In the turbulent days of my youth I grew to realize there was something within me which seemed to evoke the words, "You are different". On occasion I'd make a valiant but unsuccessful attempt to seek the same enjoyment as my family during Sunday afternoon football games which droned on endlessly over the television. I seemed ever ashamed of my very "un-American" stand; I detested the sport and its symbolism: the emasculation of me.
As a member of a family with a direct link to The University of Notre Dame, perhaps one of the most hallowed of American football institutions, I was raised with such sayings as "Win one for The Gipper". Yes, when our mother wanted us to see a project through to fruition she would, like a cheerleader, bellow those words. The passionate speech of the legendary Knute Rockne to the Notre Dame Football team admittedly stirred a minor sense of robustness within me.
Essentially I am the vegetarian who won't eat meat but will sustain himself on fish and never, ever pass up a gorgeous pair of Italian leather shoes to adorn my feet. A pacifist, if someone slaps my cheek I turn the other; it's a learned behavior. If they slap the other cheek I want to kick the shit out of them but know that's unacceptable. The idea that adult men can be held in high esteem for bullying one another and paid millions of dollars to do so seems to me, at best, socially irresponsible, but what do I know?
In some way and on some unspoken level perhaps it's exciting to have such intimate contact with other men while being watched by millions of adoring fans. I'm just exploring the notion that sports, primarily contact sports, may illicit a bit of a conundrum. Perhaps there is a representation, a slice of my own life, on a much larger scale that I simply never understood or accepted. True I felt an overwhelming sense of excitement during the games but it was vastly different from the rush of adrenaline which pulsed through everyone else's veins.
It was inconceivable that I was aroused, a shameful embarrassment, while watching these men touch one another. The feelings pointed to adjectives such as "abnormal" or "deviant", ones I cared not to acknowledge, at least with regard to me. The very terms "wide receiver" and "tight end"; who thought of such titles? In truth any contact sport, on multiple levels, can be regarded as sensuous, even erotic at times.
"Chip," mother would say, "Just watch, it's exciting. It's what little boys dream of doing." Curiously, when I announced my homosexuality she found the idea of two men touching one another, let alone patting each other on the ass, revolting. I wondered, "At exactly what point does manly behavior imitate intimacy?"
I would respond with questions more appropriately suited to my nature such as, “What does everyone want for dessert tonight?" or “I’m going to either make a rib roast or pork chops. Any ideas for a side dish?" Football did not represent what this little boy dreamed of. It became a symbol of society's definition of "true" masculinity and I found the definition contemptible.
Tonight, a blistering cold evening with a razor sharp wind that shaved my face with its' numbness would prove to be insightful. When combined with several close friends and of course my boyfriend, Rob, Provincetown is a lively location to usher in the New Year. Painstakingly before making the pilgrimage, my wardrobe must be selected so there is no time wasted in getting to dinner and heading out for the evening.
From the closet I pull a rich burgundy silk chemise by Dolce and Gabbana; it catches my fancy. True, my choice is frightfully expensive but its capacity to drape lovingly along the shoulders I have spent years trying to broaden justifies the cost. To the naked eye my choice bears no deeper meaning other than it is simply a shirt; to a Gay man such as me it is heaven on earth.
All the while in the car, traveling the straightforward yet endless journey to Cape Cod, I listen attentively to Diana Ross. I had been given "The Supremes Ultimate Collection" CDs for Christmas and paid careful attention to every note their voices tolled. In my mind I visualized the elaborate gowns and adoring fans clamoring for a tiny piece of the ladies’ attention. As I drove I held my right arm outward as Diana, the ultimate diva, would and snapped my thumb and forefinger ever so "Supremely" to the melody.
At last I arrived. My friends were gathered, sipping cocktails and reveling in laughter. After dinner we decide to head out to "Wave Bar, with its tremendous screen at the entry and multiple smaller screens surrounding the space. Inside "Wave Bar" there is a formidable pulse; people come alive to dance music videos or clips from campy, cult movies such as "Mommie Dearest" or “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes”. In common times, Whitney, Cher and Madonna play to a crowd of men and women who consider the iconic figures more important than say, The Empire State Building, which after one visit has limited appeal.
Entering the arena a fictitious rabble rousing echoes inside my head. The low slung baritone voices of the crowd of men and women chant an exceedingly masculine, "Woo, woo, woo,” not for one of the goddesses who generally adorn the screen but for The New England Patriots. Tom Brady, the 6’4” quarterback, sweaty and in all his masculine glory, stands facing the camera with the tell tale black lines of sport beneath his prowling eyes. There, upon the king sized screen, he epitomized the newly found role of "Diva extraordinaire".
My friends and I are miniscule pieces of an overcrowded puzzle with an important piece missing. Nowhere in sight is anything identifiable. Neither a D&G tee shirt nor Prada loafer nor anything Versace is evident; if they are they elude me. Hugo Boss and Tom Ford must be on vacation. I make my way to the upper platform where someone of my stature, a mere 5'7" can gain a better vantage point. I look quizzically over the crowd. Still nothing is familiar.
Along the vista I see waves of men with beer bottles in hand and Old Navy and American Eagle tops and sweatshirts on their backs; so too are the women. Baseball caps top the waves of men like whitecaps top the waves of the sea. Can it be? Why yes, off on the horizon is a splash of Abercrombie as it should be, on the body of a man who, like me, is searching the testosterone galaxy for a much loved symbol of his fashion sense. I was in the midst of a parallel universe, one with no rhyme or reason. When had it become suitable for gay men to cheer on the NFL? When had I fallen backward landing once again on the outside of what was the norm?
Amid the surreal picture I ponder a wistful thought and one I know the NFL and society would scorn. Still I can't resist asking Jodi, one of my compadres, the question burning within me. Prepared for a poignant query about the nail biting quarter of the game which could leave the Patriots undefeated for a full season he leans in to listen.
“Who do I write to about the team’s uniforms? Don’t you think the game would be more interesting if they wore Versace?”
The recoiling of his body answered the question without a word being spoken. My question, though viable to me, was unappreciated and met with great disdain. Apparently I had sullied the game and all that is sacred which goes along with it. I shut out the bawdiness and retreated within my head to hear "The Supremes" sing, "Falling in and out of Love" while sheepishly snapping my fingers to the beat within me.
The clock is counting down to the close. Joy is palpable, permeating the room as The Patriots are about to take their place as superstars. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one; the Patriots are undefeated for one solid season!” They are declared the winners and history has been made. “Woo, woo, woo,” the crowd sings out in unison with hands clapping and fists pounding toward the heavens in joy. One soulful spectator shouts, “Now get those boys to the showers and keep the cameras rolling!” At last rational behavior had returned.
The celebration in the room is intoxicating. On looking back over the evening I too, at times, felt the shock of electricity as Tom Brady got into position, caught the hike and threw the ball far and wide while rocketing his team to glory. For a few shining moments I understood the passion and the glory of the game. Without any utterance of the like could it be possible that I, Keith, the sissy boy from my childhood actually enjoyed watching the game with my peers?
Without warning, upon the screen before us was a video, a compilation of Cher, Madonna and Whitney singing in unison their most prized musical hits. Fantasy hairstyles, theatrical makeup, decidedly and intricately choreographed moves swept over the crowd. Once again,thankfully, came the shrill cries of glee for our beloved divas; thank you God. These men, who had dressed as they should for an evening with the Patriots, now flounced back to where nature had intended. Perhaps you can uniform Gay men in fleece but thankfully you cannot take the fleece out of them.
Fate knocked not a moment too soon. Through the entry a Prada Pea coat came. Under it pair of ‘Seven for all Mankind’ jeans and a ‘Boss Orange’ tightly fitted sweater caressed a svelte body. My quarterback had arrived. He threw the ball of couture and I skillfully caught it. I pinched myself to ensure I was not dreaming, that I truly existed in the parallel universe of this night.
It was the fourth quarter and the evening was almost at its’ close. I had to score a goal. The clock was running down, “Ten, nine, eight….” This one hadn’t been in the playbook I’d seen all my life; "gay boys" didn't sit around and watch football, did they? Time was of the essence as I intercepted the pass thrown by the Old Navy quarterback. To my amazement I was successful and scored a goal. “Woo, woo, woo,” my parents would be proud.
Days later, Adario, a long time client and young Gay man of twenty, fresh and full of forthright opinions about life, surprised me with his youthful insight. Having played high school football throughout his entire adolescence he shared disdain, not for the sport but the single-minded illusion which comes with it.
“They (fans, parents, players) have only one voice; it's a one sided ideal,” he said, “Football equals masculinity and masculinity equals football. It's fucking bullshit.”
With the help of my young friend I had come to terms with an old wound. You can wear Dolce and Gabbana, be a fan of couture or bake brownies on a Sunday afternoon while the rest watch the game. Anyone can be an avid sports even a fan of, dare I say it, football. There is a voice, whether masculine or effeminate, booming or soft, within and it can be heard.
Most importantly, after years of feeling on the outside of that which is expected, I surprised myself in learning I'd misjudged a truth. It wasn't the reflection of the sport I found contemptible, it was the reflection of me, my own reflection as seen through the society I'd grown up in. I chose not to accept who I was because of the fear of rejection from those around me. Sadly, at the time, that fear included my family; thankfully that did not come to pass. My own feelings of self imposed exile were hiked to me long ago and I froze, unable to pass the ball.
Couldn’t December 29th have come when I was a much younger man? Unknowingly, when I looked across the vast sea of men and women indulging themselves in sport, I saw what lay deep beneath them. I saw human beings, doctors, lawyers, waiters, waitresses, accountants, realtors, teachers, car salesmen and many others, including myself, in one room, in one town with one common denominator. This is what Keith, as a little boy, dreamed of.
There was no shame, no emasculation. There was a lot of testosterone, which may or may not have been imported, but we were all Gay. One minute the Patriots and of course Tom Brady, had all eyes on them, the next minute poor Whitney did. It was quite the balance of conformity and non-conformity. Of course the odds of me sitting before a television and watching a football game are slight; it still opens wounds.
Neither tight end nor wide receiver nor even quarterback hold any interest for me. The position I now play is that of defensive end to those of us who were exiled by the incongruous standards of society. How good it feels to get a pat on the ass like the “real” men do after a good play. At last I'd "Won one for the Gipper" and all the while choreographed a "Supremes" song, like the man I have always been, within my head.
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