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About Just out. (Portland, OR) 1983-2013 | View Entire Issue (Aug. 5, 2011)
voices Make It Sparkle, Tim, Best Make It Pretty OREGON'S LGBTO NEWSMAGAZINE AUGUST 5. 2011 Because I already traipse beyond safe city confines (into Northern Clark County) for work almost daily, I resist venturing beyond our city’s periphery—for any occasion. But a few weeks ago, issued a pseudo challenge, I took Highway 26 past our borders, traversing the dense sprawl the Arcade Fire spent an entire album decon structing. There, past endless big-box stores and strip malls, in Hillsboro, sits a grand stadium, light contraptions to the sky. Its adjoining fields house a particular queer specimen: the softball player. These curious creatures rise with the sun, commit entire Sundays (and summers) play ing— forging community I know little about. I’m not sports deficient, although our rela tionship has always been complex. (I distrust most endeavors involving men.) I’ve followed basketball closely since adolescence, even toyed with playing once— mostly in casual pickup games at church retreats or while skipping school with friends. There, for brief, fleeting hours, all the clumsiness and awkwardness that were my usual companions—tripping over nothing while walking, crashing into jocks in hallways— ceased, like I had a secret athlete doppelgiinger, Clark Kent style. I’d glide past opponents, dribble effortlessly, sink high-arch ing jump shots. Even during poorer perfor mances, I indulged in the escape. And in any ensuing man-on-man contact. 27 be missing several players to suspensions and hangovers. At that moment I realized what a Borgen-constructed team might look like. ‘ I don’t remember who won— professional W ith one part closet athleticism, two parts friend/ex/friend, had little faith I’d ever appear. scorekeepers handled that; I was far too dis infatuation with the male form, I adorned bed I slipped in quietly, finding a spot toward the tracted by grating lawn chair coaches and room walls with famous athletes, mostly Port back of already hot metal bleachers that wreaked abundant skintight uniforms. I remembered land Trail Blazers. After all, Pentecostal parents havoc on my exposed thighs. Before me, a whole when other friends dedicated themselves to couldn’t explicate the gay from posters of Clyde new world unfolded— no Broken Hearts laziness, things like gay volleyball or tennis and I paid Drexler or Jerome Kersey like they could from instead well-oiled machines: following rules, little attention— although I did happily par Tiger Beat cutouts of Peter Reckell (Bo Brady hustling, catcalling andtaking very seriously this take in affiliated parties. Perhaps I shouldn’t always wait for direct challenges to alter my on Days of Our Lives). Their perfect physiques game I hadn’t thought much about. never inspired me to get my own—and still The early game: Bellas vs. The Swallows cherished routines. Because when I adventure, haven’t, but they sure helped a sexually frustrat (clever). The teams dueled with frightening I’m rarely riddled with regret. For those participating in queer sporting, it’s • ed teen get to sleep at night. Much safer than intensity. They stole bases, dove for balls, un trickier warm body experiments: sleepovers. fazed by heat, dirt, hecklers. I took my time a distinct variation o f community. Gay is the Ambling through the field toward the ac before cheering; I was happy deferring to Tim adhesive, sure, but the team, spirit and competi tion, I mused. I’d heard about gay softball and as he single-handedly energized everyone tion— that compound provides contentment. its subsequent intensity, but I barely believed within earshot. He demanded teammates And, for observers, it’s rather special to watch it. Big bar talk from drunken gays. I expected “Make it Sparkle,” “Give it a spruce and a fur,” friends compete. I doubt I’ll ever don tight, sexy scenes from The Broken Hearts Club— lazing in and “Take it for a ride.” Much more question baseball stirrups and play, but I understand my outfields, not sweaty, dirty competition. Sun able, graphic innuendo ensued—one of the sportier brethren a little better. And I’m not op posed to relishing rather impressive scenery^ glasses on, too-early morning coffee in hand, I many perks of an all-gay team. Although I took time trying to decipher perhaps injecting a little spirit o f my own, spirit squinted, cursing the probing morning sun. I ’m not one for an early Sunday, especially post what, precisely, was supposed to sparkle— the hastened by a spiked morning latte. JUi whiskey party. Sundays belong to hair of the pitch, the ass in the tight uniform?— I soon realized it didn’t matter which nonsensical Apparently, a tournament's converging on Port dog and brunch. Two friends play on the team (Bella Boys) I phrases teammates tossed around; the perpet land (The Portland Cup , Aug. 13-14). Fire up the promised, all season, to go watch. Tim, my fa ual verbal barrage was about spirit. Sadly, The Grindr, boys , recruit that out-of-town talent. Take vorite bartender-tumed-dear friend, and Jose, Swallows, who showed great mettle, seemed to itforaride. 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