Recently I’ve been reading Billy Bean's autobiography, Going the Other Way: Lessons from a life in and out of Major League Baseball. Bean played major league baseball from 1987 through 1995, and is the only living former major league baseball player to publicly "come out" as a homosexual.

Bean came out in 1999. The only other player to acknowledge being gay is Glenn Burke, who had a brief career with the Los Angeles Dodgers during the 1970s and died of AIDS in 1995.

Throughout Bean's time in baseball he was closeted, and in fact not even any of his friends or his own mother and father knew that he was gay. Bean was a marginal player, and he lived in fear that if he revealed (or if someone discovered) his homosexuality, it would have killed his baseball career. I think Bean in general overstates homophobia, but on that point he was probably correct.

The loneliness he describes in his book is staggering--a young man in the public eye in a high-pressure environment always carefully guarding a "terrible" secret. While reading it one night I turned to my wife and said, "He must have been the loneliest guy in the world," thus the title of this post.

I'm posting a couple of excerpts from the book on my blog. In the first one, Bean has finally acknowledged his homosexuality to himself, and has fallen in love with Sam, with whom he lives. He is still firmly closeted to his teammates, friends, family, etc. The excerpt below, which also discusses future Hall of Fame pitcher Trevor Hoffman, demonstrates how difficult and trying this was.

Excerpted from Going the Other Way: Lessons from a life in and out of Major League Baseball

During a July 15, 1993, home game against the Philadelphia Phillies, I hit my first major-league home run, a towering shot against Larry Anderson, a tough right-hander. Sometimes sluggers stand at the plate for a few seconds longer than necessary to admire the ball as it disappears over the fence. My sprint around the bases, however, was the shortest trip I’d ever taken. I made sure to touch all the bases, but it felt like my spikes never hit the ground.

After the game, all I could think about was sharing it with Sam. I sped home, eschewing the usual clubhouse celebration.

Sam gave me a big hug when I walked in the front door...Sam pulled out all the stops in preparing a gourmet dinner to honor this milestone in my life. As we sat down to enjoy the candlelight meal, he asked me to relive the moment over and over so he could know how it felt. I was embarrassed because this homer was only the first of what I hoped to be many, but I took him through the at-bat anyway. Anderson, who may have lacked a good scouting report on me because I was new to the team, had tried to sneak a fastball by me low and inside. I got all of it.

I’d barely picked up my fork when I heard a knock on the door. I assumed it was a neighbor or a solicitor. Before opening the door, I peeked through the eyehole. Brad Ausmus and Trevor Hoffman, my best friends on the team, were standing there, each holding a six-pack. They were surprised I’d zipped out the clubhouse door on my big day, depriving them of a chance to celebrate with their buddy. They’d decided to surprise me...

I couldn’t pretend to be out. They could see my car in the garage and hear the music playing on the stereo.

“Guys, just a minute, I just got out of the shower,” I yelled through the door.

Since I’d just showered in the locker room after that day’s game, the excuse didn’t make much sense. But I didn’t have enough time to figure out a more convincing lie.

My heart pounding, I rushed Sam out the back door and into the garage, making sure to close the door behind him. Then I raced back into the house and covered up the dinner with dishtowels, pushing the table and all the plates into the corner of the kitchen out of sight. By the time I got back to the front door to let my friends in, I was sweating. They probably assumed I had a girl in my bedroom.

“Hey, Babe Ruth, you can’t get away that easily,” Brad said, holding up the beer like a trophy. “That was probably your first and last home run, so we’d better enjoy it.”

I counted the minutes as they sat there in the living room shooting the bull, drinking, and watching the game highlights on ESPN, and then another game on television, for almost three full hours. As they tried to create a party atmosphere, I kept glancing at my watch, always the sign of an unhappy host. As proper ballplayers, Trevor and Brad stayed until the last beer had been consumed before announcing it was time to go.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” I said, practically slamming the door behind them.

I’m sure they must have been taken aback by my lack of enthusiasm, and maybe even a little puzzled. I loved these guys for their gesture, and I was dying to celebrate with them. But I couldn’t bear the idea of doing it at Sam’s expense.

When they finally drove away, I found Sam sitting quietly in the front seat of the car reading a book. As usual, he took my panic stoically, but I could see the hurt on his face when I “allowed” him back into his own home.

I hugged Sam tight, apologized profusely, and tried to reassure him of my devotion. But my proudest individual accomplishment on a baseball diamond had turned into an occasion of sadness and shame. That night was one of the few times I ever cried myself to sleep. I’d left Anna in part because I felt my emotional distance was causing her pain. Now my shame and secrecy had found a way to hurt Sam, too.

This entry was posted on Sunday, May 27th, 2007 at 1:39 pm and is filed under Baseball/Sports, Gays, Gay Marriage, Gender Issues (Misc.). You can trackback from your own site.