Last Sunday, I partook in an annual ritual that most gay men I know do religiously. This yearly thing we feel compelled to do is the one thing most straight men would never dream of doing. This subversive act that we participate in every year is the Official Turning Off of The Super Bowl. It's an act of defiance, a declaration of our gay rights that we fought so hard for.    

    I have found a kindred spirit in my new boyfriend Alex over our mutual hatred of sports. Alex would rather watch gangrene grow than watch the Super bowl and I'd rather spend an afternoon at Auschwitz. It's reassuring to find someone who understands what being 'gay' still means.  It means 'sports hates me and I hate sports'. I've have lived by this motto for decades. I haven't hated anything for as long as I have hated baseball and football and basketball:  The Holy Trinity of Homosexual Hell.  (Soccer was the only exception because I could give a 'Batgirl" kick to a ball and make it go pretty far)

    I might even hate sports more than Republicans and Religion. Sports has always betrayed me, double-crossed me. Sports gave me away; let the other kids know that something was different, something was wrong. Terribly wrong.  No matter how hard I tried and how hard I prayed, I could not catch a ball. A ball is the single most terrifying object I can think of. In it's small round shape is embodied all the fear, pain, anxiety, embarrassment, cruelty, torture, and unpopularity that a child can experience. Personally, I'd rather have a lion coming towards me than a ball. I stand a better chance with the lion.  Having terrible eyesight my entire life has not helped. I was born with cataracts, and when they were removed the lens of each eye had to be removed too. This left me without full depth perception, which the 3/4 inch glasses I had to wear did not correct. Even contact lenses designed by NASA didn't help me. The doctor explained this is why I can't catch a ball, but I knew there was more to it. I had seen the curse too many times in other boys who didn't have bad eyes. Even with depth perception, some boys couldn't catch to save their lives. It was usually proportionate to how gay you acted. A strange math equation that almost seemed to follow a law of Physics that Sir Isaac Newton didn't discover: Airborne Ball + Gay Boy= Ball On Ground.   Some straight boys suffered from the same curse too but in a totally disproportionate number.

  The Ball-Catchers, as they are called, always know where the ball-droppers are, and unfortunately we always knew they knew. The Ball-Droppers were all part of a team that no one wanted to be part of.  But what exactly is it that makes gay boys so challenged? What is the physiological basis, the origin of this lack of coordination, the retardation of our hands that makes gay boys so bad at sports? 

   To my chagrin, it appears that all gay boys aren't bad at sports. As I got older I started coming across gay guys who actually like sports.  Liked watching them and playing them. These were gay guys who can actually punt footballs, hit baseballs, do lay-ups, better than a lot of straight guys. Entire leagues being formed of gay men playing sports!     

   Still to this day I cannot catch anything. I have this great body with all my muscles that actually can't do anything. It's like a hologram. The only thing my muscles are good for is helping friends on moving day lifting heavy objects and helping the stroke patients I treat walk again. I warn my friends and co-workers but they sometimes forget and throw things towards me. A pen becomes a missile, a banana becomes a torpedo, an apple becomes a grenade and a Hershey’s kiss wrapped in foil becomes a bullet. Occasionally, I put my hands up and the object somehow lands in them, which always shocks and thrills me, and fills me with an amazing yet temporary sense of pride that I actually caught something.

  This is why Alex and I ended up at the beach. It is the furthest thing from watching the Super Bowl that one can do. Typical of San Francisco's unique climate and politics, the temperature was 75. That's tanable temperature.  I was not only not watching the Super Bowl but I was getting color too. What a perfect day. Alex's friend Chance joined us along with Alex's tiny black Chiwawa-like mutt, Doug. Chance is an edgy gay Irish 29 year-old who is unfancy until he gets in the kitchen, where he turns into a tyrant.  What the love-child of Julia Child and Hitler would be like. Only he wears the apron. He was a child prodigy, almost burning down his house at three by trying to make French Toast for himself by putting all the ingredients into the toaster. He gets all his power, and ego,frorm the kitchen. He 's entertained by me but looks down on my cooking skills, which I have none of, and my unsophisticated palate. He prepared a meal for us, which I made the mistake of not eating a meal in preparation for the meal I would be served.  It was the first time I had foie gras.  I ate my entire portion in one fork-full. I thought the entree of 2 mini kobi beef burgers was an appetizer. As delicious as it was was as fast as it was gone off my plate. I acted very appreciative and complimented Chance on the sublime smallness of the meal. Then told Alex I would burn down his condo if he didn't get me more food. Luckily there was no kitchen at the beach so Chance was more relaxed and a lot of fun to be around, even though he wouldn't drink the Orangina I offered him. He, Alex, Doug and me were pretty much there by ourselves on the entire beach. There were a few gay Super Bowl protesters there with us, but it was empty compared to what Black Sands Beach would normally be on such a beautiful Sunday. For me, there is nothing more boring then an empty gay beach. I go to be seen, not to relax. The only real attention I was getting was from Doug who kept running towards me then back to Alex on his towel. After two hours we decided we had enough sun, especially Chance who is as white as French Bread. It was 4:30 in the afternoon already and  we still had the long schelp back up the steep path, so we didn't get back to Alex's place until almost six. By that time, I figured the Super Bowl was over and it was safe to call my friend Ron who had been watching the game at my ex-boyfriend Grant's apartment. They told me the game had just finished, and that it was safe for me to come over so we could hang-out and play some episodes of Dexter. When Alex dropped me off at Grant's and I came into the downstairs entrance, I could hear screaming coming from upstairs.  I ran upstairs to see what was wrong and those bastards were yelling at the T.V. at a play  from the Super Bowl that was still going on!

    " You told me it was over!"

    "Gotcha !" they both pointed at me at  the same time. "Hope you brought your pom-poms" Grant said. Ron pulled out a short  blue skirt he had bought for a dollar at GoodWill.  "I think this will fit. Put it on fast so you can start the cheers."

       I grabbed the skirt and put it over my head instead to shield my eyes from the T.V and wouldn't take it off.  It was in the fourth quarter so at least it was almost over.  I lifted the skirt from my face only to eat the seven-layer dip Grant made.  After a few minutes, Grant told me if I wanted, I could bring out his dog, Oliver, a beauitful black German Shepard that at 10 months is already a giant. Ron had his little dog there too, a great mutt named Bubba, who holds his own against Oliver. I take care of the dogs whenever Grant and his new boyfriend Mark needs me to, just like I do for Ron with Bubba.  So, I was more than happy to have something to do besides sitting there behind my skirt-veil. The thought of cleaning up dog poop was much more appealing than watching the SuperBowl. When I got the dogs outside, it was as if an atomic bomb had exploded and mankind was wiped out.  The streets were empty except for me and the dogs. everyone else was indoors watching the last minutes of the game.  By the time I got back upstairs, the game had just ended and Ron was jumping up and down and pointed his finger at Grant "In your face, in your face!"  I joined in the chorus and we both jumped up and down " In your face! In your face!"  I didn't even know who won or who each was rooting for or even what teams were playing, but it is always fun teaming up with Ron against Grant, just because Grant is so tall and good-looking and has a boyfriend who is even more handsome than me who he lives with in that 2 bedroom rent-controlled apartment we were jumping up and down in.

    Ron hugged me in solidarity and faked crying.  "We won, we won".               

    I faked crying too and hugged him back. "I know it's amazing.  All the sportscasters  said they didn't stand a chance but those Mets showed everyone."