He's here, he's Weir.

Yes, that was a newspaper headline. Pretty catchy methinks.

I started another post a little while ago that turned into a master's thesis proposal called one of the following:

"I Swear I Read Sports Illustrated For The Articles: The New Generation of Gay Athletes"

"He's Weir, He's Q***r: You*g G*y At*letes and Th* New C*ming Ou*"

"Quidditch Is Soooo Last Year, Real Men Play Wizard Chess: Sexual Ambiguouty (?) in 21th Century Sport"

"And The Band Played Christina Aguilera: Men, Sport and Society" (not so great, I'd have to work on that title)

"The Gay Olympic Games; Neither Gay, Olympic Nor Much Of A Game: Discuss." (yeah, I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel.)

"Spandex, Jockstraps And All That Glitters Gold: Sport and Sexuality in the 21st Century."


Much to many a writing teacher's chagrin, I always start with a title. The piece (of something) usually flows from there.

The whole point of the now-unpublished post was that everything about Johnny Weir seems to me to be indicative of a new generation of young, successful and celebrated athletes whose sexual orientation has become a part of the whole story. Not the subject of the story. Not ommitted from the story. Part of the story. "It" is wrapped up in the whole image.

It can be understood that Weir is gay. But, that doesn't seem to matter. His flamboyance, if one were to try to describe it in a word, is refreshing in its honesty. His words, honest to something less than a fault, are almost comforting. His skating at the Olympics may have left something to be desired, but his short program was just short of brilliant and inspiring.

And, for American figure skating, it's about damn time.

I felt like a sentimental fool, but the more I read about Johnny Weir, the more I feel inspired. Although I don't plan on wearing sequins, giving up the volleyballs or adopting a Weir demeanor, I'm all about Johnny Weir. Or, at least, his message.

I've known those who may or may not have been labelled "big nelly queens" all the way back to high school.

One of my best friends was that guy. In P.E., when we had to do all those track & field events, even I made fun of him when he attempted the long jump. He tried to do it the way it's supposed to be done. On his second try, he said, "fuck this," and when he planted his foot on the board, he sprung forward into a ballet split and flew into the sand. Of course, he went farther than everyone except the school's star long jumper. But not by much.

Throughout high school, he wore Prada and Gucci and Ferragamo. Yes, even in Hawaii. He had a Coach handbag and Louis Vutton flip flops. He took ballet and dance and, from time to time, would break out into a tap dance routine in the middle of the quad.

The thing I'll always remember, and the thing that bothered me the most in high school, was that he was 110% unabashedly himself. What you saw was what you got. He was the most loyal friend anyone could have. The most honest. The most insightful. The most. The most. The most. Now, he's getting his Ph.D. from Yale and the sky's the limit. But, he's the same guy I knew when I was a bratty, frustrated and angry 14 year old.

I've matured, maybe, and changed a lot. The kids that used to call him names and make fun of him have grown up. But, he's been true to himself for a lifetime, and that takes more balls than I'll ever know.

The first year I went to volleyball camp, there was this one coach. I'll call him Spock. Everyone had something to say about him. Including me. And I'll admit that I wasn't his biggest fan for all the wrong reasons. No one will ever find me tattooing a rainbow onto any part of my body.

I had a rainbow sticker on my car once. Once. For about 5 minutes. That's another story, I guess.

While Spock would get all primped at coifed to head out to the gay bar, I was in my room "bonding" with my roommate and, as embarassing as it is to say now, talking about how hot some of the women's college players were (and still are!). While I spent most of the two weeks worrying about whether or not I could find a coaching job if I became known as the homo, Spock was living it up. Not necessarily in the way that I would live it up, even now, but having a great time nonetheless.

I'm still not Spock's biggest fan. He's kind of an ass to me. But, I have a pretty deep respect for him. He was unabashedly himself among people who could have created all kinds of problems for him professionally and maybe personally. But, he didn't care. I'm sure he thought, "why should I care?" And that's admirable.

There are still more than a few times in the past couple of years that I've butched it up and gone back in the "closet." Lies by omission, I guess. It's what's comfortable for me. Especially when it has to do with my professional goals.

I cringe when I remember April of 2000. I was coaching the Illinois women's club volleyball team. Before the first practice back in September, I told the team that we were going to be playing in the National Championship match on center court in Reno in April. I told them that, by the end of the year, the Floridas and Purdues and Marquettes and Colorados and Miami of Ohios were going to be gunning for us because we would clearly be the team to beat. And, they bought it.

When we got to Reno, we were as confident as we had been all season. On the final day, we got by #8 Kentucky, swept #1 Florida and #6 Marquette and got by a good Washington State team.

But, while the team was prepping themselves to play Texas in the National Championship match, I was outside and around the corner. Practicing my wave.

The national championship game is the only time a club team will be introduced. I had to wave when the said my name. I went into the bathroom and waved in front of the mirror. Too nelly. Too fem. Too. Too. Too. I finally got it when I put all my fingers together, put my hand up and shook it once. I did it again. And again.

My team was prepping themselves for a collegiate national championship and I was in the bathroom trying to practice a wave that wouldn't announce to the world that I was a big homo.

I probably should have been looking at Texas' hitting patterns by rotation. Or trying to figure out how to match up our blockers against their hitters. Or figuring out a way to stop their two All-American middles. Or coming up with some kind of speech like "Well. Here we are. Right where we knew we'd be. Now we can relax and play our game."

I'd like to think that I'm not going to be consumed with regrets. But I have them. A bunch of them.

Well, Johnny Weir didn't get a medal. He's pretty pissed about it too. Vancouver, look out. The Weir is a-coming.

Oh, and I'm sure he'll skate the hell out of it, too.