THE HOMEOWNER

Thursday, May 22, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Homeowner: Out to the ballgame

By Mike Prevatt

"I wouldn't want a gay guy being around me. It's got nothing to do with me being scared. Yeah, he's got rights or whatever, but he shouldn't walk around proud. It's like he's rubbing it in our face."

--Todd Jones, Colorado Rockies pitcher, as quoted in the Denver Post

So I'm reading the book Going the Other Way, a memoir of former major league player Billy Bean, who, three years after his retirement from pro ball, decided to come out of the closet. I figure that may sound funny coming from someone who'd rather see Madonna play Dodger Stadium than the Dodgers themselves. But I'm actually pretty down with baseball--which is tough, given how many reasons there are to be down on baseball.

Our national pastime played a rather big role in my life. I went to Dodger games every year--sometimes twice, if I got lucky--when I was a kid. Much to my dismay, I never got to play little league or any other team sport offered by the local parks--I can't wait to use that against my parents should they ever bemoan why their son is a homo--but I did get to play pick-up games after school with the neighborhood friends. I was an avid collector of baseball cards from about 1988 to 1991, stopping because I couldn't afford to buy the new-and-expensive Upper Deck line and Topps and Fleer and Donruss and those stupid oversized Bowman cards that never fit perfectly in my binders' protective sleeves. R.B.I. Baseball became my favorite video game during middle school, until I got a Sega Genesis and played NHL Hockey until my fingers bled just like the computerized players onscreen.

But I was never an athlete. My coordination sucked. I panicked when it was my turn to contribute defensively and thus struggled with simple exercises like throwing and catching. I cowered at fastballs (or anything faster than 40 m.p.h., for that matter). And I wasn't passionate about baseball to the point of plunking quarters into the pitching machine every Saturday at the batting cages.

I played enough informally organized sports to know how adrenaline and testosterone makes such contests more competitive and socially judgmental than they should be. Being picked last so frequently, I stopped thinking much of it after, say, elementary school. I was used to the humiliation and name-calling and pressure buckling and fumbles. Truthfully, I was just happy to be invited to participate at all--even if I was the default fourth player to fulfill the two-player/two-team minimum for a game. But that's denial for you.

So, I can imagine how the closeted and confused Bean felt playing for the Tigers and Dodgers and Padres, despite the fact he had natural talent on the field and I didn't. Although, my friends and I weren't so clever when it came to gender insecurity and homophobic barbs, so nothing really graduated past, "Hey, faggot! Wake up and catch that pop fly headed your way!" or the gesture of a bat held outstretched from one's crotch toward another player, which not only symbolized one boy's alleged superiority in the endowment department, but ironically suggested any rival with complaint could shove said equipment down his throat.

Bean, on the other hand, was privy to more hate-filled comments--especially when he played for the Dodgers. My favorite team, no less! Do you know how heartbreaking it is to read that Tommy Lasorda, the manager who led my underdog Dodgers into the 1988 World Series to defeat the 104-game winning Oakland Athletics, was spewing random cocksucker jabs for locker room entertainment? Why? Was it because of the machismo-drenched environment of professional baseball, or was it because he was in denial about his son's sexuality and death from AIDS complications--or both? What is he thinking when his godson and former catcher, Mike Piazza, tells the press he's got no problem with the idea of gay teammates?

I know what I'm thinking: For every open-minded slugger like Piazza, there's at least three bigots--like Atlanta Braves pitcher John Rocker, Colorado Rockies reliever Todd Jones and Chicago Cubs hurler Julian Taverez--mouthing off about how they and the rest of baseball couldn't possibly deal with homos in their clubhouses. (And why are pitchers so bitter, anyway?) I have a hunch it mostly goes back to the sensitive gender politics of the locker room, where everyone's got it all hanging out for any wandering eyes to focus on. I don't know what those pitchers are worried about--no self-respecting homo would give those unattractive mooks the time of day.

Unfortunately, self-respect for a homosexual athlete is hard to come by, and that's why jocks like Bean and former Minnesota Viking defensive lineman Esera Tuaolo--who recently came out--wait until they've left the pros to drop the bomb. And I can understand that.

And then, I think about how the 1947 Dodgers, back when they were in Brooklyn, took a chance on black, multi-position player Jackie Robinson, and changed baseball forever. That took a team effort. Maybe, rather than waiting for an active player to come out on his own, we need the whole team to come out--as supporters of any athlete with the ability and dedication to play ball. I'd bust out the pom-poms for that.

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