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. E m ail daniel @ justout . com .
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