Ball Boys

Gay men are coming out as sports fans... not that there's anything wrong with that

The Tuesday after Memorial Day weekend is typically a sleepy night for bars, but a downtown sports bar called Gym is crowded, as always. The Yankees vs. Detroit game, now in extra innings, is playing on two flat-screen TV’s and is also being projected onto the brick wall opposite the bar. Baseball is everywhere.

A line drive hits the Tigers’ left fielder in the forearm. “That’s why we traded your ugly ass!” a bald, well-built black man yells at the T.V. His effeminate tone of voice seems incongruous with the insider knowledge his comment reveals.
In 2002, Marcus Thames was traded from the Yankees, and eventually ended up on Detroit. The fan knows all that, and like most of the men at Gym, he is flamingly gay.
That’s not an oxymoron, and, despite popular misconception, it never has been, says Cyd Zeigler, creator and owner of Outsports.com, the gay version of ESPN. Thirty percent of the general population considers itself hard core sports fans, and 30 percent of the gay population does, too, according to Zeigler.
The stereotype that gay men don’t like sports is not entirely unfounded, however. There are a lot of gay men who want nothing to do with sports because they were scared off of them at a young age, called “fag” or teased for throwing like a girl. Some of those men became voices of the gay community, and the result was that sports did not receive much support within that community, Zeigler explained. Coming out to your gay friends as a sports fan was almost as difficult as coming out to your straight friends as gay.
That’s changing, and nowhere is there more evidence of the shift than at Gym.
Before Gym Sports Bar opened on Eighth Avenue between 18th and 19th streets a little over a year ago, about half the guys who now drink there were watching games at home or at straight bars, Rick Schmutzler, the bar’s co-owner, estimates. These hard-core sports fans come to Gym because it’s more fun to watch sports when you don’t have to censor yourself. “Watching the football game with gay men makes those periodic upwellings of sexual attraction OK to express (like, when Tom Brady leans over to stretch his hamstrings – yowzer.),” a gay Texas-born football fan explained.
The other half of Gym’s patrons would probably be out at other gay bars or clubs if Gym didn’t exist, says Schmutzler. These “others” are casual sports fans who enjoy watching, say, tennis or the Olympics, but would not have gone so far as to identify as sports fans in the past. They come to Gym for the atmosphere, which is friendly and, well, normal.
Jimmy Vanegas, 29, is a Yankees fan, “but that’s about it,” he says. Vanegas works for People magazine and goes to celebrity events a lot, and seems like the type that would favor highly manicured high-end bars, but he’s at Gym at least four times a week. “It is more the social aspect,” he says. “You’re hanging out with guys who like sports. Not just your typical Chelsea boys, who are into the gym, fashion, beauty.”
His drinking buddy, Julio Santana, 29, a chef from Brooklyn and a basketball fan, often stops by when Gym opens at three to have a drink or two. “We don’t have a lot of this atmosphere anywhere,” says Santana. “In Brooklyn, we don’t have a place where gay guys can go to watch the game and hang out with the guys. We needed somewhere we could relax and not have strippers and porno on T.V.”
“One of the things our gay clientele likes is we are kind of like a regular bar,” Schmutzler said. A thick-chested Midwesterner in his forties, Schmutzler retains his native friendliness and the idea that “going out shouldn’t be stressful.” This Tuesday night, he is wearing a black tank top that says “just be, nyc” in neon cursive.
Before Gym, Shmutzler says, there were “down and dirty piggy bars and fabulous martini club spaces,” he said. “That leaves a lot of room in the middle. The majority of gay men are in the middle.”
If not for Gym, Santana says he would probably be hitting G Lounge or XL, hip high-end Chelsea bars specializing in frozen cosmos and fruity cocktails. Or “if I really want to go out dancing, I’ll go to Queens,” he says. “But it’s not like here. Gym is a step away from that whole muscle guys with bikinis on. It’s a good time. It’s normal.”
Gym is the only gay sports bar in New York. Two others have opened in the past few years in Atlanta and Chicago.
The emergence of gay sports bars comes hand in hand with a boom in gay sports clubs and leagues. Out of Bounds, which works with LGBT sports and recreation groups in New York, estimates that 3,000 participants are involved in gay clubs and leagues in the greater New York area. The Big Apple Softball League has grown threefold in the last decade. It now has 650 members and has reached its limit, imposed by field shortage, of 38 teams. Chelsea-based Gotham Volleyball boasts 400 members. The Gotham Knights, a gay rugby team established in 2001, just hosted the 2006 Bingham Cup on Randall’s Island, in which 800 gay players from 10 countries competed. Zeigler, of Outsports.com, started a gay flag football league a year and a half ago, and has a waiting list of 50 in addition to 150 members.
Gym sponsors four gay softball teams, the rugby club, two pool teams, a soccer club, a volleyball club, and a ski club, and the bar has a trophy shelf and a tight-knit community of athlete patrons to show for it. At the welcome party the bar threw for the visiting Bingham Cup rugby players two weekends ago, a player from Sydney sprinted naked across the bar, to the delight of the Gotham Knights, the Sydney Convicts, and everyone there. The next night, two opposing players had a make-out session after trying to clobber each other on the pitch earlier that day.
Like the regulars at Gym Sports Bar, the athletes in these fast-growing gay clubs and leagues run the gamut between those who grew up immersed in athletics and those who screamed when a ball came flying at them. The gay leagues are a blessing to the inveterate athletes because, says a rugger on the Manchester Village Spartans drinking away his last night in New York, “it’s nicer to be with likeminded people.” On the tennis court, you can kiss your opponent hello like you would normally, explains Schmutzler; you don’t ever have to change your pronouns or watch what you say. Nevertheless, jocks like Schmutzler, who ran track and played football in college and has played in countless leagues since, would play on straight teams if gay ones didn’t exist.
It is the “non-athletes” for whom the leagues can be life-altering. C. Brian Devinney, a player on the Gotham Knights, estimates that 80% of the Knights, himself included, had never touched a rugby ball before joining the team.
One of those players is Juan Bonilla, a bartender at Gym who joined the Knights two years ago. “Being Mexican, it was expected of you to be good at soccer,” he said. Bonilla, a big guy, wasn’t cut out for soccer like his friends and cousins, and growing up he got a lot of flack for it. “They never thought of me as the athletic type,” he said. As an adult, he gave up on sports and stayed in shape by going to the gym, but eventually started “getting sick of the routine.” He found out about the Knights online, and after the first practice, fell in love with the sport and the fraternity that comes along with it.
“And lo and behold, he’s really good at it,” says Schmutzler, who is Bonilla’s boss and friend. (All the bartenders are close. They have tickle fights every half hour or so.) “Just to experience something he never thought he’d experience as an openly gay man, it kicked doors open in other parts of his life.”
“It’s a really healing thing for gay men to be involved in some sort of organized sport,” says Schmutzler. Many gay men internalize the negativity that was hurled at them in high school and see themselves as hopelessly un-athletic. Giving it another try in a supportive environment can be life changing. “You’re confronting old demons and moving past them,” says Schmutzler, and you’re getting all the extras that come with playing sports: the network of friends, the opportunity to travel, the self confidence and the great ass.
As more gay men like Bonilla, Santana and Vanegas start identifying with sports culture, that culture is gradually being accepted into the gay community. “The more presence sports has in the gay community, the more gay men are fairly confident coming out as sports fans,” Zeigler said.
The gay community is shedding its Broadway show watching, hard drug using stereotypes, and not only in terms of its relationship to sports. In addition to Monday night football and pick-up street basketball, its widening interest includes everything from greater involvement in the church to square dancing (the Gay Pride Ho-Down is scheduled for June 28). Being gay no longer comes with the set of requirements it did a generation ago, and that gives gay men the freedom to develop their own identities, which, for many, are not much different from the identities of straight men.
“The rest of our culture is finally catching up to what we’ve always known,” says Zeigler. “Gay men are no different than straight men. We just like to have sex with each other.”

Passin' Thru


Summertime, and the Squatting is Easy. Maybe too easy...

They come by freight train and Chinatown bus and the back seat of beat-up cars whose drivers pulled over for them on the highway. They drink forties in Tompkins Square Park, panhandle when they need to, and sleep in parks, squats or stairwells. They stay for days or months, and then they move on. Their biggest fear is not being stabbed or raped or murdered – it’s getting stuck.

They are the Travelers, Crusties, Pyrate Punks – one has “Pyrate” tattooed on one forearm and “Punk” on the other, Squatter Kids, or just the Kids. If they acquire hardcore drug habits and end up staying through the winter, they risk becoming one of the homebums, crackheads or wingbats who “think it’s all depressing being homeless because they make it that way,” says Midget, 18, who dropped out of high school and left his home in Las Vegas three years ago.
Because of the availability of drugs like heroin and the entertaining, usually riotous squatter scene headquartered at Tompkins Square Park, New York City is for these itinerants like the mythological Land of the Lotus-Eaters.

“It’s so easy to get swallowed up by the city, and you just get apathetic and lethargic and not do anything but sit in the park and drink forties all day, you know?” says Stevo, a 31-year-old Memphis native who has been on and off homeless since 16 and has made New York City one of his east coast destinations for the past six summers.

Stevo, along with Amelia, 21, and her yellow dog Cartman are spanging – panhandling for spare change – on St. Mark’s Place to raise money for Chinatown bus tickets to Philadelphia, and for beer to drink while they spange. Their sign reads “PASSIN’ THRU BROKE ‘N’ UGLY. Please Help!!,” and on the other side, “DON’T MAKE ME SING,” which is not a hollow threat. They have also had success with “Out of work supermodels. Will pose for $1.”

They’ve been in the city for a couple of days, and Amelia, equal parts from Toronto, Montreal and Vancouver, is already the worse for wear. She had a beautiful singing voice a few months ago, and she played the harmonica. “Now listen to her,” says Stevo as she croons like a harpie at passersby. “Just all the drinking and drama.”

“This town is rough,” Stevo says. “You been down to fucking Tompkins Square, right? You seen all those kids that are down there? Always fucked up all the time? That’s what this town does to you unless you just get the fuck out of here. You gotta get up and get out of here.”

Their goal is to get out of the city tonight. Amelia plans to claim Cartman is a service animal so that he can ride the bus.

The squatters all seem to share a love-hate relationship with their New York center of operations.

“This park sucks, by the way,” says Brando, a high energy 17-year-old from the West Coast who has spent the better part of the last month doing things like trying to catch the black squirrel that lives in the park and getting drunk with the “rich kids” who shop on St. Mark’s, pitching in a few bucks when he has them. Tim, 18, from Richmond, Virginia, takes out a Gameboy that he “got from some girl in New Jersey” and starts playing Super Mario Bros. 2. A few minutes later he rolls a cigarette.

“Today’s pretty boring,” he says. A fun day, he says, is a day on which they “get drunk, hang out with girls, or something cool happens.”

“[The park] traps people. It becomes a routine,” explains Midget, 18, from Las Vegas, who arrived at the park on August 6 with Brando for a Leftöver Crack concert and is still here on August 22. He takes off his glasses to examine a map of New York State, looking for Amityville, where punk rock bands Cheap Sex, The Scarred, The Frantix, The Skum, and Vexed Youth would be playing the next day.

The travelers’ interest – in music, sometimes politics or ethics, in seeing the sights and meeting new people – is what puts them on the top of the homeless hierarchy.

“Some of the traveling kids don’t do anything,” says Tim. They hang out only with other traveling kids, don’t go to shows or listen to music.

“They’re just bums,” says Midget.

“They’re one step behind” the homebums, and well on their way, Tim agrees.

Midget plans to start a band when he returns to Vegas. Tim’s long-term goals are less fully formed, but the basic idea is “not to end up like some of these retards,” he says, gesturing to a cluster of middle-aged, strung out homebums a few benches down.

The group includes L.E.S. Jewels, who calls himself the king of the park. He is sitting on the ground, yelling. During the “bad heroin” scare last summer, he got a lot of media coverage and became the face of the East Village heroin addict. I had heard from many travelers that he would be worth interviewing, although he did sometimes punch people in the face, unprovoked. I thought I would wait until the next day to interview him thinking I could catch him in a more tranquil mood; the next day, he was in jail, having been arrested by two undercover cops.

The travelers shake their heads and laugh about L.E.S. Jewels, but his presence in the park is a constant reminder of what can happen if you stay too long and do too many drugs.

Although travelers tend not to be hardcore addicts, most have dabbled in hard drugs, and many find it harder in New York to resist the occasional bump.

Last time Stevo was here was a few months ago, when fentanyl-laced heroin was landing hundreds of users in the emergency room. “It was really really bad,” he recalls. “I went into the McDonald’s with my buddy, he gave me half a bag [of heroin]. I was done… I don’t have a habit. I don’t really do drugs, you know, it’s just one of those things. Somebody’s like hey, you want to do some dope? Next thing you know you’re in fucking Cabrini Hospital.”

Stevo is trying to stick to drinking, although even that dependence is becoming an issue. He was hurting for a drink when I encountered him around noon. “Sucks to be such a fucking drunk,” he said on the way back from the store to buy forties.

Josh, 18, from Portland, Oregon, “had a huge [heroin] habit,” but went through bupernorphine treatment and kicked it. Now he just drinks and smokes weed.

Josh has been riding freight trains since his grandfather kicked him out of his family’s house three years ago. He speaks like a much older man about the “boxcars, gondalas, grainers, piggybacks, 48’s and 53’s” that take him across the country, an experience he says can be spiritual when he’s by himself.

“I didn’t choose to be homeless, I got kicked out,” Josh explains, but when he left home, he realized there was “absolutely nothing” he missed about having a roof over his head. “I’m sure if I wanted to get a job I could,” he says. He has worked in carpentry and as a janitor at a law firm. But, he says, “I like traveling. I don’t want to have to get a job, be in the workforce for 60 years, buy an RV and then travel. I want to travel now.”

He and his sometime girlfriend Lauren, 17, who also got kicked out of her home in Portland, have a measured way of speaking and hold themselves to standards of behavior one would not expect from vagrants. They are vegan when they can be, but lapse into vegetarianism while on the road. Josh has an aversion to spanging, but does it mostly for his four-month-old puppy, Tron, whom he feeds before he feeds himself. He has trained Tron not to eat anything, including still-warm McDonald’s French Fries, from the ground.

Josh shrugs when asked about his politics; to be free to live them is enough for him. But many travelers, looking into the workaday world from the outside, are vociferous about the flaws they see.

“I think I’m better than a lot of the people that shop at Pier 1 Import. That’s my whole purpose in life: not to shop there,” says Tim, drawing laughs.

“There’s a bunch of cool people [in the city],” says Amelia after two days here, “but there’s a bunch of fucking apathetic, ignorant fucking people who think they’re so fucking cool cause they’re from NYC.”

“They’re from the LES,” Stevo interjects mockingly.

Amelia recently spent time in San Francisco and New Orleans. “Honestly it’s apathy that bothers me the most” about New York, she says. “People are rude, I don’t give a shit about that. I’d rather someone be rude to me than walk by ignoring me. Maybe I’m cursing myself by saying that.”

The word “work” comes from the Old English “werk,” Midget explains, crossing his arms and leaning back sagely on a bench in Tompkins Square Park. “Werk” means suffer. Why work, he posits, when everyone throws away half their food, and pizza shops let you have leftovers free at the end of a night?

Tim, Brando and Midget, who’ve been traveling together for the past month, have never been on the road through the winter. Many travelers work through the winter as construction workers, migrant farmers, waitresses, dishwashers, autobody repairmen, professional dominatrixes, whatever, saving whatever doesn’t go toward food and rent for when the warm weather rolls around again. Otherwise, they usually migrate south and continue traveling.

The teenage trio is planning to head north to Montreal from here. “It’s going to be pretty cold there, so hopefully someone will give me a sleeping bag,” says Tim. That’s as far as any of them have thought through the plan.

“We’ve heard so many stories from out there,” Midget says, grinning. “The drug of choice is PCP.”

“I’m not gonna touch that shit,” says Tim. He’s determined to live the life while he can, and get out before it’s too late – by your “early thirties, you’re just stuck. Maybe 35,” he says. He worries, sometimes, about “what I’m gonna do once people don’t give a shit. Once you get to a certain age, people don’t have any sympathy anymore.”

“Fuck sympathy,” says Midget.

“Yeah, but it’s nice to get people’s money somehow,” Tim says, without glancing up from Super Mario Bros. 2.

You know it’s time to get out, he says thoughtfully, when you get “to the point where 15-year-old girls won’t buy you beer anymore.”

This piece won second place in the features category from the New York Press Association.