Still other fathers have provided a new (to me) camaraderie. We created a group text called the “Anxious Jewish Support Group.”Ī host of heterosexual dad comrades have been with me every goal, basket, and home run of the way. He and I joke about the Jewish holidays and overshare about our middle-age crises. (He’s promised to take me to the Lower East Side pick-up club The Blond so I can see how the other half mate.) And Joe has made baseball bearable. Single, forty-something Daniel loves to chat between innings about his parenting woes, and about dating women with, well, daddy issues. Two other dads got me through the highs and lows of this spring’s Little League games, held both days of the weekend. Until then, get ready, it may be heart-wrenching.” (The athletic director said he “isn’t the right fit.” For Pete’s sake, he’s 7.) “Thing is, you gotta know that other boys have been training for years,” David said, all tough love. He even jumped on the phone with me minutes after Lucas was dinged by his first league.
One dad, David, whose son is another soccer aficionado, pointed me toward the necessity of “turf shoes” (who’d ever heard of such a thing?) and strategized with us about whether Lucas should position himself as a forward, a midfielder, or a defender (is this me typing?). Lucas wants to be in a league this fall, so over the past two months, I’ve escorted him to auditions - er, tryouts - with five different clubs around New York City. And as it’s turned out, a host of heterosexual dad comrades have been with me every goal, basket, and home run of the way. With Lucas regularly playing soccer, basketball, and baseball, sports now make up a large part of my weekly routine. Even though I eventually embraced my creative and artistic interests - and came out at age 19 - sports remained a sore spot I largely steered clear of as an adult. While I gained my social footing as a teenager, writing for the school newspaper and dancing on stage in Bye Bye Birdie in high school, I was chubby, a little fey in my mind, at least, I had nothing in common with the school’s athletic golden boys. I couldn’t throw a ball, was lost on a basketball court, and although math was one of my best subjects, I remained confounded by football (“1st and ten”?). straight guys.Īs a child, I ran from sports. Among the eye-opening outcomes of having a super-sporty son: friendships with an underrepresented demographic in my life.
Then our son Lucas, now 7, turned out to be - as Jack calls him - “ all boy.” As a sports-averse gay man interested in books, Broadway, and the big screen, it’s been challenging to accept that my weekends now overflow with basketballs, baseball diamonds - and bros. And sure, I expected some athletics along the way. I’d heard all about diapers and sippy cups, playdates and sleepless nights. When my partner, Jack, and I decided to become fathers nine years ago, everyone told us to "expect the unexpected.” I rolled my eyes. One night in late May, seven dads stood in a bar singing “Happy Birthday” to me.