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Being one of the Ladies in Red meant that I was a marketing gimmick as much as a dancer. We performed at home games and did local appearances when the team was away. We did USO tours for the troops, visits to children’s hospitals, and charity functions. Wearing the iconic red boots was a privilege. We had an image to maintain—one made of equal parts team spirit and sex appeal. It was grit and glamour.
In my daily life, I was a mess. A clumsy, chaotic wreck of a woman. But when I tied the red long-sleeved halter top into a bikini and shimmied the matching hot pants on, all the chaos went away. I could dance in front of millions wearing less than three yards of fabric and be more poised than my time spent sitting in a chair in my office.
“Yes, ma’am.” To prove it to Catherine and to myself, I pushed out of my splits and hopped to my feet.
She awarded me with a pleased smile. “Excellent.” She glanced at Jewel and winked. “I’d hate for our fifty-yard-line lady to be hobbling off the field after halftime.”
My jaw fell flat on the floor.
Jewel was mid-air, jumping up and down.
“What’d you say?” I stammered. “Did … did you just…?”
The fifty-yard-line lady was the cheerleader who danced smack dab in the middle of the field with the rest of the team forming a triangle behind her. That meant no mistakes. No screw-ups. It wasn’t just that the director and choreographers thought she’d perform without error. It was a symbol of trust in that dancer’s leadership abilities.
Jewel and I were captains, along with two other veterans. Each of us led one of four groups that performed on each side of the stadium during a Reds game. The four captain spots were coveted. I essentially led my own small team of cheerleaders. But the fifty-yard-line position…
“You think you’re up for it?” Catherine asked after a moment.
I still hadn’t recovered from my shock.
“Yes!” Jewel squealed as she grabbed my hand. “She’s totally up for it!”
I nodded listlessly. “Are you serious?”
Catherine tossed her head back and let out a hearty laugh. “You’ve earned it, and you’re going to be great.” She reached out and gave my arm a squeeze. “And just so your head doesn’t get too big, you also get everyone’s least favorite job this year.”
Everyone’s least favorite job was reading aloud the code of conduct that each Reds cheerleader had to agree to at the beginning of each season. It was a tedious, mind-numbing task that had most of the women in the room saying, “Obviously.”
I stood at the front of the dance studio, binder in hand, and turned the page. We were finally in the twenties. Only one more page to go.
Twenty-one pages of regulations seemed like overkill, but the organization wanted to cover its bases.
I grabbed my water bottle that had our mascot, Badcock the Rooster, and the slogan, Cluck Yeah, printed on the side and took a sip before continuing. “When traveling on behalf of the Rhode Island Red Cocks, it is strictly prohibited to post photos on social media until you have returned home. This is for everyone’s safety. All personal social media accounts must be set to private for the duration of your time with the Reds. Please refrain from geotagging private residences or locales on your official Reds social media accounts. When interacting with fans, you are on a first-name basis only. Never give out your full name or contact information.
“It is strictly prohibited for league cheerleaders to associate or have contact with the football players themselves. Both for players in our organization and the other teams in the league. That means no asking for autographs. Do not follow any of the players on social media. Do not slide into any DMs.”
There was an ambient laugh as I gave the group of thirty-six a searing look. “No shooting your shot on Instagram or on TikTok. This is our workplace, and we all have a job to do.”
“Yes, Mom,” Jewel hollered from the back row.
A chorus of snickers erupted.
“If you are invited to represent the Reds at an event where players are also attending, be polite and keep it professional. If you flip to the next section in your handbook, you’ll find this year’s roster along with stats and notable facts for each player. Memorize it. Know who’s who because when you’re working the parking lot and interacting with fans and tailgaters, they know this stuff through and through. For half of a year, you live and breathe Rhode Island football.”
A sense of awe and purpose radiated from the ladies. Veterans who knew what lay ahead. Rookies who were wavering between nerves and excitement.
I turned the page, and the wonder vanished. “Alright. Let’s go over game-day protocols.”
