Might become a homo

In the 1960s, “feminine athlete” was still an oxymoron. Either you were feminine or you were an athlete. You couldn’t be both. Absolutely not. Despite that, Diana and I waited impatiently to turn 14, the minimum legal age to officially play. When our long-awaited birthdays finally rolled around, however, Diana announced that her parents weren’t going to allow her to join.

“Why not?” I asked.

“They’re afraid I might become a homo.”

Her words stunned me. I didn’t know what a homo was, but it must have been something awful if her parents wouldn’t let her play softball anymore. I went right home to share my concerns with Dad, whom I found in the bathroom casually toweling off after a shower. My family didn’t make a big deal about nudity, and privacy wasn’t particularly sacred, either, so I barged in and plopped myself down on the edge of the blue, ceramic tub.

“Dad,” I blurted out, “Diana’s parents won’t let her play with the Wildcats because they’re afraid she’ll be a homo.”

I paused and waited, but no reaction came. He just kept drying himself off, carefully wiping the moisture from between his permanently-bent toes.

“Well,” I finally continued. “Aren’t you afraid I might become a homo?”

He stayed silent, mulling it over, I supposed. After a few quiet moments he turned to me and shrugged. “Well, if you want to play softball, play softball.” 

That was it. That was all he said. If Dad wasn’t worried about it, I guessed I wouldn’t worry, either. I still didn’t know what a homo was, and I wasn’t curious enough to find out. All I knew was that I would now get my official orange and black uniform. Soon I could start hook-sliding into third base in real, metal cleats.