Poe’s Perspective: It matters when athletes come out


Last week, one of my favorite soccer players came out for the (kind of, sort of) first time, and I almost cried out of happiness.

It was probably an overreaction on my part, because Ali Krieger — the starting right back for the Orlando Pride and former star of the U.S. women’s soccer team — has kind of been out for years. She’s lived with her longtime girlfriend, who plays goalkeeper for both teams, for years. They moved continents together and adopted a dog together, but until the last few weeks, Krieger had refused to come out personally or label her relationship.

As a fan, I never really minded. Women’s soccer isn’t really waiting for out-and-proud queer stars, and I figured that personal life is personal for a reason, so Krieger definitely didn’t owe anyone an explanation for her life. So I was confused at my reaction to her subtle coming out, which was a long time coming and felt almost superfluous and yet sent me close to tears.

The thing is that it does matter when athletes come out. It matters for the same reason that it matters when black women play lead roles in movies, and when Asian athletes excel in the NBA. It matters because, for those of us who are often on the sidelines, seeing a reflection of ourselves as a starter gives a much-needed boost of hope.

My mom never understood why it was so important for me to have role models who were like me. She always assumed that if I had someone to look up to, that was enough, regardless of whether or not that person was a woman or gay. In a lot of ways, she was right. Many of the writers who shaped my young style the most were straight men — Eric Adler from the Kansas City Star, Lee Jenkins and Rick Reilly of Sports Illustrated.

It took finding a true role model, a woman (like me), who was gay (like me) and loved sports(like me), for my mom to understand the power of a role model.

It took Kate Fagan.

Kate Fagan, for anyone who’s unlucky enough to not know her name immediately, is a writer and broadcaster for ESPN. She’s one of the best writers I know, the type who makes you change your afternoon schedule when she publishes a new article. Several years ago, Fagan wrote a feature that sprawled into a book, “What Made Maddy Run,” about a promising Penn track star who committed suicide.

That feature changed my life. It came out at a time when I was trying to decide whether or not to pursue sports journalism. And then this feature was dropped in my lap, unbelievably moving and breathtakingly well-written. It was everything I wanted to write, and it was written by a woman, a woman who I quickly found out was queer just like me.

This was a first. There were a few women who I looked up to in the business, but they were mostly commentators and broadcasters. And there was an even smaller handful of female sports writers whose work I admired. But I had never come across a woman who was so much like me, who understood everything I had been through and would go through.

Practically overnight, Fagan became part of my identity as a sports reporter. I wanted to be her. She represented everything I wanted out of my life. When anyone asked what I wanted to do, I said I wanted to be a feature writer like Fagan. Her name became synonymous with how I pictured my future success.

Of course, if I hadn’t known she was a gay woman, I still would have looked up to Fagan all the same. Her writing is in a league of its own, and her work should be carefully studied by anyone who hopes to write about sports for a living.

That’s the thing about representation. It shouldn’t matter. It really, honestly, shouldn’t matter what the skin color or gender or sexual orientation of a quarterback or TV analyst is, so long as they do their job well. But when you’re used to seeing the same story, told again and again, it’s hard to believe that a different story — your story — will ever be listened to or received.

There’s no timetable for coming out, and I would never want an athlete to make that decision before they are fully ready. But when it happens, it makes an impact, one that might not be seen immediately but that is wholly, deeply felt.

When athletes come out, it’s a silent affirmation to every little queer kid who wants to play ball or write about it or just likes to watch from home. It highlights that we are welcome here, that we can do this, that we belong in this space and these jerseys just like anyone else.

Julia Poe is a senior majoring in print and digital journalism. Her column, “Poe’s Perspective,” runs Thursdays.