I’m all about the balls

We made it to the Super Bowl! And by we, I mean the Denver Broncos and all of us loyal fans. Since I have to write this column before the game takes place, I have no idea if Denver is down in the dumps this week or if we are on a Rocky Mountain high. Based on what I know about both the Broncos and the Seahawks, I am going to prophesize that the Broncos won.

Was I right? Should I apply for my own psychic hotline?

Thanks for calling Nuclia Waste’s Radioactive Future Vision. We see all, we know all, and we contaminate your future with what will be. To contact a dead relative, press 1. To learn what colors will be hot this fall season, press 2. To find out who will win the Super Bowl, press 32, 45, Omaha, hut, hut!

The days after the Broncos won the AFC West, I was amazed at the number of gay people I ran into that had no idea that the team had won their playoff game against the New England Patriots and were heading to the Super Bowl.

“I just don’t follow sports. It’s not my thing.”

And I totally get that. As a young drag queen growing up in the middle of Missour-ah, sports was THE thing you had to be good at to be popular in school. I was not. I was the classic story of being the last pick, whether it was deer base or dodge ball. Nobody wanted me on his team. The jock gene skipped right over my uncoordinated body. I dreaded recess and all the humiliation that came with it.

My dad, sensing he had a non-straight boy for a son, pushed me into little league football and baseball, in an effort to tackle out the gay. And if that wasn’t bad enough, my worst nightmare came to be. He became the coach of our baseball team.

Then there were the weekends of football on television, with my dad firmly planted in his Lazy-Boy recliner, non-stop beers in his hand, yelling at the TV. The only thing more boring than playing sports was watching sports. As my dad’s drinking went down the road to Booze Town, I began to associate sports with his alcoholism. I avoided both for years.

Then 17 years ago, Mr. Waste came into my life. He lived and breathed sports. He only agreed to move into my log cabin in the foothills near Conifer under one condition – that I get satellite TV so he could watch all his sports. It was a small monthly price to pay for love.

One day he asked me if I wanted to go to a Bronco game. I had never been to a live game before. Honestly, I really dreaded the idea but love makes you do some strange things. I ended up yelling louder than Mr. Waste during that game. The Broncos won. And they kept winning that year, all the way to the Super Bowl. It was a good year to get hooked
on football.

Mr. Waste played in the gay flag football league last year. I went to games to cheer him on. I was amazed at the number of gay men that are into sports. It makes sense in a lot of ways, though stereotypes would have us believe otherwise. We take care of our bodies. We like exercise (or at least tolerate it so we look good). Half our porn takes place in locker rooms. Gay + Sports = Hot.

I have learned that it’s ok to be gay and like sports. (Lesbians have known this for years. They’ve kept those softballs flying.) It’s time for us to ditch the stereotype that gay and sports cannot live hand in glove. Let’s play ball!

Nuclia Waste, the triple-nipple drag queen of comedy, is Out Front’s radioactive cultural columnist. See more columns at ofcnow.co/nuclia
or contact her through her website at NucliaWaste.com.