“No. It’s just, this was all sort of my secret for a long time. I mean, being, you know, gay. And now it’s just weird having my family talk about it. I’m not used to it.”
“Well, you came out, didn’t you? What did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Can we talk about something else?”
“You okay?” my dad asked.
“I’m okay. I just, I think I’ll need to get used to this, too.”
“We all will. So is he nice? Does he play sports?”
“He plays gay fl ag football.”
“Is that different than regular fl ag football?”
I laughed. “No, it’s just played by gay people. There’s a league in L.A.”
“Ah,” he said. “Does this gay fl ag-football player have a name?”
“Bryan,” I said.
“Is he in school with you?”
“He’s . . . a year older than me. A freshman at Irvine.”
“Hmm. You sure you wouldn’t do better with someone still in high school?”
“You’ll like him,” I said. “He’s not going to call and play pranks on you.”
My dad laughed. “I like him already. Time for me to get some sleep, kiddo.”
“Love you, Dad,” I said.
“Me too.”
I went to sleep feeling as relaxed as I’d felt in ages.
It’s kind of nice, having no secrets for once.
On the phone the next night, the editor sounded pretty excited 229
about the whole thing. “Other than a few grammatical errors, I’m not changing a word,” he said. Knowing now what I’d been through, he couldn’t wait to tell the rest of the world.
“I’m straight,” he told me, “but your story really opened my eyes.”
I laughed to myself, wondering why he’d felt the need to tell me he wasn’t gay. He congratulated me for getting Finch on tape. Now there was no way we could be sued.
I went downstairs to tell my mother, who was reading a magazine in the den.
“Are you sure you want to go through this again?” she asked.
I smiled, as confident as I’d felt in a long time. It worked. I saw the worry fall away from her.
“Just read the article in the morning, would you?” I said. I kissed her on the cheek and headed off to bed.
That Tuesday morning, I ran downstairs to get the paper first thing. I tore through it looking for the sports section.
There I was, on the front page, a huge picture of me in my uniform, smiling. I couldn’t remember when that picture was taken. I’d never seen it before, but I liked it a lot.
“Perfect,” Bryan told me, over the phone when we talked that morning. “I knew you could do it. Congratulations.”
“I’m a little freaked.”
“It’s gonna be fi ne, Bobby.”
“Thanks for all your help,” I said. “I owe you a lot.”
“That’s true,” he said.
I laughed. “Shut up.” I was driving and talking, which is a bad thing to do, but I’d been dying to hear his reaction before school started.
“It’ll be a huge success, no question about it,” Bryan said.
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“By the way, have you finished your personal essays yet for your applications?”
I had not.
“Just cut the thing out, and put it in the mail. No questions asked.”
I hadn’t thought of that. Sounded like a plan.
Another call buzzed in and I picked up. It was the
Orange County
Register
editor. He sounded excited. “Looks good,” he said. “We’re getting lots of calls and the story is being picked up by the Associated Press.”
“Wow.”
“Also I just got a call from Finch Gozman’s lawyer,” he said.
“What?”
He continued. “He told me he’d see us in court. I asked him on what grounds? When I told him we had a tape of Finch admitting what he’d done, he said he’d sue us for unlawful recording of his client. I laughed at him. He realized they have no case, and he hung up on me.”
I laughed. “That’s awesome!” I said.
There was a lot of support at school. A bunch of people came up to me and told me what a dork Finch was. One guy I’d never talked to before, a junior with pink hair, came up to me in the cafeteria during lunch period.
“Bobby? Hi, I’m Reg? You don’t know me?”
Everything he said was a question. I recognized him from
Hairspray
. He’d been in it with Carrie.
“Hi,” I said.
He looked around surreptitiously. “I just wanted to say, that was very brave? What you did?”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling at him. I wondered if this was some 231
sort of come-on. I tended to be attracted to guys who had hair that’s less pink, or any other neon color.
He leaned closer. His breath smelled of peanut butter. “One thing that people don’t know about me? Is that I’m gay? You’ve given me the confi dence . . . to maybe do the same?”
It hadn’t occurred to me that this particular guy was not gay. But who was I to judge?
“That’s great, Reg. Let me know how it goes,” I said. I shook his hand and headed over to Carrie, who was sitting alone at a table near the Coke machine.
Before I got there, Todd Stanhope came up to me. I’m not a stalker, but if I was, he’d be my stalkee.
“Hey, Bobby,” he said to me, as if we talked every day. We definitely didn’t.
“Hey, Todd,” I said, and we stood there, facing each other.
I was hoping I wouldn’t crumble at the knees as we stood next to each other.
“Your article today was cool,” he said, his eyes wandering around and finally making contact with mine. “I have a brother who’s away at college. I’m gonna send it to him.”
It was interesting to me that he didn’t say “gay,” but I knew what he meant. I also was thinking:
How old is he, and does he look
like you?
Instead I nodded and said, “Thanks, Todd. Are you cool with him?”
“No, not really,” he said, laughing. “But maybe I’ll try harder. If I do, it’s because of your article.”
I was half astounded, half disappointed. Here was the most beautiful guy I’d ever seen, and he was telling me my article had opened his mind. But on the other hand, if he wasn’t cool with 232
his gay brother, that meant he was straight. “Thanks,” I said.
“You around this weekend?” he asked me, looking slightly beyond me.
“I think so,” I said.
He waved to someone. “I’m having a party Saturday night,” he said. “Bring whoever. That weird girl you hang with.”
“Thanks!” I said. “Will do.”
He pointed at me as his way of saying good-bye, and I watched him walk over to another friend.
“You cheating on Bryan already?” It was Carrie. She had walked up behind me and now her chin was on my back. She rested her nose on my left shoulder.
I continued watching Todd. “Nah. Todd has nothing on Bryan,”
I said.
She smirked at me. “Yeah, right,” she said.
“He’s eye candy,” I said, and I blushed.
“You can do better,” she said, ignoring my comment. “He’s a complete idiot. He’s in my math class.”
“He speaks highly of you, too,” I said, turning to her. “He told me to invite the hot, weird girl I hang with to his party.”
“Awesome, he’s hot. I’m so there,” she said, and we laughed.
by BOBBY FRAMINGHAM
November 18, 2007
Special to the Orange County Register
I’ve never been very good outside the pocket.
As a quarterback, I’ve always preferred to know
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where my protection is, then set my feet and throw. Anytime I have to scramble, I get nervous because throwing on the run isn’t really a strength of mine.
Last month, I was forced out. Of the closet, in this case. A reporter for my high school paper found out I was gay and wrote the story without my permission. I’m not going to say anything more about him, other than what he did was wrong. He really didn’t think about the repercussions, or what it meant for me.
I wasn’t ready to have my family and teammates
know. I was just starting to get comfortable, and then everyone knew. Talk about scrambling! I’m still learning to accept being gay for myself.
At the time I felt like he had stolen my dream. There’s not exactly a fraternity of openly gay high school football players, let alone players at higher levels. It’s not hard to figure out why. Being gay means you’re supposed to be effeminate and someone like that isn’t going to make it in sports.
I don’t have a ton of role models as an openly gay football player, but I have good friends, and a great coach and teammates, and an awesome family, and everyone is doing their best to help me out, and I appreciate it a lot.
My dream has always been to make it as a pro. I don’t know if I’m going to make it. I’m not sure if I have what it takes to begin with, and now there’s this new obstacle.
I’ve only been out for a month and it’s already been a real challenge.
But so far I’ve been all right, and I plan to keep going.
I’m going to try to face every challenge as it comes. No one gets to be a pro athlete by avoiding adversity. Gay or 234
straight, you have to step up, work hard, and never take no for an answer.
So I’m out now. And I’m learning how to throw on the run, and I’m learning to accept who I am. And none of it is easy. But learning to scramble on the run is making me a better quarterback.
And I guess I should be thanking that reporter. Because even if it wasn’t my idea, being honest about who I am has made me feel like a better person.
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On a rainy, chilly Saturday at Durango High School, we opened the playoffs against Corona Del Mar. The Sea Kings were a good running team, Coach told us; if we couldn’t stop the run, we’d lose.
“We gonna let them dictate this game?” he asked in the locker room before the kickoff.
“No!” we shouted.
“We hungry?”
“Hell yeah!” I looked around and smiled. We looked hungry. I saw a lot of serious faces, and it gave me some confidence when I needed it. My stomach felt way queasy.
The Sea Kings ran their way to a 7–0 lead. On our first possession, I ran onto the soggy field and got an ovation from our home crowd that warmed me. I could feel that they were on my side.
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As we neared the fifty-yard line, Coach called a play-action pass where all our receivers flood the right side of the field. Rahim ran over before fl anking out wide right.
“Lean on us, Bobby,” he said, looking into my eyes. “You don’t need to do this all yourself.” I gave him the thumbs-up sign.
The grass felt soft and soggy beneath my feet. I looked down and saw that my cleats were already mud drenched, and tried to remember what Coach had said about running in mud.
Stay over your feet,
I remembered him saying.
Bolleran hiked the ball and I faked the handoff to Mendez before rolling left. There were puddles of water everywhere and I felt the splash on my socks as I scrambled. I looked downfi eld and their entire defense was on that side. I couldn’t find an open maroon uniform anywhere.
In a split second, I sprinted forward and to the right.
In my quarterback career, I’d probably run past the line of scrimmage less than ten times. But as my strides got longer, I began to feel sure-footed and balanced. I saw the open fi eld ahead. One linebacker had stayed home on that side and I saw his eyes, brilliant with fear. I galloped toward him and he held his ground. Tucking the ball close to my sternum, I juked right and sidestepped him to the left, my feet slipping in the mud.
He crumpled to the ground. I was now at their forty-yard line and from the corner of my left eye I saw a swarm of players from both teams dashing diagonally to cut me off. I saw two defenders gaining on me; Rahim was alongside one of them.
I cut back, stopping on a dime as I had never done before, and when the first defender did the same, Rahim delivered a blow to his chest, hammering him to the ground with a perfectly legal block.
I continued running, now inside the twenty, and I could hear the 237
crowd screaming for me. The second defender closed in on me at around the fi fteen, and I saw him lunge, diving for my ankles.
I hurdled him, avoiding his grab.
I’d never scored on a long run at any level, and crossing the goal line, I felt an exuberance deep in my chest, a floating feeling of being above things and looking down on the celebration. Touchdown. My teammates jumped me, and I gladly collapsed under them in the mud of the end zone.
“Yo, Crazy Legs! That’s what I’m talking’ ’bout!” yelled Haskins as I ran to the sideline. He gave me a high five and I felt elation in my bones.
We led 21–7 by the middle of the second quarter. We were backed up near our own end zone on a third down, needing just one yard for a new set of downs. Coach called a plunge up the middle by Mendez.
It was a safe call, given that our line was having no trouble dominating theirs. As we approached the line of scrimmage, I noticed that the Sea Kings had stacked the line, hoping to stop the run.
With eight men on the line, they had just three to cover the backfield, and the only one to my right was directly on the line opposite Rahim. I knew he’d never be able to keep up with Rahim, and looking to that side, I realized we had a quick touchdown if I changed the play with an audible.
But was it too risky?
My head spun, thinking of all the lessons I’d learned, and I couldn’t decide.
I handed off to Mendez who dove up the middle for three yards and a first down. It was a decent outcome, but Coach signaled for a time-out and waved me over.
“Aren’t you Mr. Audible?” he said to me as I hurried to the sideline.
“Just trying to be smart, don’t want to make any mistakes.”
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He sighed. “You’re the quarterback. You see a weakness, exploit it. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Hey, you did the safe thing, good thinking.” I ran back onto the fi eld, hoping for another chance to do the right thing.
Five plays later, they stacked the line again and this time I quickly called an audible. Rahim cruised past their defender, who seemed stunned that we were throwing. I lobbed the pass to Rahim, who ran it in painlessly for a forty-two-yard touchdown.
“Attaboy,” Coach said when I got to the sideline and removed my helmet. He rubbed my head affectionately. “I think you’re onto something.”