I hate sports and always have.

There I said it. I’ve never understood the big deal about them, what with all the rules and stuff. I like it when things can spiral madly out of control and you don’t know what is coming next. Like THE YOUNG AND THE RESTLESS. But I digress.

Since I hate sports, it was a foregone conclusion I would hate gym class. And growing up gay and not being able to control my, ahem…”pink steel”…I decided early on that I would just not participate and risk being exposed as a homo. I refused to get dressed for gym, refused to take part in any of the activites, and refused to shower with the other guys. There was no way I was going to risk the torment and bullying that “Templeton” the special-ed kid got when he accidentally popped a boner one day in the showers. That poor guy was picked on all through middle school and high school and he probably had no idea what he had even done. I would’ve been crucified.

Looking back, I think most of the coaches realized the only gym I was going to show any interest in was spelled J-I-M, so for the first 3 years of middle and high school, they would send me to study hall during the first week of classes and tell me to stay there until they came to get me. Which was right around a quarter ’til never; they just gave me C’s and I attended study hall faithfully in return.

Until my sophomore year. Until Coach Homophobe*.

Coach H was a frustrated ex-football player who wasn’t good enough to play college level, let alone professional. He was squat and barrel chested with a booming voice and a burning desire to humilate anyone different. And being a fag was about the worst kind of different you could be in his eyes.

The first few weeks, the Coach yelled at me daily about not bringing my gym clothes and I would stand there with a vacant look in my eyes, wondering what had happened on my soaps and calculating how many more yards I would have to mow to get together enough money to buy a VCR. Once he realized that I was not going to get dressed, he decided to take a new path to break me. He would tell me to go take a shower with everyone else, even though I had merely sat on the bleachers for 40 minutes. I told him that was ridiculous and refused.

He saw that as me throwing down a gauntlet. The next day at the end of the class, he sent everyone to the showers, took me to a short table, handed me his grade book, and announced: “Mancuso will be checking everyone off as they take a shower today. When you come out of the shower, stop by Mancuso, open your towel to show him you took one and he will check you off.” Of course when they did this, their junk would be right in my face.

I checked off every name in that book, never looking up once.

Obviously displeased that humiliation didn’t do the trick, the Coach decided that more drastic measures were called for. The wheels in his thick head slowly began turning and for the next few weeks, he made the usual fuss about my not dressing for gym but nothing more. I could see him looking at me, the distaste for me growing exponentially.

And then a few weeks later, sensing my guard was down, he sprung it on me.

After a waste of 40 minutes called basketball, the coach blew his whistle and made this announcement: “Everybody go get dressed…no showers today. Except for Mancuso. And everyone can watch.”

TO BE CONCLUDED…
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* Not his real name.