Billy Bean's Pitch

Even if we could,
the obstacles to getting there are immense. The average
pro baseball player’s career begins when he’s
21 and lasts about 10 years. Given that a lot of
athletes are naturally more instinctive than
introspective, and keeping in mind that many men -- even in
professions where being out is socially acceptable --
don’t figure out that they’re gay until
they’re at least 25, it’s really not
surprising that no active male pro team-sports athlete
has come out. Furthermore, team athletes are taught to
be conformists, to view the world in a way that divides
insiders from outsiders with uncommon clarity, which makes
the boundary-crossing act of coming out all the more
fraught with fear and anxiety. Finally, pro athletes
are consumed by their careers to a degree that few
outsiders can imagine.

During the
afternoon we spend together, the only one of these factors
that Bean mentions is the last one. When he describes this
aspect of a ballplayer’s life, he raises his
voice to a tone that’s almost angry. “If
you had $30 million coming, don’t you think
it’s fair that someone thinks about
that?” he asks, letting the question hang in the air.
“Athletes become consumed. You have to, to
succeed. I don’t think it’s selfish of
somebody to say, ‘My career is the most important
thing in my life.’ ”

In the end, Billy
Bean resolves his wardrobe crisis at A|X Armani
Exchange, where a helpful gay salesclerk steers him toward a
short-sleeved collared shirt in powder blue. Before he takes
the hot seat on the Best Damn Sports Show
Period, Bean changes in the bathroom at the
studio, checks himself out in the mirror, and says,
“This works, right?”

It works fine. If
he’d worn a pink polo shirt, Billy Bean probably
still would have been fine. The questions are
respectful; the applause light flashes after he says,
“We can’t let the perfect get in the way of
the good,” and the live audience nods with
approval.

Leaving the
studio, Bean is kind of amazed. “Maybe we’re
the ones that learned something today,” he
says. What’s that? I ask. “That the image is
out there,” he replies. “The idea is out there
already.”

That night, at A
Different Light bookstore in the heart of West
Hollywood, Bean reads from his book for a crowd of about
100. Wearing the same blue shirt, but with one more
button unbuttoned, he reads the story of the first
time he ever heard the word “faggot,” when his
Little League coach yelled at him,
“Don’t run like a faggot, boy.” Many in
the crowd chuckle ruefully, as Bean reads:

“What,
exactly, was a faggot? How did faggots run? Clearly, it
wasn’t a good thing. It was probably the worst
thing imaginable. It equaled weakness and timidity,
everything a budding, insecure jock wanted to avoid.
We were only kids. How were we supposed to know the
truth?”

We
couldn’t know. Even now that we’re adults, the
shame that surrounded our identity from the moment we
first knew it never completely leaves. But it does
fade with the incremental steps we take -- the knowledge
that we can be strong, bold, happy, and yes,
Christina, beautiful. For many, seeing Billy Bean come
out strengthens that knowledge. And at the same time,
it strengthens our connection to the rest of the world.

In Richard
Greenberg’s Broadway play Take Me Out, a
gay accountant named Mason Marzac, who has the clipped
mannerisms and fastidious speech patterns of a lifelong
loner, turns into a baseball fan when pro player
Darren Lemming comes out of the closet. For the first
time, Mason feels like he’s part of a community.
Disoriented but exhilarated, he tells Darren, “I
don’t know why I feel exalted when we win. I
don’t know why I feel diminished when we lose. I
don’t know why I’m saying
‘we’…! Life is so…tiny, so
daily. This…you…take me out of
it.”

At
Chicago’s pride parade, when Billy Bean climbs into
the 1965 Vanden Plas Princess Bentley open-top touring
car and begins his ride up Halsted Street,
he’ll be taking us out. He will show the world
something new about what a gay person can be, and he
will show gay people something new about what we can
be in the world. It probably won’t be the most
comfortable place for him. “I don’t think
I’ll ever get used to being in front of
people,” he says. “Definitely I would prefer
to be part of the crowd.” But in that setting,
if only for a day, Billy Bean will be able to wear
whatever he damn well pleases.