By Greg “Ponzie” Pond
Guest Columnist
I met Goofus in Munising in 1981. Like a lot of people who crossed his path, I didn’t just meet him — I got swept up in him.
He came flying into our lives the way he did everything else — loud, fearless and carrying that “polkacello” like it was an extension of his own heartbeat. He jumped up on the back of our Class of ’76 float, started playing and — just like that — we hit it off like two long-lost brothers who finally found each other.
That was Goofus.
His real name was Alan Wayne Ammesmaki, born Jan. 14, 1951, in Ishpeming, but nobody called him that. To everyone across the Upper Peninsula and beyond, he was simply “Goofus.” And if you knew him, you knew that name fit — not because he was foolish, but because he lived life in a way the rest of us didn’t quite have the nerve to.
He grew up in Negaunee, graduated in 1969 and spent three years at Michigan State University. That’s where his legend really started to take shape. He became a cheerleader for the Spartans football team in 1971, and from that point on, Michigan State athletics weren’t just something he followed — they were something he lived.
He worked for 30 years as an iron ore miner for Cleveland-Cliffs, retiring from the Tilden Mine in 2003, but if you think that defined him, you didn’t know Goofus. His real work was bringing energy, laughter and a little bit of chaos wherever he went.
And that polkacello — that thing was something else.
It wasn’t just an instrument. It was a one-man band built out of whatever he could get his hands on — bells, whistles, a cymbal, even an old boot to keep the beat. He pounded on it so hard he’d break parts and rebuild it again. When you heard it, you knew Goofus was in the building.
He didn’t just play — he performed.
I saw him take that thing everywhere. Hockey games, concerts, festivals — you name it. He was famous at the Great Northern Bluegrass Festival in Mole Lake, Wisconsin, where his friend John Hartford would bring him on stage to play “Orange Blossom Special.” Watching the two of them together was something you didn’t forget.
We traveled all over the Upper Midwest together — concerts, games, you name it. He went to 51 Rolling Stones concerts in his lifetime. Fifty-one. That tells you everything you need to know about how he lived.
One of my favorite memories is from Milwaukee when we went to see the Tigers play the Brewers. We stayed at the Pfister, the same hotel as the team, and ended up meeting Ernie Harwell. I had brought a cooler full of whitefish and offered it to him. He said yes, but wondered how we’d get the cooler back.
Before Goofus could say, “Just keep it,” I jumped in and told Ernie we’d figure it out. Next thing you know, we had his number, and, over the years, we stopped at his house in Farmington Hills probably a dozen times. That was Goofus — you never knew what door was about to open, but somehow it always did.
Of course, not every door stayed open.
There was the time he ran into Tigers players after a night game and ended up keeping Jason Thompson out all night. That didn’t sit too well with manager Sparky Anderson. The next day in the hotel lobby, Sparky pointed right at Goofus and told him, “Stay away from my players.”
Goofus didn’t miss a beat. As Sparky walked away, he said, “You can’t blame a grown man’s decisions on another man.”
That was Goofus, too.
He was in my wedding in July 1995 — my best man. Morning of the wedding, about 5:30 a.m., after being out all night, he shows up at my house and starts playing “Rollin’ in My Sweet Baby’s Arms.” Woke up the whole neighborhood.
Then, after the ceremony, standing on the steps of Sacred Heart Church, he yells, “I did it! I made it through a wedding as a best man!”
Turns out he’d been asked before, but the weddings never happened. He never told me that. That was his one and only time, and he made sure everyone knew it.
I spent 38 years traveling with him. The people I met because of him — it’s in the hundreds, maybe thousands. And he had that effect on everyone. You didn’t just meet Goofus. You became part of something bigger.
But what people might not always see is how much he gave.
After his mother went into Eastwood Nursing Home in her 90s, he spent four hours a day with her. Every day. That tells you more about the man than any story ever could.
He collected canned goods year-round for “Feed a Hungry Neighbor,” sometimes needing a pickup truck just to deliver it all. And every Christmas, he handed out gift boxes to more than 50 friends — things he’d picked up throughout the year, always thinking of someone else.
Mary Ellen always said he gave the best presents. And she was right.
Goofus passed away March 27, 2018, at Smarty’s Bar in Negaunee from sudden cardiac arrest. We call that day Goofus Memorial Day now.
But here’s the thing — he didn’t leave us.
You still see him in the crowds at hockey games, in the way people cheer just a little louder, in the friendships that never would have happened without him. His influence is still with me every time I’m around NMU hockey. That passion? That’s him.
And now, even years later, his legacy keeps growing.
There’s the newly released Goofus Beer — inspired by him — brewed by ByGeorge Brewing Co. in Munising. And every year, there’s Goof-Fest, a scholarship fundraiser that brings people together the way he always did.
This year’s event features Pierre Ogea Karaoke, music, prizes, raffles and those signature Goofus T-shirts, carrying the artwork he used to draw himself.
It’s more than a fundraiser. It’s a reminder. Goofus may be gone, but what he built — the friendships, the laughter, the stories — are not going anywhere.
If you knew him, you already understand.
And if you didn’t, well, just picture a guy with a homemade polkacello, a cloud of laughter around him and a life lived all the way out loud.
Goofus would sum it up better than anyone ever could: “Rock on.”