The man who tried out to be a Texans cheerleader

"Champions only! Sexy girls only!" the DJ yelled into the microphone Saturday, at the beginning of the 2017 tryouts for the Houston Texans Cheerleaders.

Like the other 400 or so contestants, Donnie Johnson ran onto the field to warm up. Was he a champion? Sure. Sexy? He had no doubts. But the girl part: That was the problem.

The 30-year-old choreographer dreamed of becoming the NFL's first male cheerleader, of being among the 35 finalists to be announced April 13, but everything about the scene screamed that he didn't stand a chance. The field was full of hair extensions and Vaseline smiles. Behind the contestants, larger-than-life pinups from last year's Texans Cheerleaders swimsuit calendar framed the field. A row of photographers — mostly male, mostly middle-aged — snapped cheesecake pics of the bouncing, smiling candidates.

NFL cheerleading doesn't deny the male gaze; it celebrates it.

For the audition, the hopefuls had been instructed that their makeup and hair should be "performance quality" — no ponytails — and list of salons was helpfully provided. Contestants were further advised to wear crop tops and hot pants or briefs.

Johnson, one of maybe three men in the throng of contestants, had done his own thing. His hair was short, and his beard was neatly cropped, but he'd glued a row of sequins below his temples. He wore a sequined red-and-blue unitard. Fishnet hose and dance boots accentuated his muscular legs.

"Where's the sexy ladies at in here tonight?" the DJ called.

"Whoo!" the crowd on the field responded.

CHEERLEADING WASN'T always like this. For much of its history, it was a guy thing, beginning with Ivy League football's yell leaders in the late 1800s. Supporting a college's football players was a prestigious position held by manly men. Ronald Reagan, Dwight Eisenhower and Franklin Roosevelt were all cheerleaders.

In the '20s, around the same time that squads began to perform tumbling and acrobatics, a few daring women were allowed to cheer. But with World War II, in League of Their Own fashion, squads everywhere had to recruit women. And even after soldiers returned home, women kept their place on the sidelines — and sometimes, as with dance teams like the Kilgore Rangerettes, they even claimed the field at halftime. The women generally wore sweaters and bobby socks, and their skirts usually grazed their knees.

But in 1972, just as the Women's Liberation movement was gaining steam, the Dallas Cowboys made cheerleading sexy. Fans loved the short shorts, white boots, and midriff-baring tops.

Around the same time, in high schools and colleges, a different strain of cheerleading began to emerge: one that treated cheerleading as a sport, complete with intense athletic competition. Towering human pyramids and sprawling tumbling passes required strength and skill, and carried a lot of risk. Once again, men joined the squads.

But not in the NFL. Yes, alone in the NFL the Baltimore Ravens' squad includes burly guys, but even there, they're treated as second-class citizens. They form the base of pyramids and toss petite women in the air, but they don't appear on the team's calendar, and they're routinely cropped out of photos. The Baltimore Sun recently described them as "a discreet human trampoline."

Johnson wanted to be more than a trampoline. He wanted to shine.

AT TRYOUTS, Johnson wore his number, 133, on the left leg of his unitard. Once in a great while, as the 132 contestants in line before him took their turns before the judges, one would show off jumping and tumbling skills of the sort that are common in collegiate squads.

Head coach Alto Gary instructed the first-round judges not to concern themselves with such technical abilities: Vote, she told them, for "what you'd like to see on the field."

Presumably they all knew what that meant.

Johnson was entirely too familiar with the jiggling-fluff attitude toward cheerleading. It had blocked him before, when he tried out for the dance team at Lamar University, where he majored in dance. At Lamar, the coaches told him that even if he made the team, he'd have to stand on the sidelines while his teammates danced.

Now, more than a decade later, as a choreographer at Inner Me studios, he teaches muscular, sexy things like chair dancing and twerking. Last year, one of his students made the Texans cheerleading squad. He felt like it was a victory of his own.

But of course, it wasn't quite. He still wanted a victory that's actually his own. A victory for all men: "I want to change the demographics of all NFL teams. I want them to know that it's OK to have guys. Like, we're just as good. And if the Texans start it off, there will be a domino effect. Every other team will want to do it."

It wasn't that he hoped to make NFL cheerleading less about sex, and more about athletics and dance. It was that he wanted it to be both.

He'd be delighted to be eye candy. Sometimes, on the side, he dances for bachelorette parties. In recent years, to increase its ratings, the NFL has actively courted female viewers. Maybe he could help.

"And what about the gay community?" he asked. The NFL was missing an opportunity.

FINALLY, IT was Johnson's turn before the judges. He took his spot between two female contestants. As Bruno Mars blasted through the speakers, all three began the routine – a four eight-count dance that began with an all-out forward strut.

Johnson hit each move with an extra pop on the beat. When it came time for a shimmy and hair whip, the contestants around him nailed their hairography. To make up for what he lacked up top, he added extra flair to his footwork.

He was electric.

Then came his big chance: the two eight-counts of music that allow contestants to freestyle.

In the space of 16 beats, he nailed a split. And a leg hold. And a triple pirouette.

Jaws dropped.

Of the 400 hopeful Houstonians who danced in the first round Saturday, Johnson was the only one that the judges applauded.

Johnson worked to catch his runaway breath. "I did it," he thought.

Against all odds, he made the first cut.

OF COURSE he didn't go all the way. He didn't even make it to the April 13 finals.

Later Saturday night, in the second round, he didn't nail the choreography the way he did before. Maybe that was why the judges cut him; or maybe it was that other reason.

"When they see the NFL teams," Johnson said, "I guess some people don't necessarily want to see guys."

But he was philosophical. He'd already gone further than anyone expected. "I've had guys ask me, why would I audition for stuff that I know only females get? And it's because I'm about breaking barriers. I've been told no countless times. I was told when I was 13 years old that I was too fat, and I'll never be a dancer. And look at me now."

His next chance to prove himself comes this summer, when the Rockets Power Dancers hold their tryouts.

"You know I'll be there," he said.

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