I played in the NFL. Outrage over male cheerleaders is really about attempts to control masculinity | NFL

Of all the existential threats facing professional football – concussions that erode the minds of players, scandals that rot institutions from within, dwindling youth interest in a sport built on collision and control – who could’ve predicted that what would truly rattle some fans was the sight of two men dancing on the sideline?

Earlier this month, the Minnesota Vikings unveiled their newly minted 35-member cheerleading squad with a bold promotional video captioned, “The next generation of cheer has arrived!” It wasn’t just the choreography that caught attention, but the fact that two male performers, Blaize Shiek and Louie Conn, were part of the group.

Almost immediately, reactions erupted online, from heartfelt support to calls for a boycott, and even a homophobic slur wielded by a former NFL player whose name deserves no mention in this or any other reputable publication. Amid the storm, the Vikings stood firm. And rightly so. After all, Minnesota is no stranger to innovators who challenge convention. This is the home of Prince, a man who wore high heels, embraced gender ambiguity, and redefined masculinity.

In an official statement, the Vikings reminded everyone that male cheerleaders – whose number include former US presidents – are nothing new, not only at the amateur and collegiate levels but also in the NFL itself. As of the 2025 season, at least 11 NFL teams include male cheerleaders on their official squads, the first being the Los Angeles Rams back in 2018, when Quinton Peron and Napoleon Jinnies made history on the sidelines and later performed at the Super Bowl in 2019. The Minnesota Vikings also reminded people that Shiek and Conn earned their spots through the same competitive process as their peers, much like we football players compete and earn our spots on the roster.

I was drafted by the Dallas Cowboys in 2015, and I’ve been in those locker rooms where the pressure to perform as an athlete, teammate and man can feel overwhelming. The one thing that wasn’t on my mind or any other player’s mind was the cheerleaders.

Not because they weren’t talented. Not because they didn’t belong. But because during the game, while they performed on the sidelines or at half-time, we were in huddles, making adjustments on the sidelines, giving our all on the field, or processing and schemes in the locker rooms for the next half. Everyone out there has a job to do, and the cheerleaders are no exception. They’re not there for the players. They’re there for the fans. Which means they should reflect all the fans.

The people expressing outrage over male cheerleaders on the Vikings aren’t talking about work ethic, talent or dedication. Their complaints are even more baseless than the Monday Morning Quarterbacks – a term created to address those who criticize players with the benefit of hindsight.

This isn’t about performance at all. It’s about presence. It’s about the mere existence and visibility of men on NFL cheer squads who don’t conform to the rigid, outdated ideas of masculinity that so many use sport, and football in particular, to defend.

What this backlash really reveals is not fear of change, but fear of visibility. The outrage over male cheerleaders isn’t about sports. It’s about control: over masculinity, over image, and over who gets to be seen and celebrated in public spaces or on the global stage of the NFL. It’s the same impulse that drives anti-LBGTQ+ legislation, the same fear that fuels book bans, bathroom bills, and attacks on drag performers. This moment isn’t isolated; it’s part of a broader cultural backlash to liberation.

And just as Christian nationalism has long been weaponized to marginalize queer people, so too has sport. Sport is used to draw lines around what’s “American” and “man enough”. But those lines were never drawn for protection; they were drawn for power.

The truth is, football isn’t as rugged as society would like us to believe. The power of sport is in its intimacy; its emotional extremity. In the way players and fans alike grieve, cry, pray, dance, and embrace under the lights and flags, and banners. The locker room is one of the few places in American culture where men are allowed to be vulnerable, broken, weep, and to hug in celebration, speak with peers across all cultures and generations, and build themselves up again. When you peel back the helmets and hits, you’ll see what’s always been there: joy, vulnerability, brotherhood, and the undeniable truth that masculinity isn’t fixed, it’s fluid. And that’s not changing.

Shiek, Conn, and every male cheerleader across the league aren’t just cheering for a team. They’re cheering for possibility, for the next generation of boys who want to move their bodies with pride, for the kids who don’t see themselves in shoulder pads but still belong in the stadium. Sport isn’t sacred because it resists change. It’s sacred because it brings people together, and the more inclusive that togetherness becomes, the more powerful the game will be.