I’m proud to be bisexual, and I’m proud to be out while working in sports media. I’m proud to have done the work I’ve done, including a podcast where I can talk with people in sports who have broken down barriers by being their true selves. My coming out process was clean as can be, and I’ve faced no headwinds in this business doing what I do while being out.
Part of being out while working in sports media is shining a light on the issues my community faces in being accepted and treated as equals in sports. I have an obligation to my community in doing so, more so than ever considering the climate of 2023. When lives are under attack, seeing those stories through the eyes of friends, family, or even as someone feeling guilty for standing by while others are getting hurt can be a catalyst for meaningful change.
All sports are nowhere near where they need to be on acceptance and support for the LGBTQ+ community, hockey above others. Watching four NHL players “opt out” of wearing pride warmup sweaters and watching four other teams ditch them altogether has been disheartening to say the least. After watching the league do a genuinely good job when Luke Prokop came out, it has stung quite a bit watching them drop the ball like this. It hurts to see this heavy a boulder roll back down the hill (this meme hits too close to home).
With all the jokes about how these players are hypocrites, how they’ve cherry picked the bible, how they’ve sunk their reputations and how some aren’t even Russian, it seems we’ve lost the thread a little. As much as I’m personally not a fan of Pride nights (you can read this earlier piece of mine to see why), I understand why they have to exist and what their place is. Not holding a Pride night at all isn’t an option in 2023, even if those Pride nights are doing the barest of bare minimums. Pride nights are supposed to tell queer fans that they are welcome at the rink, the ballpark or the stadium, and that they belong there. For generations, sports leagues and teams couldn’t even do that, so the shift feels notable even if the teams aren’t making any grand statements of allyship.
When I wrote my piece about the Rays’ Pride night fiasco nine months ago after some of their players “opted out” of wearing rainbow jerseys, I wanted teams to stop holding Pride nights at all if they weren’t going to do them properly. After the last four or so months in hockey, I realize that I need to refine that point. Watching teams back out of wearing rainbow warmup sweaters entirely due to one fear or another is certainly a worse look than a couple of conspicuous absentees, leave alone ditching the rest of what they had planned. As much as I’d like Pride nights to be much more than they currently are, my expectations turned out to be a bit unrealistic. They are not at their worst, insincere displays of charity as I accused. Even if they’re bumbling, at times contrived and at worst outright pinkwashing, they’re still coming from the heart and are trying to do right by the community.
Lost in my hope that teams and players can do more for their queer fans and community than just paint their logos rainbow and play Lady Gaga tracks during stoppages misses the essence of what most queer fans and many allies see Pride nights as: a chance to tell these people they are welcome. As much as I’d love the Florida Panthers, for instance, to spend their Pride nights reminding the world how heinous, callous and sinful the laws the governor of their state is passing, I understand they’re not capable of doing that, nor would they be any good at it. They cleared an extremely low bar, but they stuck with what they had planned even though they were thrown a curveball. They wanted to make their queer fans feel welcome, even if two of their players did not, and they committed strongly to that message, enough to leave those players to fend for themselves, which is more than four other teams did.
Pride nights are about humanizing the community by showing them and everyone else that they’re welcome and they belong. Players deciding not to wear rainbow jerseys for whatever reason fail to grasp that, and teams pulling the jerseys entirely does exactly the same.
For these queer fans who went to the Sharks Pride night, they weren’t going because they wanted the team to take a stand against “Don’t Say Gay” in Florida or the Lieutenant Governor in Tennessee who endorsed all their hate crimes disguised as laws while also liking pictures of almost naked gay men on Instagram from his government account; they wanted to enjoy a night at their favorite team’s game and enjoy the support the team is attempting to show them:
Put yourself in the shoes of a queer fan going to a Pride night game: You obviously know what’s going on in the outside world and you see how other teams have dropped the ball with their Pride nights; you’re not expecting much. But seeing your favorite player wearing a jersey with rainbow numbers and letters has to be a thrill. It’s a sign that this person sees you as a human being, as an equal and that they want you to be a part of the game they love too. It’s validation that hits you on a fundamental level.
For all those players that can’t see this in all their religious dogma or whatever other excuse they use, those that do are worth acknowledging, even if they’re not exactly dressing up in drag:
Whether it be for genuine love of the community, a simple desire to grow the game, or even a craven capitalist need to make more money from a community with disposable income, teams holding Pride nights is a crude yet needed statement saying that the queer community is welcome in sports and that they understand their humanity in a time when so many others don’t want to or don’t care to.
Humanization is incredibly powerful. Luke Prokop’s Seattle Thunderbirds team mystifyingly decided not to hold a Pride night of their own, so their fans set one up independently. On that night during warmups, the entire team put Pride tape on their sticks to support their teammate.
None of Luke’s current, former or future teammates will see LGBTQ+ issues in the abstract anymore. Instead, they’ll see a teammate and a friend and how they affect him. Prokop’s former defense partner with the Edmonton Oil Kings, Kaiden Guhle, is an ambassador for Alphabet Sports Collective, an organization started by Brock McGillis and Bayne Pettinger to make hockey a more inclusive place for the queer community. Guhle doesn’t see these issues in the abstract either, because he sees his friend and D partner who he went to war with for over 20 minutes a night to win a championship.
Brian Burke is still one of the biggest allies in hockey because of his son Brendan. Players like McDavid, Tyson Barrie, Jamie Benn among many others have said and done quite a lot to support the cause because of their relationships with Bayne Pettinger. Humanization is incredibly powerful.
In order for Pride nights to be what I and others hope they can be in the future, whether that’s feasible or not, the humanization element is essential. Pride nights should be about welcoming this community and showing everyone the humanity and individual stories behind that. When people see LGBTQ+ issues as affecting those they love and care about rather than as simply “political” or abstract, cultures can shift for the better.
James Reimer, Eric and Marc Staal and countless other bigots can say they love everyone but their actions speak way louder than any PR statement. Choosing not to wear a jersey for even 15 minutes says to queer fans they’re not welcome, even if that’s not their intent. They haven’t seen these issues through empathetic, even sympathetic eyes, and perhaps they don’t want to. People who can’t see the humanity in others shouldn’t define a night when the basic goal is to see humanity in others.
For years, sports actively pushed queer people away and said they weren’t welcome. Now, however awkwardly, they’re trying to make up for lost time. They’re not going to be perfect, and it’s going to take a lot of rolling boulders up hills only to see them fall back down again to get anywhere near close to the ideal, but it’s work that has to be done.
We may still be years away from the ultimate humanization: out active players in the NHL and other leagues, and the hardest work to make that happen is most likely done behind the scenes. In order to get there, those closeted players have to feel welcomed first, and Pride nights are an important, if basic, step in that direction.
It’s definitely funny to dunk on Eric Staal for not remembering he wore a Pride jersey two years ago, but that catharsis is only temporary. As sweet as it may seem to laugh at Eric Staal drowning in his own contradictions, that shouldn’t be what these nights are about. A more direct rebuke of him isn’t a funny joke on Twitter, it’s actual allyship that shows to queer people they are valued and seen, rather than focus on those that don’t care to.
The stats speak for themselves. Pride nights might not be what I and many others want them to be, but what they can be right now is a step towards that goal. Humanization is the key to unlocking so much more for the queer community in sports and beyond. The more of that we can get, the better.
We can’t lose sight of the humans we’re celebrating here.