"Of Men"
An Essay Collection:
By Blake Byle
"Etymology"
The Essay Begins Here.
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I don't give a damn
'bout my reputation
Living in the past,
it's a new generation
A girl can do
what she wants to do
and that's what I'm gonna do
An' I don't give a damn
'bout my bad reputation
Oh no, not me
- Bad Reputation by Joan Jett & The Blackhearts
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My mother gave us gender-neutral names and if you were to ask her why, then she would tell you that she never really cared about how we came out-- so long as we were healthy and happy.
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Those who know me know that my middle name, David, comes from my father’s middle name. What most of them don't know is that he got his middle name from his parents, who in turn got it from the Bible. It’s the same David who defeated Goliath in the Old Testament.
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From the ages of four to eighteen my name was catcher and my number was thirteen. Practically living on the diamond, I ate, slept and breathed baseball-- especially in high school. Baseball is where everything originates from.
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You see, for my freshman year of high school I transferred to another public school in the base of the thumb. The purpose for transferring was because the varsity coach of the high school was also the co-owner of my travel organization and, among other things, that meant I had a chance at getting a scholarship to play baseball in college. But, I would come to learn that I could never achieve something so man-ish.
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​In the Fall and Winter, I would leave directly after school and drive with other boys to our travel facility where we spent the day doing homework and fooling around until practice at 8:00pm.
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I just wanna be one of the boys
I just wanna be your little fashion toy
Let's hang out and be cool, alright
Let's go watch the girl fight tonight
Cool schmool
-Lyrics of Cool Shmool by Bratmobile
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In the Springtime, I would wake up every morning at 6:00am to drive to school, be in school all day, then wait after school until baseball practice at 5:00pm until sundown (sometimes we wouldn’t leave the field until after 10:00pm). I played varsity baseball all four years of high school: three years in the thumb and one year after I transferred back to my original school district.
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During these years, my names catcher and thirteen turned into others.
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I was outed my sophomore year by the only other out-Queer person in our school, and soon Blake turned into Faggot. Catcher turned into Pussy. And Thirteen turned into something so cursed that my brain freezes every time I think about it.
I had friends of course-- it's not hard to make friends when you’re the clown. And so, when I learned my new names I figured that if I had no power over them, then I might as well accept them. It’s better to laugh along with the jokes rather than get upset over them-- right?
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I can only remember so much about that time in my life because I have tried to repress those memories. But I remember my coach's expectations.
“You need to be the leader of the team!”
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"How can I be a leader of the team when everyone sees me as less than them? "
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Think its time think its time think its time that you own up to the fact:
You have a complex.
You have a complex.
Deny it deny it deny it deny it deny it to the death.
Think about it next time that you gotta wring somebody's neck.
Is it hard wiring?
Or just your context?
Just your context?
Just your context?
One big sociopathic powertrip?
You trying to grab something or cut it off instead?
-Lyrics of Power Trip by The Priests
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Our first baseman, who would also sometimes pitch, once told me that he didn’t want me catching for him because I was a Fag, and because I would screw up his chances at playing in college.
“You need to be loud, and command the field!”
“I’ve been screaming for years, but you never hear me”
“When you mess up, people are going to say it’s because you’re Gay”
“All I wanted to talk about was why I feel like you treat other boys better than me? Why do you scream at me when I fail to block a pitch in the dirt but you say nothing when our short-stop whiffs a routine ground ball?”
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My cries for help had been muffled for three years until I finally couldn’t scream anymore. I remember the day I quit the team and I remember walking past all of the boys one last time, never to return.
Last year I wrote to my coach, though I never sent the letter. In the letter, I write:
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“I proudly wear the badge of inferiority which you so forcefully placed upon me.”
It took them three years to kill the genuine love I had for the game, for my team, and for my coaches.
Truly I tried to hold on, but after three years I couldn’t take another Spring seeing them poison the wild flowers around the field– there just wasn’t anyone left to play for.
But, this story is not all dim and grim; don’t shed a tear so soon-- It does get better.
My Senior year of high school I transferred back to my old district where I was determined to create a new start. I challenged myself by taking three AP courses, working twenty hours every week, and practicing for baseball tryouts in the Spring. I devoted myself to my studies and to conditioning for baseball so when that day finally came, I would be ready. School was hard, but I loved what I was learning. Work was hard, but I worked with some of my best friends which I still have today, so it was bearable. But baseball, (it can never be easy), baseball was another story.
After the first day of tryouts I cried myself to sleep because I was so scared of not making the team. I thought that if I didn’t make the team, maybe I wasn’t all that good. Maybe my old coach was right; was I really perpetually damned by a deviant affliction, meant never to succeed?
You see, I was also intimidated because the coach used to be my old middle-school gym teacher; and in middle-school he knew that I played baseball but he rarely ever asked me about it. He always seemed more interested in another kid who was in the same grade as me, so I never really bothered with it.
Though I was surprised, because I had been going to the Winter drop-in practices and on the first day he told me that he had heard about me transferring back into the district and that he was interested to see what I could do. From here on out I was motivated to prove to him, and everyone else, that I could do more than what they thought I could.
On the last day of tryouts, he pulled me into the room, sat me down and told me to compose myself-- obviously I was visibly nervous. After a minute, he nonchalantly told me that I had made the team if I wanted to join, and that he wanted me to be the first string catcher. Now, he didn’t know about my affliction-- at least not yet. But I was hopeful.
I love playin' with fire
I don't wanna get burned
I love playin' with fire
Don't think I'll ever learn, no!
-Lyrics of
I love Playin' With Fire
by the Runaways
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Shortly into the year, it had become common knowledge that I was Gay. I mean, I grew up with literally everyone, and we had known each other since elementary school. So, I guess you could say that my reputation preceded me. In any case, no one cared. No one ever batted an eye. It was here that I was able to rename myself.
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I went on to have the best performing year of my entire high school baseball experience. The wildflowers bloomed all around the field, and every day after practice I would pick them and admire their beauty. Now, I could finally rest easy knowing that the wildflowers were safe.
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Although my high school years were filled with ups and downs, my soul was driven from the suburbs and the countryside into the city.
I was ready to leave and for once, truly start anew.