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I was sick of a lot more than that. Dennis was puzzled
by my attitude, and he let me know it. He wasn't afraid to
point out that I was inconsistent at the big-league level
and that I'd created my own problems. Every ballplayer is
told to play until he drops. It's a testament to our commitment
for the game and how lucky we are to get paid to play it.
I was about to break a cardinal rule.
My anger and frustration got the best
of me, and I just couldn't listen to him.
"Dennis, you just don't know how
hard it's been," I said. "You can't even imagine."
It was true. I hadn't confided my secret
to him, and a baseball guy like Dennis never would've guessed
what I was harboring. This was uncharted territory. There
was no map by which a gay ballplayer could navigate toward
stardom and happiness.
I wanted my agent to fight for me
and for my career, but it really wasn't his fight. He'd heard
me complain bitterly for years about the uncertainty of my
status in the game, and the constant ups and downs.
"You've got to put up some numbers,"
he said. "If you put up some numbers on the field, I
can get you some numbers in your contract."
Fair enough. But just then I was looking
to him to talk me out of quitting. I wanted him to persuade
me to stay in the game. But all Dennis could come up with
was a limp, "Do whatever makes you happy."
My triple-A manager Tim Flannery, a
terrific baseball guy who'd also played in the big leagues,
was the one guy who had really leaned on me to give it another
shot.
"Make them rip the uniform off
your back, Beaner," he'd said. "You can't give it
up now." But then Tim didn't know about my facade either.
On the radio, Robb Nen threw a slider.
Chipper Jones went down on strikes. Game over.
I slowed to a jog as I reached Efra’n's
house in Coral Gables. I walked around to the backyard to
cool down from my run and sat on the steps. Since I was eight,
I'd always had a baseball season to look forward to. I buried
my face in my hands and had my first real cry since I'd retired.
What am I gonna do now? It would be three more years before
the story I was determined to keep private made national headlines.
The truth is I'd never wanted to be a star anywhere but on
the field. I never set out to be a role model for gay ballplayers
or for anyone else. I couldn't figure out why all the attention
had come to me.
For twenty-five years, I had only
wanted to play ball. But something surprising had happened
along the way. I discovered there was more to life than hitting
.300. Perhaps my life was meant for other things.
With the perspective the last several
years had provided, I felt ready to tell my story, in my own
words, so that others might avoid the cruel dilemma I'd faced.
Going the Other Way is not just a ballplayer's story. It's
for anyone who has ever wanted to make their parents proud,
play for the team, reach a goal, and be their best. It's for
parents who want to understand the struggles faced by their
children. It's for athletes who are not sure they can deal
with a gay teammate. It's for gay athletes who may feel, as
I did, that no one else walked in their cleats or high-tops.
My story is about feeling alone in
a crowded room. It's about embracing the notion that our lives
don't always turn out the way we thought they would. It's
about realizing that while we may not all be alike, or come
from the same place, we can survive and thrive as long as
we learn to play together as a team.
This is the chronicle of a journey,
an arduous voyage made possible by the great game of baseball.
To take you on this trip, I must start at the beginning, on
the dusty playing fields of my youth.
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