During my senior year of high school, someone decided that the basketball team needed someone to dress as the team mascot and join the cheerleaders at courtside during the games. I enjoyed going to basketball games and was known for my antics in the crowd during games. I was open to carrying out my high jinks in a more official capacity. I auditioned for the part and won. I was the Alamo Red Devil.
The cheerleader sponsor would cobble together a costume for me. It mainly consisted of a red, one-piece outfit that included a tail. I would wear a white turtleneck shirt and a head cover with horns. It functioned well enough as a red devil suit but some of my friends regularly referred to me as the red cow.
I would assist the cheerleaders with cheers. My loud male voice boomed. I danced and tumbled about if you can call it that. I am not a gymnast and have no training in even the most fundamental cheerleading skills. I was willing to make a fool of myself being loud and flailing about, occasionally even falling flat on the floor in fake exhaustion. I was successful at entertaining the crowd and rousing them to support our team.
At the end of the year, I would turn in my devil’s outfit, the knees threadbare from my occasional sliding across the gym floor and worn elastic around the neck from me crawling in and out. I would make one more command performance at a football game the following year when that team went to a championship game. In coming years, other people may have donned the red devil outfit but I don’t think there was ever a better red cow.