Oh boy, where to begin. Never before has a split second decision in the middle of the night turn out so well for me before. I had an appointment with my therapist earlier that day and she had suggested that I sign up for gay hockey for at least a month. I had been scrolling through the website for hours before I decided to send a message to the league on Facebook. I was very nervous to say the least. I have never been the most athletic or the one to fit in, I left that to my older brother.

Anyways, I will never forget the new member meeting. I had been emailing my mentor and I had just met her that day. As I sat on the grass outside of the Hartmeyer with the league, we talked about all of the different gender identities and how to be inclusive and respectful. I knew I had found the right group. I had just recently come out and started hormones earlier that year. I had lost so much and I was angry. I went into the league as an angry and scared boy.

As the season went on, I started becoming stressed. My work life, home life, and family life were bringing me down as the sun started not shining as much. I have always felt alone and I thought I still was. I had tried something drastic that failed. When I returned to the league, I was met with overwhelming hugs and love. I realized that I had a family.

I still had my moments of doubt. I was a slow skater, I couldn’t handle a puck to save my life, and I never realized that my shift lasted longer than I was supposed to. Despite all that, I never felt as free as when I was on the ice. The cold air in my lungs, my feet hurting in my skates, and my helmet squeezing my glasses into the sides of my head all seem like they should feel unpleasant. But soon those feelings became feelings of life. I was alive on the ice.

I went into the league as a scared, angry boy with no sense of community and I came out as a whole different guy. Do I still have doubts and fears? Yes. But I don’t feel alone anymore because I know that I am not. Through encouragement on and off the ice, I made amazing friendships and realized how much I can accomplish. I just want to give all of my thanks to the MGHA for the patience and kindness that they have given me.

Doesn’t begin to sum up all the ways my time in MGHA has changed me (emotionally, politically, socially, ethically, etc…), but it is a start and my plane is about to take off. I’m not very good at editing so feel free to do so as you see fit.

I skate to the boards, throw myself over, struggle to catch my breath, and look up to the eclectic group in the stands.  There are students, cooks, and a lot of computer engineers. They are laughing, hugging, rocking babies, and enjoying a cold one. They are fat, skinny, short, tall, and everywhere on the gender spectrum. I am a resident doctor and learn all about the infectious diseases, mental health illnesses, and substance use disorders that plague the LGBT community. MGHA reminds me weekly that that is not the whole story.  Each week I am reminded of the wonderful, vivid lives my teammates lead.  These last two years they are the people who have renewed my passion for learning for the sake of learning and made me feel accepted and appreciated regardless of my skill or lack thereof.  MGHA has made me a better person and helped me maintain my sanity through this challenging period in my life.  I can’t imagine that I will ever feel so much affection for a crowd as viewed from the bench.

My name is Paul Weisensel. I recently completed my first season with the Madison Gay Hockey Association (MGHA). I want to tell you what the MGHA means to me. To do that, I first need to tell you a little bit about my childhood. I grew up in a very conservative Catholic family. Like all kids I went through puberty, starting at age five or six, and ending in my late teens. In that aspect I had a similar childhood to my peers.

However, I grew up as a gay youth trapped in an extremely bigoted world. I was constantly surrounded by hateful sermons and stereotypes. Homophobic slurs were often used by kids my age and older, especially on the playground. I can’t for the life of me remember an occasion when a kid I knew was chastised for using a homophobic slur, and yet sexist and racist slurs were not allowed and kids were punished for using them. It didn’t help that many adults used those same slurs. Being gay on television or in the movies or in classic novels was portrayed as being: a complete and utter disappointment to his or her parents, going to hell, psychologically unhinged, a perverted deviant, suicidal, and most definitely as someone who led a miserable existence.  I tell my friends that I survived growing up Gay and Catholic…if barely.

From a very young age, I had heard stories of gay youth and men getting beaten up in locker rooms, or even killed. One story that resonates with me to this day is when a U.S. Marine stationed in Texas had Come Out to some of his fellow Marines. They had pretended to be all right with it, but had actually conspired to take him out to some bars, get him drunk enough that they could attack him, tied him up with chains, and dragged him behind a pickup truck at high speeds until he died. They were all prosecuted for the crime. However, what stuck with me was that I had heard that the U.S. Marines were the closest brotherhood anywhere. If it could happen there, what was going to happen to me? I’m not sure all heterosexual people realize the amount of anxiety and fear LGTBQA youth deal with on a daily basis.

Participating in sports was something I first shied away from and later refused to engage in. I could not risk getting a boner in the showers or locker room and being found out. When I was old enough to dress myself and later when I could pick out my own clothes, I consistently chose dark clothing. I kept my head down a lot. I avoided people when ever possible. I didn’t realize then that I was suffering from depression. I refer to this as my ‘gray period’, which lasted through high school. I had no positive openly gay role models and no one to tell me that I was unique and wonderful and that I didn’t need to change.

I might very well have ended up just another statistic, another suicide or another runaway being pimped out, if it hadn’t been for two things. The first is the fact that I had a great single mom. She never uttered a single homophobic (or any other) slur.  In fact, she sat me down when I was a little kid and told me about how she grew up in a world where racism and sexism were common, but that this was not something she would tolerate in her household and that we are all created equal in the eyes of God. This gave me hope that one day I could have an honest relationship with my mother. I made myself a promise that one day I would be honest with her; I kept that promise, eighteen years  later. The second thing was Troop 102, Boy Scouts of America. I shutter to think of what might have happened to me, had I not had that ten plus years of wonderful education and mentoring, and all the great weekend and summer camping trips, free of any discrimination. We all wore a uniform; we were all equal. I grew up internalizing so much self-hatred that at times I felt as though I would explode. The Boy Scouts gave me a way to channel those negative emotions that were productive, healthy and laid the groundwork for me to form my moral compass and. Sadly, I earned my Eagle Scout Award at about the time the national argument over allowing openly gay scouts and leaders was heating up. All I could do was move on and pay it forward in other ways.

It wasn’t until my late teens when I was starting college that I began to truly consider that it was actually OK to be me. Up until then, I was ‘Playing Straight’; going through the motions, but not really living in a way that allowed me to truly create my own personal identity. I would ape others’ laughs, their mannerisms, their social behaviors instead of being myself, because I didn’t know who I was and was terrified of people finding out I was Gay. In college, removed from the suffocating affects of homophobic homilies in church (while surrounded by family and neighbors, not a one of whom ever stood up and complained or shook their head and walked out), I truly began to find myself. I did make some new friends, and began to socialize. Still, I really struggled, and for a long time never completely felt that I fit in anywhere. I had begun to have an honest relationship with my mother and siblings. Still, it was always hard to make friends, not knowing who was truly being sincere, but only on the pretense that I was heterosexual.

It didn’t help that I suffer from neurological disorders that make it seem as if I am consciously staring at people, or following them with my eyes across a room, when in fact I am in a dream state and unaware of what is happening. I will forever remember being heckled out of places like the LGBT Center on the UW Madison Campus as reverse discrimination at its worst. When my neighbors used permanent black markers to graffiti the outside of my residence hall door with homophobic slurs, and I tried to stand up for my rights, the student supervisor for my floor yelled at me, “We don’t do that here!” I went to talk to an associate dean in Bascom Hall about it, and I was told that UW Madison did not recognize being gay as a minority status, and therefore I could not so much as file a complaint.

All of this has a negative cumulative affect on a person. To make matters worse, the pastor who verbally tortured me as a child and young man performed many of the Holy Sacraments on most of my family, friends, classmates and many neighbors. When attempting to Come Out to relatives, I found out the hard way that people don’t want to associate some of the most important days in their lives, like their wedding, and the man who performed it, with decades of verbal abuse and a childhood filled with pain. I can empathize with what victims of physical assault must have to go through, when the assailant is someone the family loves and trusts unconditionally. An aunt once asked me what it was like growing up in our family. I answered, “Always together, forever apart.” Until parents grapple with what many kids are going through, and come to the realization that one or more of their children might very well not be heterosexual (and that it shouldn’t matter) this pattern of behavior laced heavily with denial with continue to be passed on to the next generation.

Last summer, I happened to find myself chatting online with Patrick Farabaugh, who founded the MGHA. I explained that I suffered from mild neurological disorders, and that I had never played hockey, but that I was very interested in joining. He was incredibly supportive and assured me that I would be welcome. I was so excited that I started researching how to play online. Within a few weeks, I had purchased all of my hockey gear, and was learning how to skate, opposite my mentor, David Hafner.

The last several months have been some of the best I can ever remember. I have been warmly welcomed into the league. The over one hundred members and their significant others/families have been very supportive of me. I have a mentor that taught me how to skate & play hockey. I have team and league mates I really enjoy playing with. I have made many new friends and can see myself playing in the MGHA for many years to come. I finally feel like I belong somewhere, like I am a part of something bigger than myself, in a positive way. It’s amazing how one random encounter like my online chat with Patrick can be the focal point for a life-changing set of events.

The MGHA and the staff at Hartmeyer Ice Arena and Madison Ice Arena has been nothing but supportive and professional during my first season. There is a warm, supportive LGBTQ-friendly atmosphere. I need to send out a big thanks to them for that. This allows for all our members, be they lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans or straight allies, to really be at ease, be themselves in a way we are not always permitted to be. I am truly grateful for the opportunity to constantly improve upon my hockey skills and be apart of this wonderful community. I love my hockey family and am so grateful to be a part this wonderful organization. I look forward to many great season with all of you.

The leaves were copper colored with a hint of yellow and the sky was dancing with the most brilliant orange. My windows were down and the smell of fall hung heavy in the air. I drove slowly, taking in a moment that I knew would be revered for many years to come. As I peered out my windshield, the trees so tightly rooted along the lake, pulled back like the opening of a curtain before a much anticipated play. Towering before me, like a glowing lighthouse atop a hill, the Capitol greeted me. A sight, that to me, represented freedom and new beginnings. Under its protective glow, lying in bed for the first time that night, I felt at peace. The weight on my chest momentarily lifted, I felt more alive than I had ever had.

I fled to Madison in a moment of internal desperation. Seeking desperately to find a place in the world where I belonged. A place where breathing was natural and didn’t take concentration or effort. Although I survived the southern culture of my adolescence and early adulthood, the over exaggerated smile in many pictures were only a constant reminder of how empty I truly felt inside. Suffocating under the weight of my own insecurities, and fear of exposure, I fled. Little did I know that what awaited me was a salvation greater than what any little backwoods conservative church could provide. I found me and I was saved.

During my first week in Madison, I paraded around as an invasive tourist. I made Devils Lake, the Terrace, and the Capitol Square my playground. I gazed upon thousands of faces, each of whom had the potential to be my new best friend. I stood in awe as I watched two women walk around the square with a stroller and a set of newborn twins. I then caught myself gazing awkwardly as two young men embrace before exchanging a soft delicate kiss outside a restaurant on State Street. I felt nervous for them, as I anticipated slang and gestures to be hollered from the street. When no such reaction came, I knew Madison was home.

Later that night, as my newly found roommates and I were out for a drink, I was asked the dreadful question, “Are you single?” A question I loathed. And so, when the conversation turned to girls, as it had each time before, I played along like had my entire life. In that moment, I witnessed my paradise crumble under the weight of my own lies. My insecurities had followed me to Madison and it was still poisoning my very existence.

It took eight months from the day that I arrived in Madison to make any effort toward becoming a part of the community that I so desperately needed, and yet feared to know. As a person who knew very few individuals who identified as LGBT, my perception was tainted by the southern slang I had heard so often and the societal stereotypes portrayed on the television. An athlete from a very young age, my perception of the LGBT community did not match my perception of myself. In the midst of this 24 yearlong identity crisis, I discovered via Google the Madison Gay Hockey Association late one night. My first thought, “Gays don’t play hockey.” And yet again, there I was, an athlete myself, ascribing a societal stereotype that I knew I did not fit.

As I gazed at the endless mosaic of faces under the “players” page, I was comforted by the notion that I was not alone. Although I knew no one in the league, and was completely oblivious to their lives, I felt an instant connection. These individuals loved sports, played hockey, and had a shared experience that not even my best friends could understand. I was desperate to play.

The first night felt like the first day school. Awkward. The only knowledge of skating I had was the Mighty Ducks VHS Trilogy that I wore out as a child. I was so nervous about playing hockey that the idea that all the individuals on the ice were LGBT became a second thought. My main objective, “don’t fall.” Looking back, I forced myself to focus solely on the sport. A defense mechanism I’m sure, aimed at shielding myself from my true motives of just pining to be a part of the community. It wasn’t until a month later that I recognized that I was going to learn more from the people off the ice than I was going to learn about hockey on the ice.

Gay, straight, bi, lesbian, and/or trans*, regardless of the label, I had no more reasons hide. For the first time, for a few hours on Sunday night, I was able to take off my mask and be me for the first time in public. It did not take long for those Sunday nights to turn into community gatherings, hockey tournaments, and weekend get-a-ways. The individuals I met through the MGHA were becoming lifelong friends, and they were hearing my voice like no one had before them. Hockey, although important, was merely the conduit that brought me a community. Something I so desperately needed.

We as individuals believe we are strong. That we, through all the trials and constant reminders of being a minority, will overcome. More often than not we believe we can do it alone. We internally rationalize our own humanity and then live our lives like we were destined to do. However, without a community to keep us strong, to share mutual experiences, and grow in our journeys together, we crumble. It was Madison that save my life, but more importantly, it was the MGHA that gave me a voice. By sharing this experience with my teammates, on and off the ice, I am a stronger person. I am more confident than I have ever been and first time can honestly say, “I am proud of who I am.”

Members of the MGHA are more than just a bunch of people getting together to play hockey. They are a family. I was afraid to join at first, but through reassurance from Patrick and a few friends, I went for it. What I found was much more than I had anticipated. I found acceptance, inclusion, and true loving friendships.

I have always had a hard time fitting in and making friends. But from day one of the clinics, I have never found it easier. People come up to me who already know me even though I don’t know them. I always say hi back and then wonder how they know who I am. I am a trans-man, which can make it difficult for people to accept you, whether you outed yourself or others did so for you. This league has helped me have confidence in knowing I am a real man daily.

I have realized in this league that when you give your all, it’s noticed. It also means people love to include you. I’ve never had a more active social life, but not only that, I know that no matter what, these people will ALWAYS have my back. We all come from different walks of life, yet we still come together every week, and occasionally more often. The only place where I really know who I am is out on the ice with these awesome, crazy, fun-loving people.

True friendship is a very hard thing to find these days. With the majority of people so worried about themselves, the little things are often overlooked. But I have had my new friends drop off food when I’m sick and check on me if they haven’t heard from me, and I have been invited to things like Badger hockey games, just because they know I’d love going.

I hope that anyone who has ever thought about joining and was too afraid to do so will read this and realize there’s no need to be afraid. This league will love you no matter who you are.

I started playing hockey when I was in fourth grade. My parents viewed it as a healthy social activity to gain independence and self-confidence. As I began to develop my skills on the ice, I was becoming more and more aware of my identity off the ice. Entering my teen years, that confidence and independence began to be replaced with anxiety and intimidation. I began to smell more from fear than gear—a scent that is hard enough to wash off as it is.

I was hiding and realized that my timidity was starting to be noticed. And, of course, playing hockey at a private Roman Catholic high school was…interesting, to say the least. Dealing with group showers where older students singled you out—pinned you against the wall naked in the shower—because you were new to the team and already enough of an outcast, made for a very convincing reason to put the pads back in the closet and hope to stay there myself as well.

So this is what it’s like to not be hetero and to play sports…no thanks. I like the game; not the players.It became ingrained into a sport that I grew up playing; that I had in common with many of my close friends and cousins.A stereotype founded on experience had been established: the ice was too thin to skate if you don’t fit the mold.

Years later, as a sophomore in college, I created a new stereotype that was not founded on experience—when I first saw advertisements for MGHA in fall of 2007. Wow, a bunch of other gays on the ice. That’s gotta be…“fabulous! pschh”…maybe we’d break into synchronized figure-skating routines midway through and have matching leotards.

I laughed it off, knowing I couldn’t go back to the game I grew up with, and that MGHA probably wouldn’t compare; that I’d just be associating myself with a bunch of flamboyant queens at a time when I was still in the closet, trying to avoid any potential sources of ridicule.

Even after I came out, it took me five years and plenty of excuses to even give MGHA a fair shot. “I’m too busy, I don’t have all my gear, I probably can’t afford it. Besides, I’m probably the only gay that actually knows how to play this ‘hyper-masculinized’ sport, plus…I’m not that gay.”

It wasn’t until I used that excuse to an MGHA player at Plan B, when they shot back with “What do you mean by that gay? MGHA isn’t about being gay. It’s about being accepted. What, do you think we’re just a bunch of queens on ice? Okay, well…some of us are…but that aside! You’re assuming what we are.We have plenty of straight players. And, yes, we actually DO know how to play. If you don’t believe me, we have our first clinic this coming Sunday. Show up. See how you do back on skates; see if you can keep up.If you don’t like it…then don’t join.”

I mulled it over for a bit, shocked that all of my excuses had been diffused by this one guy on his fourth drink. Either my excuses were weak or his powers of deliberation were strong. Since his drinks were obviously potent, I could easily dismiss the latter, meaning that I took what he said to heart.

I arrived at Hartmeyer, not really planning to talk much with anyone.“Get on the ice, slap the puck around a bit, and leave.”

That plan fell through almost immediately—as soon as I realized and thought to myself, ”I didn’t pack my jersey…oh, fu-” The person sitting next to me tossed one at me, saying, “I have an extra one…looks like you need it for the next hour more than my bag does.”

After I geared up, as I took my first strides in over ten years back onto the ice, I looked around and was in awe not only with the number of people, but also with how skilled many of the players were—especially those who had only been in the league for a year or two. “Holy H-E-double-hockey-sticks! There’s actually some pretty stiff competition.”

I found out after the first practice clinic that MGHA is actually the largest rec hockey league in Madison. Because someone got me back on the ice for that one practice, I was able to restore hockey as a part of my weekly routine and even started branching out to other local pickup leagues just to get more ice time. I’m embarrassed by the assumptions and subsequent restrictions I forced on myself; still kicking myself over the fact that it took me this long to get back into a sport I love.

It takes just one person.

Next thing you know, you’re in the game. You’re no longer watching on the sidelines. You’re ready to make the big play…and you fall on your ass.In front of everyone.

But instead of a laugh, you get a hand reaching out to help you back on your feet. You get words of affirmation, that you’re almost there; that they’re gonna make sure you keep at it, that you get better, and that you succeed.

The hardest part of accomplishing any goal in life is taking the initiative to start. Sometimes we sit on the bench and watch others as they make the big plays. Sometimes we talk with others about our aspirations, that someday, we’ll be successful. Someday, we’ll prove ourselves to anyone that ever challenged us. Someday, we’ll be in a better place. And sometimes we just sit there…waiting for everything to be right.

It takes just one person.

This is the kind of play that everyone faces each day, on and off the ice. How others respond speaks to their demeanor. How you react can speak wonders to your character.

Lesbian, Gay, Bi, Trans, Cis, Straight, Queer, Questioning…

Within MGHA, everyone is viewed as a teammate, regardless of which team you play for. You are viewed, accepted, and respected as a person. And if you can lace up those skates and make it on the ice, you can play. Even after your first time there, you develop the mindset that it’s no longer MGHA and you’re a participant.You get the feeling right away that you are an extension of MGHA.

The best thing that MGHA does is that it embraces everyone looking for friends and community. It becomes a family that you know will be there for you; a group of individuals that you can learn and grow from. You can make mistakes and people will be there not to point them out, but to take the time to help teach you. You learn about far more than hockey. You learn about the intricate diversities in those around you. You learn about yourself.You learn to replace your timid discomfort with appreciation and respect. You learn how to be there for others while you develop more confidence and trust in yourself.

Why join? The better question is, why not? Perhaps you haven’t gotten that push yet. Perhaps you don’t think you’re good enough. Perhaps you have an excuse like I did that hasn’t been dissolved away by someone. Perhaps you’re scared to make that play and fall on the ice. Make that play. If you fall, we’ll be here to help you up.

And soon enough, you’ll be the one who’s helping others up.

I will never forget the Sunday of our first game. I had to work that afternoon, and I spent most of the day with a sick stomach. I had an extreme feeling of fear, and it had gotten the best of me.I didn’t want it to be the end of my shift; that would mean I would have to go play hockey, and frankly, I didn’t know if I could do it.

Well, it happened; my shift was over, and I had my cab on its way to take me to the Hartmeyer Ice Arena—now I was committed. During the ride over, I remember asking the driver to turn around at one point and drop me off at home. I didn’t want to do this whole hockey thing; I couldn’t! I was so terrible and could barely skate, much less play hockey. I didn’t want my new teammates to hate me because I sucked at sports. I was so terrified of positioning and that mixed with being new on skates and the rules of hockey made me want to puke with fear!

Well, it was time. I found the locker room and proceeded with caution, hoping to find a hidden back door to run out of! When I entered, I had forgotten what order to put things on. I remember Mimi was one of the first ones to help me with the order of things. She took one look at me and knew I was a mess! I sat next to Brandon Rounds—I kind of knew who he was, but he was still a stranger to me. He was so friendly and willing to help. I owe it to him for his kind words that first day. I think it was the second game when I had my hockey socks on and he looked at me and was like, “Umm, you forgot your shin guards.”

Anyway, we took the ice, and honestly, I was still hoping for a way out! I couldn’t find a way to escape, so I had to do it. My new teammates were so supportive of me and the other new players on the team. They were so motivational, and still are! I did it, I played; I played my first official game of hockey, in fact my first team sport ever, besides gym class.

Now, don’t get me wrong, just because I survived that first game doesn’t mean the fear went away. I went through the same sick feeling for about the first three games or so, and was still looking for ways to escape. Fast forward to February 9, 2014…I played two games that night—I was a sub in the game before ours. Now, granted, I still suck, but I have improved a ton since that first game. Now I am on the pond playing pick-up games or practicing as much as I can. I even joined and played in a pond tournament this winter and signed up for the Gay Games in Ohio.

It’s crazy; I’m now a full-fledged, shitty hockey player. Haha! Instead of being sick at work on Sundays, I’m bouncing around the room with excitement, watching the clock, counting down the hours until hockey! I get such a high when I’m putting on that smelly gear in the locker room with the teammates that have now become friends. I only get sick when hockey is cancelled for the holidays and that for football thing.

I moved to this city not knowing many people, much less other gay people. I came from a small town, population: one gay guy! I joined this league for a few different reasons. The first was because I wanted to be part of a gay community. I love my straight friends and all, but it’s nice to be around other LGBT people. I also wanted to prove to myself that I could do this: I could be the fat gay kid and still learn to play a sport. The people I have met on my own team as well as this league have been so amazing, and a lot of them have become friends and even family. The ongoing support and willingness to help is such a wonderful thing. People who play on other leagues that I know are always shocked that if somebody knocks you down on the ice, they come back and make sure you’re okay. That kind of sportsmanship is why I love this league so much. This helps take away the fear of playing. I’m thankful every day that Patrick and David didn’t give up on me and were like, “What’s the hold up, you’re joining!” I owe a lot to those guys, along with a few other players from past seasons. I’m so glad that I joined, and stayed, because now I have an extension of my family. I have so many kick-ass new friends and a team that I can say I’m part of. I think that some of my non-hockey-playing friends are already annoyed with me because now I’m the person who talks about hockey 24/7! If we are out at a bar and it’s on TV, I’m watching it. I called Charter and ordered the Center Ice package, so that I can watch games and learn from the pros. I even asked for hockey stuff for Christmas.

Thank you so much, MGHA, for what you have done for me and others who thought that we’d never be able to do this. Thank you for picking me up when I’ve been down on the ice, frustrated; thank you for not letting me quit; thank you for telling me that I can do it; thank you for cheering me on and making me feel part of this amazing thing called the Madison Gay Hockey Association. Also, thank you to Sexy Train for your ongoing support, and thank you for passing on the MVP sash and rainbow hat to me this season. That made me feel so great, I almost wanted to cry tears of joy. You are an amazing team and group of friends for life!

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away (well, by long I mean five years, and I guess you could consider Mequon “far, far away”) I was a freshman in high school playing on an all-boys lacrosse team. At the time, I was hoping to join an athletic community where I would be able to develop as a person and be able to figure out who I was…sadly, I wasn’t able to find that on my high school lacrosse team.

The boys I sweated, suffered, and played alongside hated me. I was encroaching on their space, and since I’m biologically female, they wanted nothing to do with me on the field. I gave lacrosse my all only to be met with continual abuse. This kept on for a solid two years, and by the time I was forced to quit the team, I had committed social suicide and was isolated from the community I so desperately wanted to join. Additionally, I had no idea who I was because of it.

A couple years later, I graduated and headed to UW-Madison to pursue a degree in [fill in the blank here]. I moved into a small apartment, and for first time ever, I was alone.

Now anyone who’s ever spent about five minutes with me is acutely aware that I talk a lot and I need human contact. Between living alone in a new city and going to a school as big as Madison, it took a while for me to find friends, and for those first couple months I was stuck in my own head.

That doesn’t seem like the worst thing, eh? For the most part, my thought process tends to rotate among school, hockey, and Canada, so spending a lot of time in my own head doesn’t seem like too much of a problem, right? Wrong.

For the first time, I started to synthesize and actually realize everything I went through in high school and how it was affecting me now.

Even though the team was made up of butt-nuggets, I can say I learned a few things from them. How to be tough.How to stand up for what you want.How to believe in yourself when no one else has your back. Not bad, right? But even though my time on the boys’ lacrosse team was able to teach me that, it was never able to provide me with a sense of community or a safe environment in which to figure out my identity.

When it came to my identity, circa the beginning of last year, I was lost and confused. As far as gender goes, my gender was flipping between male and female so much I was getting gender whiplash. On the sexuality front I was…as I so eloquently explained it to a good friend, “hella confused on a good day.” Growing up in a very conservative and bigoted community my entire life added to the general confusion and stress.

Now, cue the uplifting music. The turning point in the film, the chance encounter, the miraculous discovery.For me, it came in the form of meeting someone at the Shell.

It was like any other day, really, dragging a couple of friends to the UW-Madison Shell so I could get my daily ice-skating fix. At this point, hockey was something I was hoping I’d get to play in the next three to five years, if I practiced skating enough. Never in a million years did I imagine I’d be gearing up for my first game a little less than six months later.

I think I was in the painful process of figuring out backward crossovers for the first time when a lady came up to me. Her name was Dana, and she asked me if I played (I said no), if I wanted to play (I may have screamed yes), and that if I was interested (another yes), there was a gay hockey league in Madison that was looking for players for the next season.

After I expressed my interest, we parted ways, exchanging contact information. I was completely over the moon, and for the next six months I would rant and rave to anyone who would listen about this hockey league I’d be joining next season.

Now, right before the season started I had a brutal thought. Hockey and lacrosse had always been very linked in my head. The style of game play, culture, and mentality were incredibly similar. What if this league was just going to be round two of what happened a couple years back?

Turns out, I was worried for no reason. I managed to stumble upon a league that values the comfort of the individual. One that values the creation of a supportive community that allows people a safe place to figure out their own identities.

For the first time ever, I wasn’t nervous about being judged for my level of play while in a sport. After meeting with my mentor, Suzanne, I knew this league was going to be a great experience. I mean, let’s be honest, when you can make a “breaking the ice” joke to another hockey player and have them laugh along with you, you know that friendship is destined for great things!

Suzanne and all the other wonderful people I’ve met in the MGHA have taught me that this is a supporting and caring community. Identity-wise, I still haven’t totally figured myself out, but for once I’m not worried about it. I know the people I’ve met through the MGHA will have my back no matter what. All the fantastic friends I’ve made in my first year here have allowed me to be myself, all my weird almost-Canadian quirks included, and have made my first year playing hockey truly amazing.

I’ve never been any good at sports. Before joining the MGHA, the last time I tried to play a team sport was in high school gym class, where it seemed like everyone else instinctively knew how to play the game and I was left in the dark. If someone happened to pass to me, my options were to flail wildly or duck and hope the ball wouldn’t hit me. My teammates generally avoided passing to me after the first few times. I tried my best to look like I was trying hard, but I had already learned the one thing that gym class had to teach me: I just wasn’t cut out for sports.

Fast forward ten years. In the summer of 2012, I moved from New Mexico to Madison to start a new job. Madison was an entirely new city for me, and I hardly knew anyone, so I was determined to get involved with something where I could make new friends.

Around the same time, my friend Lexi had dragged me into watching hockey with her. I was living in Canada in 2010, so of course I had to watch Olympics hockey, which was probably my first inkling of interest in the sport. But I didn’t have the time or attention span to keep up with NHL hockey…or so I thought, until I found myself actively seeking out games and watching with bated breath, even though I didn’t understand half of what was going on. I thought maybe if I watched for long enough, a light bulb would go on in my head and all of the whistles and plays would suddenly make sense to me. When that didn’t happen, I started entertaining the thought of learning how to play hockey, because then at least I’d get an explanation of the rules. If that were my goal, I decided, then it’d be okay if I were terrible at it.

I wasn’t thinking about hockey when I decided to move to Madison, but I quickly realized that I couldn’t be living in a better place for it. On a whim, I googled “Madison hockey” and the website for the Madison Gay Hockey Association came up as one of the top results. It sounded perfect—too good to be true.

The problem was, I was nervous enough about the idea of hockey and trying something new. And the thought of joining the Gay Hockey Association felt terrifying for entirely different reasons.

I’ve never been a part of a gay community before. I’ve never really felt like I fit into the communities I have been a part of, but rather like someone lurking around the outskirts, unsure of my welcome. That’s how I was used to living my life. Growing up, the few gay role models I had were teachers involved in the GSA, whom I observed from afar. I was too intimidated to talk to people I knew were gay and too scared to talk about being gay. Gay people were brash and unafraid. They wore rainbows on their backpacks and wrists and didn’t care what other people thought. They talked about girls they thought were cute—classmates, actors, coffee shop baristas—in places where anyone could overhear. Whereas by the time I graduated college, I could count the number of people I’d come out to on one hand.

Heart hammering, I filled out the new player form and submitted it anyway. Which is how I found myself a month later, armed with a bag full of hockey gear and a stick I had no idea how to use, having one of the weirdest thoughts possible asI walked into the locker room: What if I’m not gay enough? All of the returning players looked so cool, and clearly knew each other, and I couldn’t imagine myself fitting in. And even the other newbies seemed at ease with both each other and themselves.

I don’t remember much from that first practice anymore, but a few moments still stand out vividly. Watching Ames hockey stop inches away from the boards like it was easy, and despairing over ever being able to do that. Me falling over backwards every time we would stop and gather to listen to the coaches, because I was used to figure skates and kept forgetting that in hockey skates you couldn’t lean back as far. A kid with the biggest smile on his face, who skated fast even though he looked like he barely knew where his feet were and crashed into the boards at both ends. I got up the courage to smile back at him, and he introduced himself as Chue.

I was about as awful at hockey as I expected. I could skate around okay, but I couldn’t stop at all. I had no idea what to do with my stick. And I couldn’t carry the puck for even a second unless I slowed down to a snail’s pace. None of that mattered though, because no one was yelling at me for not doing things right. The complete opposite, actually—all I ever heard was constant encouragement.

Our second practice was a week later, on my 24^th birthday. Even though no one knew it was my birthday, I remember thinking that learning how to play hockey was the best possible gift.

From then on, I was hooked. It didn’t seem to matter that I was awkward and didn’t know what to say to anyone off the ice, because we were all awkward on the ice, and no one cared. We came from vastly different backgrounds and experiences, and we came to the MGHA for a variety of reasons, but now that we were here, we were in this together. As we learned how to play hockey the MGHA way, I made more friends than I ever expected. Just being surrounded by people who accepted me for who I am made some vital part of me that I didn’t even realise was constantly on guard relax.

I look up to every single person in this league. For being brave enough to play hockey, for being brave enough to try, for not giving up, for having fun, for falling down and laughing about it. For loving hockey enough to dedicate countless hours to it.For leading by example, in both hockey and life. For showing up to play, week in and week out, as much as you can. For being amazing.For being yourselves.

This is what gay hockey means to me.

It means that even when I could barely keep track of the puck, much less the rest of the game, I never once felt like my teammates resented me or wished they could have a better player in my place. They had more confidence in me than I had in myself. It took a while for it to truly sink in that no one was going to be mad at me whenever I went offside or turned over the puck or failed to catch an easy pass. But once it did, I stopped worrying about making mistakes and started trying to prove myself wrong about not being good at sports.

It means that the amazing level of support I felt from my team exists throughout the entire league. We help each other up when we fall down and we celebrate each other’s achievements like they’re our own. We show our support and caring for each other in so many ways, both on the ice and off, that listing all of the moments I can think of would be overwhelming. I know many people have their own stories to tell—personally, the one that blew me away the most was when a group of us played in a pond hockey tournament this year. Despite the well-below-freezing temperatures, our friends showed up at 8 a.m. to cheer us on (with a cowbell!).

It means that I am not only a part of a community—a hockey community and a gay community – but I’ve found myself right in the middle of it. Even a year ago, I wouldn’t have believed it if you told me I would be one of the people in charge of planning championship night. I’m not that good at putting myself out there, and I never expected that I could be a part of something so big and feel like I truly belong, but you guys drew me in and showed me what it feels like to be surrounded by wholehearted acceptance. Because of this league, I am proud to be a gay hockey player.

Gay hockey means challenging yourself to do things you’ve never done before. It’s about overcoming things that you think are impossible. It’s about having the courage to even try.

Before I joined the MGHA, I could skate well enough to get around the rink without falling, but not much more. I couldn’t skate particularly fast, but it didn’t matter—back then, skating with my arms spread wide felt like flying.

Two years and 287 hours of ice time later, I can feel my skate blades dig into the ice with each stride. I don’t feel like I’m about to launch myself into flight. Instead, I feel like I’m landing. Like I’ve finally found a place for myself. Like I have something in my life that’s worth holding on to. Like I’m coming home.

“Eat the frog.” Throughout the first half of our season, this phrase was on mental repeat and volume eleven. Over and over again, as I entered the arena and stepped onto the ice, this mantra helped me keep going, kept me pushing forward, kept me coming back. You see, I’m what I call a chronic worrier. The medical establishment has some different words for this, but they all end in “disorder,” and I’d like to think that I’m anything but dis-ordered—at least, not in that sense. I mean, I’d be slightly concerned if somebody found his or her life in all ways and at all times to be ordered. It’s right there in the physics of life, right—that whole entropy thing? But when doctors start talking about disorders, they mean something different, something bad, something stigmatized and dis-eased. I’m just a worrier.

And besides, we all know what worry is; we’ve all experienced it and, fortunately, most people can ignore it. For me, however, my worries tend to be a bit much. I get obsessive over little things, I sometimes avoid people and things I shouldn’t, and when that doesn’t work, my guard goes up, often leaving me unable to do seemingly routine and everyday things. As it turns out, though, the fix is, well, to just do it, to do what freaks you out—to eat the frog. “Eating the frog,” however, didn’t look quite right on the new-player interest form. So, instead, I wrote about wanting a break from my dissertation, wanting to engage with the broader Madison LGBT community, and wanting to get a little exercise. And all of these reasons were true, of course, but the main purpose for joining the Madison Gay Hockey Association was to do something that, well, freaked me the hell out.

Oddly, perhaps, I don’t think my sexuality has much to do with all this worry, at least not anymore. I’m lucky and privileged enough—not to mention old enough (a sort of privilege in its own right)—that being completely out as a gay man feels like a done deal. On the other hand, I’ve read enough Freud in my seemingly endless years as a student (as I explain it to my four-year-old niece, I’m in the 27th grade) that I can easily tread into the dangerous world of self-analysis. Surely—to name but one frog that needed to be chewed on this year—my obsessive and irrational fear of exercising and sweating in front of other people was at least partially shaped by the mental and physical violence I, like so many other kids, queer or otherwise, experienced in the merciless gladiatorial arena that is junior high gym class. (Seriously, though, junior high is some sadistic shit.) But thanks to the MGHA, if the hockey gear on the back porch grossing out the neighbors is any indication, that’s one devoured frog.

In an ironic twist, however, it was ultimately the junior high, male-bodied social imperative to “butch it up, or else,” that got me interested in hockey in a way I never was before. Growing up in Minnesota, the sport was, of course, ever-present. I went to many of my cousins’ high school games, but can’t remember actually ever seeing a play. I may have been too short, but really, I think I was just disinterested. And in the age of rabbit-eared televisions I can vaguely recall seeing, through the static, Northstars’ games on TV. But even then, the 1991 Stanley Cup loss to the Pittsburgh Penguins was tragic for me not because the team lost, but because my pet newt died minutes before we left to watch the game at my grandparents’ house. His name was Newton; may he rest (which was pretty much all he did) in peace.

But then came junior high and the start of my ongoing love affair with Saint Cloud State University hockey, my hometown team. It’s fair to say I became a little obsessed, in a total fan-girl way. I had the jerseys and the programs; I saved my ticket stubs; I begged my parents to take us on road trips; I even amassed an impressive collection of VHS recordings of games aired on television. I was into it. It was fun, but it was also a way for me to “prove” my masculinity and shun my queerness. I became a student of the game—learning the rules and the strategy and all the minor details needed to talk to the talk. But I never walked the walk. By junior high I was too old to start when my peers had begun skating at three or four. And I didn’t really want to. I’ve never much liked playing sports with the guys. Too much worry. And, as you all already know, I completely lack any natural athletic ability. In two years of little league, for example, as a denizen of right field, I managed to catch the ball just twice—on two consecutive pop flies…in practice.

Still, somewhere along the line I had fallen in love with hockey, and when I moved to Madison four years ago for graduate school, that love meant that I actually knew about the MGHA soon after my arrival. My chronic worrying, however, kept me from joining. Would I be able to skate well enough? Would people accept my comical lack of athletic skill? Would it be like junior high gym class all over again? Would I just fold under the pressure? But sometime last summer I finally decided to join—to finally feast on the frog. And after two, or three, or eight glasses of wine, I hit the submit button on the interest form.

As it turns out, of course, I had nothing to worry about. I still did worry—a lot, in fact—but the emphasis of the league on community and player development, and the friendliness and camaraderie that fosters, meant that those worries subsided relatively quickly. Now my biggest worry is when and where to find more ice time.

So, what is gay hockey to me? For starters, it’s the antithesis of junior high gym class. It’s an alleviation of worry. It’s finally being able to play the game I oddly fell in love with. It’s a welcome break from school and my dissertation, and a bit of exercise—even if those calories are quickly replaced after the game. But most importantly, gay hockey is community and camaraderie and new friends. And in the end, it’s me, eating one giant frog*—and it’s delicious.

*No actual frogs were harmed during the duration of the season. I prefer chicken strips.