![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
infieldcloversFirst Out Active Players in MLB
by Pietro Abram
Today marks a historic day in the history of Major League Baseball, America’s Pastime: for the first time in its history, active players on the 25 and 40-man rosters will be open about their relationship and sexuality to the public as well as to their teammates and front office personnel. Maxwell “Max” Scherzer was captured on several social media platforms proposing to ex-teammate Frederick “Rick” Porcello at the Bellagio Fountains in Las Vegas, Nevada. Many of those that reached out to us with their snapshots of the moment commented on the potential of a Vegas elopement during this offseason, but we have confirmed with the Clark County marriage records that no wedding took place. Neither Scherzer nor Porcello could be reached for comment.
Any further details will be posted at at bostonmap.com
Out of the Ballpark: A Vegas Proposal
by Kevin Oldermann
Some of you dedicated followers may remember a piece I did for ESBN a few years ago when the Wells report on Incognito was released, regarding the prevalence of gay slurs and hazing across professional sports. Some of you who have been around even longer than that—and to you, I ask: why?—may remember a piece I did for MSNBC on the legalization of gay marriage in America. Today I would like to take this time to discuss the intersection of these issues by addressing the explosion of news surrounding the proposal of Max Scherzer and Rick Porcello.
Let me begin by saying to all of the baseball conservatives who are frothing at the mouth about this even more than they fume about the defensive shift: these two extraordinary pitchers are not the first gay players in professional sports, nor are they the first gay players in the MLB. I don’t think I have the words to convince them otherwise, so let me turn to the words of Glenn Burke, whose potential was cut far too short by prejudice: “They can't ever say now that a gay man can't play in the majors, because I'm a gay man and I made it.” There have been gay players as long as there have been straight ones, and even notorious and controversial conservative Curt Schilling has gone on record on popular social media platform Reddit as saying “I don't give a rats ass who you sleep with as long as it's A) Not my wife and B) You can hit with RISP.”
Although it would be an interesting development for either of these star pitchers to become known for their batting prowess—although the American League dwelling Porcello put up an impressive average of .429 during the course of the 2018 season—the hyperbole can be overlooked for the meaning behind the words. Players’ sexualities matter little to their teammates, provided that they show they have the talent and dedication to succeed in the Major Leagues. Perhaps they should matter a little less to their fans, too.
I won’t come out and say that the situation is entirely precedented: there has never been a case known to the media where ballplayers were involved with each other, certainly not one where they were serious enough to make a legal and possibly spiritual commitment. But let’s not forget that although they might be public figures, this is a private matter, and due the same level of respect for any romantic relationship that two persons may have. I have reached out to LGBT activist and veteran player Billy Bean for comment, and am pleased to announce that a full interview will accompany a second op-ed later in the week. But for now, let’s let the happy couple have some time to themselves before the chaos of spring training. Good night and good luck.
“Well,” Rick said, looking up from his phone. “Could have gone worse. How’s Twitter taking it?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe. I mean, literally, I cannot believe the response we’re getting. People in London keep asking what the MLB even is.”
“Who knows, maybe we’ll start a baseball renaissance in Europe. We can hit up the Dutch team at the next WBC, get them on board with us.” Rick leant back, let the crown of his head rest against the cold glass of the penthouse hotel window. Pushing himself up and out of the lounging chair, he leant over the railway of the balcony, where the mob gathered on the Strip immediately came to life. He gave them a cheery wave and disappeared out of view.
“We could just tell them, you know.” Max rolled the ball over his knuckles, letting the seams drag over his pitchers calluses. Pretty hands, pitchers’ hands. Max tossed it to him, but, distracted by the movement of his arm, it sailed to the left, dropping harmlessly into the pool and splashing Rick’s face with sun-warmed water.
The spray of the Bellagio fountains had been much colder, he remembered. He and Max had been staring into the light display, watching the jets of red and blue and purple water dance against the backdrop of the January sky. He’d been turning over chump change and low-value chips in his hands, palming them in a horrendously bad imitation of the magic act they’d been to see the night before. Neither his sleight of hand nor his luck at the roulette table had been much improved by the addition of many, many luridly pink and green drinks that Max had teased him about over cheap draft beer.
“I think,” he’d said, squinting at the blurry numbers printed on the faded plastic, “this totals to $7.95.”
Max had snorted. “All right, you high roller you, no more tables, before you gamble away your entire contract.”
“And! And this!” he’d added, holding up the tacky die-shaped ring he’d wrangled out of a slot machine, black and gold and already missing a crystal from the dots presented on its face. His hands had been slippery with fountain spray and the ring skittered away along the pavement. Max had rolled his eyes and made some comment about ‘Mr. Rings’ that, with sober eyes, probably hadn’t been as much of a joke as he’d thought at the time, crouching down to hand it back to him. And thanks to social media and the fact that ESBN seemed to care more about gossip than stats, now they’re here, holed up in their hotel suite, unable to escape the mob of paparazzi, news outlets, and overly enthusiastic people with cellphone cameras who have taken up residence in front of the hotel.
He didn’t answer Max’s question, exactly, shrugging it off with a platitude about press conferences.
Max continue with a sigh, “My phone’s been blowing up nonstop. Tell me I’m not suffering alone?” As a matter of course, Rick had hundreds of messages that he’d been patently leaving on read, ranging from the confused-but-reassuring (family), straight-up-confused (Devers), won-a-bet (Benintendi), lost-a-bet (Holt), no-fucks-given-provided-it-doesn’t-affect-his-delivery (the rest of the rotation), and a series of celebratory gifs without any context or explanation from one Y. Puig, which raised the additional question of how his number had been acquired by the Dodger.
“Speak of the devil,” Rick murmured instead, as he watched the crowds below the hotel part like the Red Sea, revealing the silver-haired heads of several familiar faces. He watched Max suck in a deep, nervous breath, and almost reflexively ran his thumb against the back of his hand, as though to steady it. Max looked at him curiously, but the slight shake of his shoulders did stop, and he let Rick half-escort him into the main room.
The executives had clearly called for room service, as a veritable buffet of food and wine had been left out for them.
“Red, please,” Henry had remarked to the server, and Rick had almost flinched because he knew Max preferred white and only just managed to remind himself that he shouldn’t know that. “As a matter of course,” Henry continued, drawing Rick out of his musings, “I suppose we should start with the obvious: how involved, exactly, are the two of you?”
“I didn’t come here to be mocked, John,” Rizzo interjected, his tone more dry than furious. “I’m not sure if you’ve entirely missed the press coverage the plastered our starting pitchers across the news and most of social media, but it looks to me like they got engaged.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time an athlete has done something for some media attention in the offseason. Especially not one coming up on a free agent season. Dave, you were with both of them in Detroit, tell us what we’re dealing with here.”
And Rick finds his heart again unexpectedly in his throat. It had never occurred to him whether or not anyone high up in the FO knew about him and Max back then, and from the ghost-like look in his eyes—the brown always more expressive than the blue—a thrill of the same panic is running through the both of them.
“No.” Dombrowski’s voice is quiet, assured, and is avoiding the actual question with the dexterity of someone accustomed to press conferences and board meetings. “Doesn’t matter much now, anyway. What’s important is that we release a statement that’s going to reflect positively on everyone involved.” He waves at some poor PR employee with a sandy crew cut and a tight fitting sweater, navy blue, who hands out crisp copies of something written in neatly serifed font, Georgia or Times New Roman.
Henry raised his hand, questioned whether they should go for a unified press statement or separate local ones; Rizzo questioned whether they should talk to teams privately first or have Rick and Max do it; Dombrowski reiterated the importance of maintaining respect, a neutral-positive tone, and being media present in any and all wedding or other personal announcements. Rick drank copious amounts of wine.
The glazing in his eyes or unsteadiness in his posture must have been showing, because Max’s hand came to rest against the forearm of his pitching arm, like a quiet act of gravity that pushed all the air out of his lungs.
“If you’ll excuse me?” he questioned without any intent of waiting for a reply, and slipped into the bathroom, wetting the back of his neck and stained lips with cold water as though scrubbing the booze and sweat from his skin might bring him back to sobriety. Fingers were in his hair, then, soft and soothing, and he straightened with all the resolution he could muster.
“You gotta,” he started, and faltered because Max’s eyes were so gentle, so expectant. “We’re not in Detroit anymore,” he mumbled with no absence of shame.
“I know,” Max replied.
“Fuck it, Max, they think we’re still involved. They think we’re gonna get married.”
Max shrugged. “So let them think that. It’ll be a few months good press, we’ll have a small ceremony, a quiet divorce. Or a broken engagement. Or we could just tell them it’s all a big mistake.”
“Just…fuck you,” he sighed, rubbed more water along his hairline, vision all in soft focus. “I can’t do this. I can’t be in real love with you and be fake screwing you and fake married to you. Fuck it, even all the hand holding in there has me sick with how it reminded me of Detroit, and I, I can’t do that again.” “Oh,” was Max’s only reply, and Rick couldn’t shake the feeling that it was too little, too late.
by Pietro Abram
Today marks a historic day in the history of Major League Baseball, America’s Pastime: for the first time in its history, active players on the 25 and 40-man rosters will be open about their relationship and sexuality to the public as well as to their teammates and front office personnel. Maxwell “Max” Scherzer was captured on several social media platforms proposing to ex-teammate Frederick “Rick” Porcello at the Bellagio Fountains in Las Vegas, Nevada. Many of those that reached out to us with their snapshots of the moment commented on the potential of a Vegas elopement during this offseason, but we have confirmed with the Clark County marriage records that no wedding took place. Neither Scherzer nor Porcello could be reached for comment.
Any further details will be posted at at bostonmap.com
Out of the Ballpark: A Vegas Proposal
by Kevin Oldermann
Some of you dedicated followers may remember a piece I did for ESBN a few years ago when the Wells report on Incognito was released, regarding the prevalence of gay slurs and hazing across professional sports. Some of you who have been around even longer than that—and to you, I ask: why?—may remember a piece I did for MSNBC on the legalization of gay marriage in America. Today I would like to take this time to discuss the intersection of these issues by addressing the explosion of news surrounding the proposal of Max Scherzer and Rick Porcello.
Let me begin by saying to all of the baseball conservatives who are frothing at the mouth about this even more than they fume about the defensive shift: these two extraordinary pitchers are not the first gay players in professional sports, nor are they the first gay players in the MLB. I don’t think I have the words to convince them otherwise, so let me turn to the words of Glenn Burke, whose potential was cut far too short by prejudice: “They can't ever say now that a gay man can't play in the majors, because I'm a gay man and I made it.” There have been gay players as long as there have been straight ones, and even notorious and controversial conservative Curt Schilling has gone on record on popular social media platform Reddit as saying “I don't give a rats ass who you sleep with as long as it's A) Not my wife and B) You can hit with RISP.”
Although it would be an interesting development for either of these star pitchers to become known for their batting prowess—although the American League dwelling Porcello put up an impressive average of .429 during the course of the 2018 season—the hyperbole can be overlooked for the meaning behind the words. Players’ sexualities matter little to their teammates, provided that they show they have the talent and dedication to succeed in the Major Leagues. Perhaps they should matter a little less to their fans, too.
I won’t come out and say that the situation is entirely precedented: there has never been a case known to the media where ballplayers were involved with each other, certainly not one where they were serious enough to make a legal and possibly spiritual commitment. But let’s not forget that although they might be public figures, this is a private matter, and due the same level of respect for any romantic relationship that two persons may have. I have reached out to LGBT activist and veteran player Billy Bean for comment, and am pleased to announce that a full interview will accompany a second op-ed later in the week. But for now, let’s let the happy couple have some time to themselves before the chaos of spring training. Good night and good luck.
“Well,” Rick said, looking up from his phone. “Could have gone worse. How’s Twitter taking it?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe. I mean, literally, I cannot believe the response we’re getting. People in London keep asking what the MLB even is.”
“Who knows, maybe we’ll start a baseball renaissance in Europe. We can hit up the Dutch team at the next WBC, get them on board with us.” Rick leant back, let the crown of his head rest against the cold glass of the penthouse hotel window. Pushing himself up and out of the lounging chair, he leant over the railway of the balcony, where the mob gathered on the Strip immediately came to life. He gave them a cheery wave and disappeared out of view.
“We could just tell them, you know.” Max rolled the ball over his knuckles, letting the seams drag over his pitchers calluses. Pretty hands, pitchers’ hands. Max tossed it to him, but, distracted by the movement of his arm, it sailed to the left, dropping harmlessly into the pool and splashing Rick’s face with sun-warmed water.
The spray of the Bellagio fountains had been much colder, he remembered. He and Max had been staring into the light display, watching the jets of red and blue and purple water dance against the backdrop of the January sky. He’d been turning over chump change and low-value chips in his hands, palming them in a horrendously bad imitation of the magic act they’d been to see the night before. Neither his sleight of hand nor his luck at the roulette table had been much improved by the addition of many, many luridly pink and green drinks that Max had teased him about over cheap draft beer.
“I think,” he’d said, squinting at the blurry numbers printed on the faded plastic, “this totals to $7.95.”
Max had snorted. “All right, you high roller you, no more tables, before you gamble away your entire contract.”
“And! And this!” he’d added, holding up the tacky die-shaped ring he’d wrangled out of a slot machine, black and gold and already missing a crystal from the dots presented on its face. His hands had been slippery with fountain spray and the ring skittered away along the pavement. Max had rolled his eyes and made some comment about ‘Mr. Rings’ that, with sober eyes, probably hadn’t been as much of a joke as he’d thought at the time, crouching down to hand it back to him. And thanks to social media and the fact that ESBN seemed to care more about gossip than stats, now they’re here, holed up in their hotel suite, unable to escape the mob of paparazzi, news outlets, and overly enthusiastic people with cellphone cameras who have taken up residence in front of the hotel.
He didn’t answer Max’s question, exactly, shrugging it off with a platitude about press conferences.
Max continue with a sigh, “My phone’s been blowing up nonstop. Tell me I’m not suffering alone?” As a matter of course, Rick had hundreds of messages that he’d been patently leaving on read, ranging from the confused-but-reassuring (family), straight-up-confused (Devers), won-a-bet (Benintendi), lost-a-bet (Holt), no-fucks-given-provided-it-doesn’t-affect-his-delivery (the rest of the rotation), and a series of celebratory gifs without any context or explanation from one Y. Puig, which raised the additional question of how his number had been acquired by the Dodger.
“Speak of the devil,” Rick murmured instead, as he watched the crowds below the hotel part like the Red Sea, revealing the silver-haired heads of several familiar faces. He watched Max suck in a deep, nervous breath, and almost reflexively ran his thumb against the back of his hand, as though to steady it. Max looked at him curiously, but the slight shake of his shoulders did stop, and he let Rick half-escort him into the main room.
The executives had clearly called for room service, as a veritable buffet of food and wine had been left out for them.
“Red, please,” Henry had remarked to the server, and Rick had almost flinched because he knew Max preferred white and only just managed to remind himself that he shouldn’t know that. “As a matter of course,” Henry continued, drawing Rick out of his musings, “I suppose we should start with the obvious: how involved, exactly, are the two of you?”
“I didn’t come here to be mocked, John,” Rizzo interjected, his tone more dry than furious. “I’m not sure if you’ve entirely missed the press coverage the plastered our starting pitchers across the news and most of social media, but it looks to me like they got engaged.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time an athlete has done something for some media attention in the offseason. Especially not one coming up on a free agent season. Dave, you were with both of them in Detroit, tell us what we’re dealing with here.”
And Rick finds his heart again unexpectedly in his throat. It had never occurred to him whether or not anyone high up in the FO knew about him and Max back then, and from the ghost-like look in his eyes—the brown always more expressive than the blue—a thrill of the same panic is running through the both of them.
“No.” Dombrowski’s voice is quiet, assured, and is avoiding the actual question with the dexterity of someone accustomed to press conferences and board meetings. “Doesn’t matter much now, anyway. What’s important is that we release a statement that’s going to reflect positively on everyone involved.” He waves at some poor PR employee with a sandy crew cut and a tight fitting sweater, navy blue, who hands out crisp copies of something written in neatly serifed font, Georgia or Times New Roman.
Henry raised his hand, questioned whether they should go for a unified press statement or separate local ones; Rizzo questioned whether they should talk to teams privately first or have Rick and Max do it; Dombrowski reiterated the importance of maintaining respect, a neutral-positive tone, and being media present in any and all wedding or other personal announcements. Rick drank copious amounts of wine.
The glazing in his eyes or unsteadiness in his posture must have been showing, because Max’s hand came to rest against the forearm of his pitching arm, like a quiet act of gravity that pushed all the air out of his lungs.
“If you’ll excuse me?” he questioned without any intent of waiting for a reply, and slipped into the bathroom, wetting the back of his neck and stained lips with cold water as though scrubbing the booze and sweat from his skin might bring him back to sobriety. Fingers were in his hair, then, soft and soothing, and he straightened with all the resolution he could muster.
“You gotta,” he started, and faltered because Max’s eyes were so gentle, so expectant. “We’re not in Detroit anymore,” he mumbled with no absence of shame.
“I know,” Max replied.
“Fuck it, Max, they think we’re still involved. They think we’re gonna get married.”
Max shrugged. “So let them think that. It’ll be a few months good press, we’ll have a small ceremony, a quiet divorce. Or a broken engagement. Or we could just tell them it’s all a big mistake.”
“Just…fuck you,” he sighed, rubbed more water along his hairline, vision all in soft focus. “I can’t do this. I can’t be in real love with you and be fake screwing you and fake married to you. Fuck it, even all the hand holding in there has me sick with how it reminded me of Detroit, and I, I can’t do that again.” “Oh,” was Max’s only reply, and Rick couldn’t shake the feeling that it was too little, too late.
no subject
Date: 2018-12-30 05:43 am (UTC)I love everything about this but I need to point out, first and foremost, the fake articles from "Pietro" and "Kevin" slayed me. I am deceased.
I also really love the bits with the front office which... maybe I'm just a huge geek but I love the behind-the-scenes stuff and I don't get enough of it so I'm rolling around in this like a cat in a sunspot right now.
:D