temporary care helps pet owners find housing or emergency shelter, access health care, seek mental health services, or enter treatment programs — options that can otherwise be out of reach for people with pets who lack housing or social support.

In 2023, the organization fostered 43 animals. Among them was a cat belonging to a man who required open-heart surgery but refused the procedure until he was sure his cat would be well cared for.

Veterinary assistants Kiera Christensen x’25 (left) and Edens work with Dart, a Great Dane mix, prior to administering vaccines. For the past 10 years, donations have boosted WisCARES’s ability to provide no- and low-cost care and allowed the program to expand its services.

Earlier this year, a local organization that assists individuals facing domestic violence approached WisCARES. “They came to us for help because they have a lot of clients who are fleeing domestic abuse situations and have pets,” says Schultz.

The support organization now covers the cost of a package of veterinary care at the clinic for pet owners trying to leave an abusive partner. This includes an exam, core vaccines, and other essentials that a landlord might ask to see — so the animal is ready to move once the owner is.

Real-World Experience

Veterinary medical students get critical training at WisCARES through hands-on care and client interactions. “There is so much the students gain and learn through experiencing even just briefly the lives of the clients they’re working with,” Alvarez says.

About 70 veterinary medical students train in the clinic annually in groups of three to five for two weeks at a time. Students manage all cases, communicating with clients, examining patients, and providing care to the animals in coordination with veterinarians and technicians.

Others train at the clinic, too. Pharmacy students fill prescriptions and stock medications. And social-work students help identify social service resources and counsel clients. “A lot of times, our clients are not treated well in the world,” says Jennifer Wheeler Brooks, the organization’s director of social work and outreach. “They come here, and they’re treated well.” Student trainings cover topics ranging from poverty, homelessness, and the social determinants of health to ways of approaching client conversations with empathy and an open mind. How to help people keep their pets as healthy as possible within a budget is a significant point of emphasis.

“Every client that comes in, we teach the students to work with them where they are,” explains Alvarez. In recent years, veterinary medical schools have prioritized training graduates for a full spectrum of care or a broad range of diagnosis and treatment options from state-of-the-art to more conservative. Again, the UW and WisCARES are at the forefront. Alvarez says a spectrum of care has been a central focus of their curriculum “in an organic, natural way” for a decade.

“Not every client is going to be able to do the most advanced and amazing things, and that’s okay,” she says. “So, let’s figure out how to treat the patient in front of you.”

Understanding and Openness

Maura Enright DVM’24 began working at WisCARES as an undergraduate who hoped to attend vet school — a dream that culminated with her graduation in May. Her time at the clinic made her aware of the challenges facing many pet owners.

“It’s been so transformative in how I view the veterinary field,” she says. Her mindset as she enters her career: “How can we support this patient and the owner, regardless of what they can bring to the table that day?”

Alvarez wants students to leave with an understanding that veterinary medicine isn’t solely about working at an upscale clinic where clients can pay full price when they walk in the door. “There’s more to veterinary medicine than that, and there’s more to society, people, and pets than that,” she says.

The team finds purpose in WisCARES’s dual approach of veterinary medicine and social justice, helping to change the trajectory daily for pets and people. Teaching students adds extra inspiration, and Schultz sees potential for long-term impact. “I like to think that I’m making a difference every day and that because we have the students with us, maybe four decades from now, a past student will think about WisCARES and make a different medical decision.”

What kind of decision would that be? “A kinder, more thoughtful decision,” she says. •

Considering the UW’s historic program, including its 10 Rose Bowl rosters, this proved to be no simple task. Thousands of players have put on the red and white. Hundreds of them have earned a place in the conversation of all-time Badger greats. But only 26 could make this starting lineup. Such is the price of success.

With apologies to long-ago legends like Elroy “Crazylegs” Hirsch x’45, I had to draw an imaginary line somewhere. And the most logical cutoff year is 1946, which the UW record books consider the start of the modern era of college football.

But even so, much has changed in the sport over the past 80 years. Players have only gotten bigger, faster, and stronger. Linemen from prior decades would look cartoonishly small next to today’s 300-pounders. Fullbacks, once the featured runners and then important lead blockers, are now nearly extinct. Not that long ago, quarterbacks could throw as many interceptions as touchdowns and still be widely celebrated by fans. Try to imagine that in our age of social media.

So for this exercise, I did my best to judge the players by the standards of their time. I factored in hall of fame inductions, All-American honors, school records, college stats, draft selections, and pro career success.

Of course, imagining this squad taking the field requires some suspension of disbelief. And yet, it’s surprisingly fun to visualize Russell Wilson MSx’13 scrambling out of the pocket and throwing one of his patented moonballs to a streaking Lee Evans ’14 down the sideline. Or Joe Thomas x’07 and “Iron Mike” Webster x’74 clearing the running lanes for Ron Dayne ’17. Or brothers J. J. x’12 and T. J. x’17 Watt teaming up to terrorize opposing quarterbacks.

What other fantasy scenarios await a starting lineup of all-time Badger greats? Read on to find out — and then assemble a UW dream team of your own.

The Offense

Quarterback

Russell Wilson (2011)

Russell Wilson wasn’t here for a long time, but wow, was it a good time. The graduate senior transfer from North Carolina State arrived in 2011 and infused the Badger offense with a passing attack that could, at long last, match its elite run game. With veteran calm, Wilson threw for the most passing yards (3,175) and touchdowns (33) in a season in school history, all while completing 73 percent of his passes and giving away only four interceptions. Beyond the obvious arm talent, Wilson could almost magically scramble out of trouble and extend plays. His dual-threat mobility — novel for a UW quarterback — added 338 rushing yards and six touchdowns. For good measure, he even caught a touchdown.

Wilson led the Badgers to a Big Ten Championship and Rose Bowl appearance in his lone season in Madison. Overcoming questions about his height — 5’11”, short for a pro quarterback — he became a Super Bowl champion with the Seattle Seahawks in 2014 and has climbed to 12th in NFL history in passing touchdowns.

Many UW teams have found success with a run-first mentality and a steady-but-unspectacular game manager at quarterback. But on this fantasy team, I’m going to — as the saying goes — let Russ cook.

Halfback

Ron Dayne (1996–99)

Welcome to Running Back U. You could throw a dart at the board of the UW’s all-time leading rushers and never go wrong with this selection. How about Melvin Gordon x’15, who ran for school records 408 yards in a game, 2,587 yards in a season (behind only Barry Sanders and Ashton Jeanty in NCAA history), and 7.79 yards per carry over his college career? There’s Jonathan Taylor x’21, who surpassed a 2,000-yard season twice (and nearly thrice) in college and then led the NFL in rushing in 2021. And don’t forget Montee Ball x’13, who bulldozed his way into the end zone a school-best 77 times.

Ron Dayne could dance around defenders or plow right through them.

But there’s only one running back who remains larger than life in Badger lore: Ron Dayne. The “Great Dayne” led the UW to consecutive Rose Bowl victories after the 1998 and 1999 seasons, picking up a Heisman Trophy along the way. Defying first impressions, the 270-pound halfback could just as easily dance around defenders as plow right through them, and he did plenty of both on his way to 7,125 career rushing yards — still the most in NCAA history, if you count his postseason games (and, ahem, the NCAA should).

Although he couldn’t replicate his success in the NFL, Dayne paved the way for the run-first, ground-and-pound style that became synonymous with Badger football excellence for decades. And for that, he remains the GOAT.

Fullback

Alan Ameche (1951–54)

You can’t blame Badger football for the demise of the dedicated fullback. The UW has been a fullback factory, producing more than a dozen NFL contributors at the position — most recently Alec Ingold ’18, who made the Pro Bowl in 2024.

But only one Badger fullback has won the Heisman Trophy. Back when bulky fullbacks were the primary ballcarriers, the Badgers rode “The Iron Horse” Alan Ameche ’56 all the way to their first Rose Bowl appearance in 1953. Ameche led the Big Ten in rushing in both his freshman and sophomore seasons with his physical, lumbering style, setting a then–NCAA record for career rushing yards (3,345). Drafted by the Baltimore Colts, he scored the game-winning touchdown in the NFL’s 1958 championship — often called the greatest game ever played.

Ameche is one of two fullbacks to have won the Heisman Trophy, and it’s only fitting that he joins Dayne — the only other UW player to win the award — in this team’s backfield. Good luck, defenses, bringing down these freight trains.

Wide Receivers

Lee Evans (1999–2003); Jared Abbrederis (2009–13)

I need a receiver who can actually track down Russell Wilson’s deep throws, and fortunately, the UW was home to one of the greatest vertical threats of his time: Lee Evans.

By just about every statistical measure, Evans leads the way for Badger receivers. His 3,468 career receiving yards and 27 touchdowns are school records, and his average of 19.8 yards per reception is second only to Tony Simmons ’97. With field-stretching speed, he didn’t just outrun opposing cornerbacks — he occasionally outran his quarterback’s arm, only to come back to the ball, make an absurd body adjustment in the air, and complete a contested catch.

In 2003, after quarterback Jim Sorgi ’04 got knocked out of the game from a cheap shot, Evans caught a game-winning, 79-yard touchdown from backup Matt Schabert ’04 to break Ohio State’s 19-game win streak. Later that year against Michigan State, he hauled in 10 catches for single-game school records 258 yards and five touchdowns. A first-round draft pick in 2004, Evans enjoyed an eight-year NFL career and still ranks among the Buffalo Bills’ top five in most receiving categories.

By just about every statistical measure, Lee Evans leads the way for Badger receivers.

It’s tempting to reunite Evans with high school and college teammate Chris Chambers x’01, another formidable deep threat who compiled 7,648 yards and 58 touchdowns in the pros. However, his stats at the UW weren’t as eye-popping, in part due to injuries. Both father and son Al ’95 and Nick x’11 Toon also deserve consideration, since each racked up enough receiving yards at the UW (while running varsity track) to rank among the school’s top 10. But I’ll give the other starting nod to Jared Abbrederis ’13, whose 202 career receptions rank first in school history (tied with Brandon Williams ’16) and whose 3,140 receiving yards are second only to Evans. It doesn’t hurt that Abbrederis was one of Wilson’s favorite targets in real life.

Tight End

Pat Richter (1959–62)

Who’s the best Badger tight end of all time? That stirs a debate between old school and new school.

There’s Pat Richter ’64, JD’71, who put up big receiving numbers in an era when teams were just starting to open up the passing game. As a hybrid tight end and wide receiver, he finished with 1,873 receiving yards and 15 touchdowns over three seasons — numbers that would still make for a solid contributor today. In 1961, Richter led the nation in receiving yards (817) and touchdowns (eight). He also set Rose Bowl records with 11 catches and 163 receiving years in the all-time classic 1963 game.

And then there’s Travis Beckum x’08, a dynamic pass catcher for the Badgers in the mid-2000s. At 6’3″, 240 pounds, he looked the part of a tight end while flashing the moves of a wide receiver in the open field. Even after a broken leg cut his senior year short, Beckum finished his college career with 159 catches and 2,149 yards — both ranking among the top five in UW history.

Each of these impact players made it to the NFL. So my tiebreaker? I’ll take the guy who later became UW athletic director, hired head coach Barry Alvarez, and helped usher in a proud new era of Badger football. TACKLES: Joe Thomas (2003–06); Aaron Gibson (1995–98)

Joe Thomas is widely considered one of the best left tackles in NFL history, so he’s the no-brainer pick to protect Russell Wilson’s blind side on this team. Thomas was simply dominant at the UW. He was the first true freshman to play on the offensive line during the Alvarez era, and he earned the 2006 Outland Trophy as the best lineman in college football. The Cleveland Browns wisely selected him with the number three overall pick in 2007. At 6’6″, 312 pounds, Thomas combined elite footwork and a unique “shot put” technique with his hands, leaving even the best pass rushers visibly frustrated. He allowed only 30 sacks over 6,680 pass-blocking plays in the NFL, a rate of less than half a percent, while playing a league record 10,363 consecutive snaps over 11 seasons. He also made 10 straight Pro Bowls. It’s no surprise, then, that he was voted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 2023.

At right tackle, give me big Aaron Gibson x’99. At some 400 pounds, Gibson went on to become the largest player in NFL history. But before then, he used his size — and shocking agility — to maul open Mack Truck–sized holes for the Great Dayne. As a senior in 1998, Gibson became a consensus first-team All-American, a finalist for the Outland Trophy, a Rose Bowl victor, and a first-round NFL draft pick.

Guards

Kevin Zeitler (2008–11); John Moffitt (2006–10)

A whopping 25 UW linemen have been drafted to the NFL since 2000, including several star guards. Rising to the top of my list is Kevin Zeitler x’12, who garnered All-American honors in 2011, became a first-round draft pick, and recently earned a Pro Bowl selection in his 12th NFL season.

The other guard spot can go to Zeitler’s college linemate John Moffitt x’10, who was an All-American in 2010. Together that year, they cleared the way for a trio of 1,000-yard rushers (Ball, James White ’21, and John Clay x’11). If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Center

Mike Webster (1970–73)

The UW has churned out many NFL-caliber centers over the years, including Travis Frederick x’13, a five-time Pro Bowl player with the Dallas Cowboys. But only one Badger center has made it all the way to the Pro Football Hall of Fame: Mike Webster. In the early 1970s, “Iron Mike” anchored a star-studded offensive line that opened big holes for running backs Rufus Ferguson ’73 and Billy Marek ’77. But he earned his nickname in the NFL with the Pittsburgh Steelers, with whom he played 15 years, started 150 consecutive games, and won four Super Bowls.

Tragically, his legendary durability came at a steep price, as Webster became the first person officially diagnosed with CTE — the neurodegenerative disease linked to repeated head trauma — after his death in 2002. That legacy off the field has proven as important as the one on it, with growing emphasis on player safety in recent years.

The Defense

Defensive Linemen

J. J. Watt (2008–10); Tim Krumrie (1979–82); Wendell Bryant (1998–2001)

It’s hard to imagine that J. J. Watt — one of the best pass rushers in NFL history — was ever an underdog. But so he was when he arrived at the UW as a walk-on after giving up his football scholarship at Central Michigan.

Converted from tight end to defensive end, Watt bull-rushed onto the scene in 2009 with four and a half sacks and 16 tackles for loss. He led the Badgers with seven sacks and 21 tackles for loss the following season, earning him All-American honors. Proving his freakish athleticism at 6’5″, 290 pounds, he also blocked four kicks in college. A first-round draft pick by the Houston Texans, Watt went on to win NFL Defensive Player of the Year three times and compile 114.5 sacks over his 12-year pro career.

Think Watt is tough? Meet Tim Krumrie x’83. When he suffered a gruesome fracture in the 1989 Super Bowl, he asked for only a beer and a TV in the locker room, refusing painkillers (so he could remember the game) as the medical team reset his mangled leg. It was assumed his football career was over, but he was ready to play by the start of the next season — with a 15-inch steel rod in his leg.

Before that, Krumrie both wrestled and played football at the UW. An undersized nose guard, he used a wrestler’s intensity to wreak havoc on the field and lead the Badgers in tackles in each of his four seasons. His 444 career tackles were then a school record and contributed to his induction into the College Football Hall of Fame.

Last but not least on this beast of a line is Wendell Bryant ’08. As a freshman, the 300-pound defensive tackle clinched the 1999 Rose Bowl with a sack of UCLA quarterback Cade McNown. After that, Bryant was a magnet for double teams from opposing linemen, but he still managed to power his way to 24 career sacks — fifth most in UW history — including five in a single game against Penn State in 2001.

Linebackers

Tarek Saleh (1993–96); Chris Borland (2009–13); T. J. Edwards (2014–18); T. J. Watt (2013–16)

Rounding out this fearsome front seven are Tarek Saleh ’97 and T. J. Watt x’17 as pass-rushing outside linebackers, with Chris Borland ’13 and T. J. Edwards ’18 patrolling the middle of the field as inside linebackers.

Saleh is the UW’s career leader in sacks (33) and tackles for loss (58). In the 1996 Copper Bowl against Utah, the dependable All-American won defensive MVP with six tackles, a pass breakup, and a blocked field goal.

Watt, just like his older brother, started as a tight end in college before finding his true calling on defense. Watt exploded for 63 tackles and 11.5 sacks as a junior in 2016. He then declared for the NFL, turning into one of the league’s most-feared pass rushers with more than 100 sacks over eight years (leading the NFL in three of those seasons). Imagine T. J. and J. J. running right at you.

Borland, a tenacious field general and heavy hitter, became Big Ten Defensive Player of the Year his senior season in 2013. His 15 forced fumbles over his college career are a UW record — more than doubling any other player — and his 420 tackles rank sixth in school history. His first year in the pros, Borland led the San Francisco 49ers in tackles and was named to the All-Rookie Team. He then abruptly retired from the sport over long-term concerns about head injuries, sparking mainstream awareness of the subject.

Edwards showed off both consistency and versatility with the Badgers. From 2015 to 2018, he compiled 367 tackles, eight sacks, and — surprising for a linebacker — 10 interceptions. As a junior he was runner-up for the Butkus Award, given to the nation’s top linebacker. He somehow went undrafted, but his steady production continues in the NFL, with four consecutive 100-tackle seasons.

Cornerbacks

Jamar (Fletcher) Israel (1997–2000); Troy Vincent (1988–91)

How about these guys for shutdown corners? No defender in Badger history has had a flair for the dramatic quite like Jamar (Fletcher) Israel x’02. His 21 career interceptions (in just three seasons) tie a UW record, and he returned five of them for touchdowns — the most by any Badger. As a freshman in the 1999 Rose Bowl, his fourth-quarter interception return for a touchdown proved decisive. In the next year’s Sun Bowl, the clutch cornerback sealed another victory with an interception in the final minute. Against Purdue in October 1998, he scored the go-ahead touchdown after intercepting one of Drew Brees’s record 83 pass attempts.

Israel won the 2000 Jim Thorpe Award for the nation’s best defensive back. A decade prior, Troy Vincent x’92 had set the standard as a runner-up for the award. Vincent was a standout when Alvarez was just starting to turn the UW’s struggling program around in the early ’90s. In 2023, he became the latest Badger to be inducted into the College Football Hall of Fame.

Both of these ball hawks became first-round NFL draft picks with long careers, and Vincent is now the league’s executive vice president of football operations.

Safeties

Jim Leonhard (2001–04); Matt Vanden Boom (1979–82)

Jim Leonhard ’06 didn’t look too intimidating as a 5’8″ free safety. But the UW walk-on made up for his size with a whole lot of heart and speed, earning playing time as a true freshman and then putting together three consecutive All-American campaigns.

By the time he left for the NFL, Leonhard had tied the UW record with 21 interceptions, set the single-season record of 11, and was named a semifinalist for the Jim Thorpe Award. Leonhard also broke school records as a prolific punt returner.

Securing the other safety spot is fellow walk-on and overperformer Matt Vanden Boom ’83 (who would also qualify for the team of all-time best names). The receiver-turned-safety became a first-team All-American in 1981 with six interceptions — including three in a season-opening win against top-ranked Michigan. His interception in the 1982 Independence Bowl against Kansas State secured the UW’s first-ever bowl victory. And he could also deliver a big hit, so he’ll fit right in leading the UW’s own Legion of Boom.

The Special Teams

Kicker

Matt Davenport (1996–98)

I’m tempted to give this spot to the big Brazilian Rafael Gaglianone ’19, who both kicked and danced his way into the UW record books with 70 career field goals. But with a game on the line, I want the most accurate kicker. And by the numbers, that’s Matt Davenport ’99, who converted 33 of 38 field goals (87 percent) with the Badgers.

Punter

Kevin Stemke (1997–2000)

Only two UW punters have been selected in the NFL Draft: Jim Bakken ’63, who performed double duty as a kicker, and Brad Nortman x’12. But the Ray Guy Award goes to college football’s best punter, and the UW has only had one winner: Kevin Stemke ’01. Along with a 43.5-yard punting average that ranks second in school history, that’s enough to land his powerful left leg on this team.

Returner

Ira Matthews (1975–78)

David Gilreath x’11 is the UW’s all-time leader in kickoff return yards and will forever be remembered for his opening 97-yard touchdown against number one Ohio State in 2010. But Ira Matthews x’79, during an otherwise forgettable era of Badger football, returned two kickoffs and four punts for touchdowns in his college career — both UW records. At 5’8″, 175 pounds, the slight, slippery Matthews then took his return talents to the NFL after the Oakland Raiders drafted him in the sixth round.

Long Snapper

Mike Schneck (1996-98)

The unsung long snapper may have the most stressful job in all of football, because anything less than a 100 percent success rate is considered failure. If you sail a single snap over the head of the holder or punter, you’ll doom the kick — and you won’t last long on the team. Mike Schneck x’00 lasted 11 years in the NFL, and even played in the 2005 Pro Bowl, so I have faith he can handle the job on this team.

The Honorable Mentions

The following standouts rose to serious contention but fell just short of our all-time Badger football team. After you finish browsing our final selections and honorable mentions, email your thoughts on the UW’s fantasy lineup to onwisconsin@uwalumni.com or post a comment on this story.

Quarterback

Joel Stave (2011–15); Scott Tolzien (2006–10); John Stocco (2003–06); Jim Sorgi (1999–03); Brooks Bollinger (1999–2002); Mike Samuel (1995–98); Darrell Bevell (1992–95); Randy Wright (1980–83); Ron Vander Kelen (1958–62); Dale Hackbart (1956–59); Sidney Williams Jr. (1955–58); James Haluska (1951–55); John Coatta (1948–51); Earl Girard (1944, ’47)

Running Back

Braelon Allen (2021–23); Jonathan Taylor (2017–19); Corey Clement (2013–16); Melvin Gordon (2011–14); James White (2010–13); Montee Ball (2009–12); John Clay (2007–10); P. J. Hill (2005–08); Brian Calhoun (2002–05); Anthony Davis (2000–04); Michael Bennett (1998–2000); Terrell Fletcher (1991–94); Brent Moss (1991–93); Larry Emery (1983–86); Billy Marek (1972–75); Rufus Ferguson (1969–72); Louis Holland Sr. (1960–63); Danny Lewis (1954–57); Bob Teague (1946–49)

Fullback

Alec Ingold (2015–18); Derek Watt (2011–15); Bradie Ewing (2008–11); Chris Pressley (2004–08); Matt Bernstein (2001–05); Cecil Martin (1994–98); Mark Montgomery (1990–93); Joe Armentrout (1982–86); Dave Mohapp (1978–81); Larry Canada (1973–76); Ken Starch (1972–75); Alan Thompson (1968–71); Rick Reichardt (1962–63); Ralph Kurek (1961–64)

Wide Receivers

Quintez Cephus (2016–19); Alex Erickson (2012–15); Nick Toon (2007–11); Brandon Williams (2002–05); Jonathan Orr (2001–05); Nick Davis (1998–2001); Chris Chambers (1997–2000); Donald Hayes (1994–97); Tony Simmons (1993–97); Lee DeRamus (1991–94); Michael Jones (1981–84); Al Toon (1981–84); David Charles (1975–78); Tom Bennett (1946–48)

Tight End

Jake Ferguson (2017­–21); Troy Fumagalli (2013–17); Jacob Pedersen (2009–13); Lance Kendricks (2006–10); Garrett Graham (2005–09); Travis Beckum (2005–08); Owen Daniels (2001–05); Michael Roan (1990–94); Ray Sydnor (1976–79); Stu Voigt (1966–69); Ron Leafblad (1960–64); Dave Kocourek (1955–58)

Tackles

Cole Van Lanen (2016–20); David Edwards (2015–18); Ryan Ramczyk (2015–16); Rob Havenstein (2010–14); Rick Wagner (2008–12); Gabe Carimi (2006–10); Chris McIntosh (1995–99); Mark Tauscher (1995–99); Jerry Wunsch (1992–96); Mike Verstegen (1990–94); Joe Panos (1991–93); Paul Gruber (1983–87); Jeff Dellenbach (1981–84); Ray Snell (1976–79); Dennis Lick (1972–75); Dan Lanphear (1956–59); Dave Suminski (1949–52)

Guards

Logan Bruss (2017–21); Josh Seltzner (2017–21); Beau Benzschawel (2014–18); Michael Deiter (2014–18); Kyle Costigan (2010–14); Ryan Groy (2009–13); Kraig Urbik (2004–08); Dan Buenning (2000–04); Jamie Vanderveldt (1992–96); Joe Rudolph (1991–94); Terry Stieve (1972–75); Gary Messner (1952–54); Ken Huxhold (1947–50)

Center

Tanor Bortolini (2020–23); Joe Tippmann (2019–22); Tyler Biadasz (2017–19); Travis Frederick (2009–12); Peter Konz (2008–11); Donovan Raiola (2001–05); Al Johnson (1998–2002); Casey Rabach (1997–2000); Derek Engler (1992–96); Cory Raymer (1991–94); Dan Turk (1983–84); Ken Bowman (1960–63); Dick Teteak (1955–58); Robert “Red” Wilson (1946–49)

Defensive Linemen

Honorable mentions: Keeanu Benton (2019–22); Olive Sagapolu (2015–18); Beau Allen (2010–13); O’Brien Schofield (2005–09); Matt Shaughnessy (2005–08); Nick Hayden (2004–07); Anttaj Hawthorne (2001–04); Erasmus James (2000–04); John Favret (1997–2000); Ross Kolodziej (1996–2000); Tom Burke (1995–98); Bryan Jurewicz (1992–96); Mike Thompson (1990–94); Carlos Fowler (1990–93); Lamark Shackerford (1990–93); Don Davey (1987–90); Darryl Sims (1980–84); Bill Gregory (1967–70); Jim Temp (1951–54); Don Voss (1951–54); Pat O’Donahue (1948–51)

Linebackers

Nick Herbig (2020–22); Leo Chenal (2019–21); Jack Sanborn (2018–21); Andrew Van Ginkel (2017–18); Zack Baun (2015–19); Ryan Connelly (2014–18); Jack Cichy (2013–17); Leon Jacobs (2013–17); Vince Biegel (2012–16); Joe Schobert (2012–15); Mike Taylor (2009–12); Jonathan Casillas (2005–08); DeAndre Levy (2005–08); Jeff Mack Jr. (2000–03); Nick Greisen (1998–01); Chris Ghidorzi (1996–99); Donnel Thompson (1996–99); Pete Monty (1993–96); Yusef Burgess (1990–93); Gary Casper (1989–92); Rick Graf (1982–86); Tim Jordan (1982–86); Dave Crossen (1975–78); Dave Lokanc (1969–72); Ken Criter (1965–68); Deral Teteak (1948–51); Hal Faverty (1945, ’48, ’50–51)

Cornerbacks

Ricardo Hallman (2021–present); Nick Nelson (2016–17); Sojourn Shelton (2013–16); Antonio Fenelus (2008–11); Allen Langford (2005–08); Jack Ikegwuonu (2004–07); Scott Starks (2001–04); Mike Echols (1997–2001); Nate Odomes (1983–86); Richard Johnson (1981–84); Lawrence Johnson (1975–78); Ed Withers (1948–51)

Safeties

Hunter Wohler (2021–24); D’Cota Dixon (2014–18); Michael Caputo (2012–15); Aaron Henry (2007–11); Chris Maragos (2007–09); Allen Langford (2005–08); Jason Doering (1996–2000); Jeff Messenger (1991–94); Scott Nelson (1989–93); Reggie Holt (1989–93); Ken Stills (1983–84); David Greenwood (1979–82); Neovia Greyer (1969–71); Carl Silvestri (1961–64); Bob Zeman (1956–59)

Kicker

Collin Larsh (2017–21); Rafael Gaglianone (2014–18); Philip Welch (2008–11); Taylor Mehlhaff (2004–07); John Hall (1992–96); Todd Gregoire (1984–87)

Punter

Andy Vujnovich (2020–22); Brad Nortman (2008–11); Ken DeBauche (2003–07); Scott Cepicky (1984–87); Jim Bakken (1958–61)

Returner

Aron Cruickshank (2018–19); Kenzel Doe (2011–14); David Gilreath (2007–10); Aaron Stecker (1995–96)

Long Snapper

Peter Bowden (2019–23)