By Greg Baum
FINAL WORD
Years ago, watching the young Tiger Woods walking a fairway at Troon with his head determinedly down, as if wearing blinkers, it struck me that he consciously was averting all eyes because he knew intuitively what he would see if he looked up, that every last pair was trained on him, and that it would overwhelm him.
Illustration: Jim Pavlidis
That image sprang to mind this week when basketballer Jason Collins, writing in Sports Illustrated, revealed that he was gay, and so became the first active player of the US' big four sports - American football, basketball, baseball and ice hockey - to come out. Collins, a humble man, must know already that if he plays in the NBA next season - he is a free agent - all eyes will dwell on him, almost pruriently, and wherever else he goes, he will be studied, too, like a specimen. Like rugby league player Ian Roberts, who came out in 1995, and remains the only Australian footballer publicly to declare himself gay, this act will come to define Collins more than anything he has done on the basketball court.
Quickly, the homophobic tub-thumpers piped up. Chris Broussard, an ESPN reporter, called Collins a ''sinner''. Bryan Fischer, from the genitalia-obsessed American Family Association, predicted that no team would sign Collins, because players would object to a teammate ''eyeballing them in the showers''. So would their wives. In fact, said former great Charles Barkley, players would be more accepting than the public. You only have to read a little of Collins' story to know that he would do nothing to compromise his team. In 12 years, not one teammate had suspected even that he was gay, far less a perve.
The ghastly Westboro Baptist Church began to organise a protest at a play-off this weekend between Houston and Oklahoma, though Collins has never played for either. ''Now has-been pervert Jason Collins has 'come out' admitting he's a proud fag,'' said a release. ''Lift up your voice against this awful sin; use the platform God gave you to warn your fellow man to flee destruction.'' As muscular Christianity goes, the Westboro church is steroid-addled.
This, of course, is the extremity, serving only to show the width and the shallows. In the 18 years since Roberts, sport has moved towards accommodation, if not enlightenment. In England, an international wicketkeeper came out, in Melbourne, a suburban footballer. In US sport, some hardliners changed sides. Homophobia itself has become a little taboo. Last year, St Kilda's Stephen Milne was fined $3000 for sledging Collingwood's Harry O'Brien as a ''f---ing poof'''. Mostly, people thought of Milne as a relic.
Still, in professional sport, a barrier remained, if not to entry, to open-ness, either deterring gays or obliging them to silence. Still, there was, if not a glass ceiling, a perspex enclosure.
Shattering it, Collins is the ordinary man made extraordinary by his moment. ''If I had my way, someone else would already have done this,'' he wrote in Sports Illustrated. He comes from a close Los Angeles family, whose parents instilled an appreciation of ''history, art and Motown'', also Christianity. He has a twin, Jarron, who also played in NBA and - so much for telepathy - was ''astounded'' to learn of his brother's sexuality.
As a player, he was no star. He scored infrequently, and fouled out often, using his 213 centimetres and 116 kilograms to clear a path for others. For six clubs over 12 seasons, he was the ''pro's pro''. On his dining table while talking to SI sat a game ball, given to him by the Celtics the night he scored one point and fouled out after 23 minutes, and Paul Pierce scored 40, and the Celtics won. It was cause and effect. By his aggression, Collins agrees, he confounds the gay stereotype.
But his secret gnawed at him. He dated women, got engaged, but slept poorly and worried constantly about a slip of the tongue. ''It takes an enormous amount of energy to guard such a big secret,'' he wrote. He watched an old, straight Stanford roommate, now a congressman, march in Boston's Gay Pride parade, and hated that he could not. He put team harmony above personal torment; to him, that was always his immediate imperative. Then the Boston marathon bombing drove home to him that there would never be a perfect time, so now was as good as ever.
''When you finally get to the point of acceptance,'' Collins told ABC the day the article appeared, ''there's nothing more beautiful.''
Support came from all over, including Barack Obama. The attention sat uneasily. ''You just try to live an honest, genuine life,'' he said, ''and the next thing you know, you have the president calling.''
Basketballers rallied, including Kobe Bryant, also Barkley. Collins doesn't expect universal acceptance. ''If I'm up against an intolerant player, I'll set a pretty hard pick on him,'' he said. ''And then move on.''
Collins' role model was tennis great Martina Navratilova, who trod this path alone many years ago. ''Collins' action will save lives,'' she told SI. ''That is no exaggeration.''