Growing up in a rural Midwestern community adjacent to acres of cornfields and cows, I had what many people would consider an idyllic American childhood. My family lived in a large white house accented by red shutters. We had a gigantic backyard, complete with a trampoline and tire swing, which were irresistible magnets for the kids in our neighborhood.

In those days, we’d tear through the streets on our bikes, invade neighbors’ yards in colossal games of hide-and-seek, and, of course, play countless pick-up games of baseball, football, and soccer. Sports were just another way to get out of the house and our parents’ hair.

One day, when I was around eight, I had a few neighborhood kids over. While jumping on the trampoline, we started brainstorming how to spend the rest of the boring summer afternoon. One of our more callous peers floated the idea of playing a game called “Smear the Queer”, which initially elicited more blank stares of confusion than agreement. Most of us had never heard of the game, and nearly all were unfamiliar with the meaning of the word “queer”. So, he explained: “A queer is someone you wouldn’t want on your team because they’re weak crybabies. That’s why we ‘smear’ them; you’re supposed to toughen them up because you don’t want any fairies on your side.” Of course, after that explanation, no one wanted to be the first queer to be smeared. So, the boy who pitched the idea decided he would pick the first target — the one who best fit the “queer” description. He picked me.

I’ll be the first to admit that even from an early age, it was clear I didn’t find sports particularly interesting. I once spent most of a youth soccer game holding hands with my friend and picking flowers on the field. Although I was a boisterous child, I was also sensitive and not very competitive. I wasn’t very coordinated either, for that matter. In all honesty, I really only played sports because of the food: most games ended with some sort of snack, and on Saturdays after our soccer games, we got to go to McDonald’s. Basically, I was not a person who was likely to be picked first, second, or even third for a team. Still, being perceived as incapable of ever achieving athletic feats of greatness did not feel good.

Following this experience, every time my queerness or differences were negatively called out in sports, it left a crack in the protective armor that I had built around myself. Throughout the years, I felt judgment and pressure both from my male teammates and from females who were expecting me to fit the masculine stereotype of a sports star. Eventually, I found myself with two options: I could either end up so covered in cracks that I would shatter, or redouble my protection with a layer of sarcasm and indifference. I chose the latter.

This choice left a bitter taste in my mouth and created a bias in me against the concept of sports in general. I figured that no matter how hard I tried, I was never going to fit that all-American, sporty, macho-man image. So, I rejected it. Why would I wish for something that I knew would never become a reality?

This anti-sports bias response is one I believe many queer men can relate to. While my experiences in this area may not be universal, the taunting, ostracization, and outright discrimination I endured on sports teams for being a man at odds with heteronormative masculine values is not uncommon. According to a survey conducted in 2017 by the Human Rights Campaign, 84% of Americans have witnessed or experienced anti-LGBT attitudes in sports. This same study also found that 78% of American spectators and athletes believe youth team sports are not safe for LGBT people. Based on these findings, it is not surprising that many queer individuals avoid participating in them. I cannot speak for every queer male athlete out there, but having my differences routinely called out in such a negative light scarred me and left me with a tainted view of sports.

In many ways, I feel like some in the LGBT community have created their own version of “sports” to fill the competitive void left by abandoning more traditional athletic endeavors. Take drag, for example. As anyone familiar with RuPaul’s Drag Race (2009 – ) can tell you, drag culture is a highly competitive and serious matter. One could even make a persuasive case for its airing on Friday nights as the queer equivalent of Sunday Night Football. This interest and participation in drag tells me that men in the queer community are not incapable of competitiveness, tenacity, or strength. Many of us just need to be able to express it outside the rigid structures of traditional sporting communities.

This realization has been made particularly apparent to me as a participant in many LGBT sports leagues. Although they are predominantly populated by gay men, all individuals are encouraged to be themselves, and from my perspective, this results in no reduction of their athletic proficiency. In fact, I would argue this freedom allows male athletes to reach their full potential. Without having to focus on remaining “masculine” throughout the game, they can focus on participating (and having fun) instead.

This is not to say there aren’t also members of the queer community who eschew even this level of connection to sports. I have repeatedly heard phrases like, “This is why gays shouldn’t play sports!” thrown out regularly when a blunder is made, which could be taken in a variety of ways. Is it simply comic relief? Is it to excuse a mistake? Or is it a comment indicating that expectations for queer athletes should be lowered within our own community to match what our tormentors believe?

As a member of many LGBT leagues and as someone who spent practically their entire childhood (from ages 5–18) playing sports, I don’t see much difference between my former (presumably) straight teammates and my current queer ones. Some are hyper-competitive, some are there for a good time, some are obviously praying the ball never comes to them… the list goes on and on. These commonalities suggest that there is not so much of a bias against sports in the LGBT community as there is a bias against the oppressive culture that many associate with it based on past experiences. When that negativity is lifted, sports become an activity.

I still vividly remember the day I thought my athletic career had ended for good. I was playing in my football team’s season opener in my senior year of high school when I suffered a catastrophic arm injury. I won’t go into too much detail about it, but let’s just say elbows are only meant to bend a certain way for a reason. Even though my family had never pressured me to pursue sports, in my hometown, I always felt like I had no other option. So that day, despite the blinding pain of my injury, I saw a silver lining: since my sports career was clearly over, I could finally stop pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

Several years later, I joined some queer leagues as an openly bisexual adult. The decision has helped me uncover a level of enthusiasm for sports I had never experienced before. It turns out that I can have fun playing sports and engaging in competitive activities while being myself — I just needed to find the right place to do so. This blossoming helped me see that my bias had little to do with sports themselves but rather that it was in response to the narrow-minded and “one-size-fits-all” culture of traditional masculinity that I had come to associate with them. Now that it has been lifted, I have become an enthusiastic participant and adamant supporter of these LGBT leagues.

While I doubt I have any MVP awards in my future, I am grateful for the chance to enjoy sports in a way I never have before. By overcoming my bias, I found an entirely new way to participate and grow in the LGBT community. And as long as I remain injury free, I have no plans of stopping my involvement any time soon. Just because my past experiences in sports weren’t the best does not mean I cannot have a bright future full of exciting athletic adventures.