Out in the Field (Out in College 4)

He walked away before I could think of a snappy comeback. I scowled as I gathered my trash, glancing up when someone called his name. I was too far to overhear the conversation, but I could tell it was a member of the Christian Rafferty fan club; a small but passionate group of admirers made up of LGBTQ students, allies, and sports enthusiasts. They stopped him occasionally to thank him for being a proud on-campus representative. He shook hands, posed for a selfie, and even signed autographs. He was a hero.

Every once in a while, I felt a twinge of longing for what Christian had now. Not the celebrity stuff…the freedom. He didn’t have to hide who he was or who he loved. He stated his truth with his head held high. He didn’t back down or offer to relinquish his position on the team when he was outed. In fact, he fought for it. He was the best they had, and everyone knew it. I was incredibly proud of my friend. I’d witnessed his bravery firsthand, and I knew nothing about coming out had been easy for him.

Christian was an inspiration for hundreds if not thousands of people who’d followed his story. Hell, he inspired me. But I still wasn’t ready to make any life-altering announcements. Sometimes I wasn’t sure I ever would be.

* * *

A few hours later, I couldn’t stop thinking about Phoenix. I set my bat on my shoulder and willed myself not to pop a boner in practice. It wasn’t easy. It was like I’d accidentally opened a floodgate when I’d mentioned him to Christian. Every insignificant detail from our first meeting replayed in my head. The way he laughed and leaned in when he spoke. And the way he’d moved in the dark with his eyes closed and his hands in the air. Completely uninhibited, yet connected to his surroundings. Like a free man.

Damn, that must feel amazing.

I know what you’re thinking…if guys like Christian and Phoenix had the balls to come out, why didn’t I? The truth was, I thought about it. But not for long. I couldn’t see putting myself before baseball. I didn’t know what it was like in theater, but every time an athlete came out, his personal life took center stage. It happened to Christian.

Everyone had stopped talking about his awesome stats and how he’d led our school to a championship for an unprecedented third year in a row. They all wanted to deep-dive into his personal life instead. Football came second. I couldn’t do that. For me, baseball had always been number one.

I had great memories of being the honorary ball boy of the local rec league my dad coached when I was four or five. But I didn’t like being stuck on the bench while my brothers played. So what if they were eight and nine years old? I was sure I could hit better than them anyway. My dad wasn’t convinced. He patted my head, gave me a team cap, and told me to be patient. Yeah, right. I didn’t know the meaning of the word. I stuck close to my brothers during practices and games. I mimicked their batting stances and made them throw the ball with me.

Mom signed me up for T-ball the following season. I thought it was lame. I was easily annoyed with the kids who picked their noses in the outfield and didn’t know which way to run around the bases. Amateurs. I was more than ready for the real thing. And when my brothers moved on to soccer the next year, my dad turned his full attention to the only one of his sons still interested in his favorite sport. He probably figured I’d lose interest at some point. But I didn’t.

As my skills developed, I loved it more than ever. I loved the little things; like the smell of freshly cut grass on the field and the daily routine of softening my glove and practicing my throw. I loved the weight of the bat in my hand and the rush of adrenaline when the ball cracked against the sweet spot and went flying over the pitcher’s head.

In my mind, baseball was synonymous with something bigger than me. Family, friendship, and community. My private life had no place here. No one’s did. I didn’t want to listen to our catcher gripe about his girlfriend’s pain-in-the-ass mom or hear about our pitcher’s dismal love life. I came to play ball.

“…she said wouldn’t do it unless—oh fuck, what’s the matter with Micah? That’s the third fly ball he’s dropped,” Javi groused, adjusting his baseball cap. “I overheard Coach say he’s thinking about moving him to center field.”

“Johnson’s at center,” I said, glancing out on the field just as the overhead lights came on. The sun had set and now the sky was a pretty shade of pink with fluffy purple clouds. Practice would be over soon, which was probably a good thing. I could tell the guys were getting restless. We’d been out here for hours.