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.

Seven years ago, on a blistery winter day in Pittsburgh, I hopped on a bus with my college roommate and a neighbor to go stand in line outside of an arena shaped like an igloo.

We arrived two hours early, yet we were still near the back of the line. Luckily, when we made it to the box office, there were still tickets remaining. We flashed our student IDs and were given three standing-room only seats for $20 each. The ticket stub said, “Must be 5’5” or taller to see over wall.”

I’m 5’6” (on a good day). I had to peek through the top of the wall and a railing to get a glimpse of the ice. I could barely see the far goal, but for the first time, I got to see an ice hockey game in person. The Pittsburgh Penguins defeated the Dallas Stars in a rather dull game, but something ignited a spark inside me—and I fell in love.

I threw everything I had into the sport of hockey. I followed the Penguins like only a die-hard could—I watched every game, stood in the cold all day for tickets, and camped out in front of the arena to watch playoff games on a big screen. I even got up at 4 a.m. to get a good spot to watch the Stanley Cup parade in 2009.

In 2010, I surrounded myself even more with sports, as I became a sportswriter for the college newspaper. I also managed to snag an internship with the Penguins during my senior year. In just four short years, I did everything you possibly could as a hockey fan, save for one thing—actually play the game.

Watching hockey made me happy. Writing about hockey gave me validation. Arguing with Philadelphia fans gave me purpose. And all of it masked the biggest issue in my life—one I was too afraid to face.

Basically, my hockey and sports obsession kept me busy enough so I didn’t have to think about the future. But once college ended and I was lucky enough to find a good job, I moved to Madison and was forced to.

I still watched as much hockey as possible, but I was no longer immersed in it as much as I was the year before. The issue that I kept sweeping under the rug kept creeping back out.

You see, living life in the closet is like holding your breath—you’re eventually going to have to exhale. I finally allowed myself to realize what I forced myself to not believe for years. I am gay. But that realization led me down a dark path.

For my first two years in Madison, all I did was sit at home, watch hockey, eat junk food, and occasionally go out with the few friends I had. Needless to say, it wasn’t a very healthy lifestyle—physically or mentally. I gained about 40 pounds and I wasn’t a very happy person. I didn’t see an end in sight.

Then, it all changed so suddenly and magically that I still sometimes wake up and think it’s a dream.

On a mundane Monday in late April, I was procrastinating at work and perusing my Twitter feed. A tweet appeared that linked to a Sports Illustrated article, written by a basketball player I never heard of. His name was Jason Collins, and he wrote a beautiful story announcing that he’s gay. I was struck by his honesty, and I admired the fact that he wanted the world to hear it from him first.

Minutes after reading his story, I opened up a Microsoft Word document and wrote the most important story of my life. Collins made me realize that I wanted to tell my story in my own words and not have the grapevine of a small town spread my truth. I am gay, and it’s about time I start being proud of that.

Hockey helped me through a difficult period in my life, but it also played a part in keeping me in the closet. I guess I wanted to divert any gay suspicions away by showing how much of a “masculine” sports fan I am. “He can’t be gay, he likes hockey” was my foolish reasoning. ButI never even considered playing.

And when I came out, I still didn’t think I could play hockey. I still feared the locker room. And I knew I wouldn’t be very good, since I’ve never played before.

Soon after I came out, though, several people emailed me and told me about the Madison Gay Hockey Association. After hearing how the league encourages new players, I decided to reach out and learn more. Two weeks later, I was on the ice for my first scrimmage. Finally.

But I had only been out of the closet for a few weeks. I still wasn’t quite sure what it meant to be openly gay. I think part of me joined the MGHA for the wrong reason—I wanted to prove to the world that a gay man can be masculine just like straight men.

Now that the world knew I was gay, I wanted to try hard to prove that I wasn’t any different, that I’m just like everyone else.

Thankfully, the MGHA taught me a valuable lesson. I am different. It’s time to stop trying to prove myself to people, and it’s time to stop trying to prove stereotypes wrong.

That’s not what gay hockey is about. Gay hockey isn’t about proving that we can do the same things that straight people can do. We all already know that. Gay hockey is about sharing my love of the game with other people who were discouraged from lacing up skates their whole lives. Gay hockey is about simply having fun.

Now, I don’t play hockey to prove that I’m just like everyone else. I play gay hockey to prove that I’m different. We are different. The MGHA is different. We play hockey because it’s fun. We play hockey to make friends and learn from each other.

Gay hockey has helped me find my place in Madison—a place I now consider home.

I lived in a small town in Pennsylvania for 18 years. I lived in Pittsburgh for four years. I’ve only lived in Madison for three years.

But Madison is home, and my MGHA family is a big reason why.

Gay hockey came into my life at a very opportune time. Initially, the Madison Gay Hockey Association was a chance to enhance my individual growth through teamwork and to learn more about the community that supported me (well before I even knew I was a part of it). I had just come out to my parents, which led to openly flirting with girls for the first time in my life. This paired nicely with the newness of a game that I had never formally played. I knew what hockey was, but I didn’t know what gay hockey was. Spoiler alert: I’m still not a professional at either.

Sports have almost always played a direct role in my life. Early on, I learned how to excel individually in softball and bowling. Neither is as physically demanding or as team-focused as hockey; however, both helped me define myself as an athlete. Years of my life were devoted to these sports, and over time I gained confidence, felt useful, practiced commitment, experienced failure, and learned how to quit. I was ready physically and emotionally to join gay hockey.

From the beginning of the season, I never needed to define myself as anything more than a player. During the first clinic, like the first 21 years of my life, external motivations dominated my mind. Stretching, passing, skating, and shooting were the concrete skills I needed to work on, and doing so made me feel useful. Like many activities, it’s an escape. An hour on the ice helps push aside work and life drama, directing focus to the beautifully simple goal of getting the puck in the net. I could go on forever about how athletes perceive and obsess over their passion for sports, but for once in my life, let me get to the point.

Gay hockey authenticates how sports represent life. Similar to the way art reflects life and life reflects art, I see sports reflecting and enhancing the connections we have to one another. Not all sports and not all teams are created equal, but in the MGHA we play gay hockey, which means we play for one another. I play hockey for my teammates, my community, and myself. It’s a display of how individuality and cohesion off of the ice come together on the ice. Gay hockey made me understand the importance of sports beyond athleticism and individual prowess.

Most importantly, gay hockey involves me directly in the LGBTQ community. I have less than a year’s experience openly talking about my sexual identity, but I am more educated and supported than I’d ever hoped to be. The ever-present worries, demons, and stories are real; it will take many brave words and acts to share our love outside of the LGBTQ world. Large and small experiences of being brave are the cornerstone of being a gay hockey player. Simply being a part of the MGHA gives us the opportunity to share every part of ourselves with those listening.

Diversity is normal, within people, thoughts, and actions. Coming together to make something tangible for ourselves fulfills my life, and I’ll never take for granted the love that exists within everyone in gay hockey.

This is my first year playing hockey, and it is a dream come true. Joining the MGHA impacted me in many great ways, but the real extent of it did not dawn on me until recently.

I had always wanted to play hockey. I started watching the CU Buffaloes play while attending University of Colorado – Boulder in the late ’80s. I liked the game a lot. So much so that I started to go to the student rec center and watch the recreational leagues play as well. I loved the fast pace of the game, the strategy, the intensity, and skating and stick skill needed. I admired those who played and the passion they put into the game. I loved that I never once saw a hockey player who was lukewarm about the sport, and this inspired me.

I had always wanted to be involved in sports but never took the step because of my experiences in school. There was a group of jocks at my junior high school who were aggressive, arrogant, intimidating, mean-spirited. They bullied me, made fun of me, hit me, and threw snowballs with rocks in them at me, and I was always scared of them. I never fought back because I knew they would just gang up on me even more. To their credit, I did learn how to run fast. In high school it was the same, so I tried my best to stay under the radar and just get through it.

After coming out, I gained confidence and found groups outside of school to support me. I was more comfortable, but the dream of sports never materialized. Underneath, I still felt unworthy, weak, and intimidated. I graduated and moved on to college. In college, I fell in love with hockey, and I secretly longed to play but had so many misgivings. I was afraid I would break a finger, which would be disastrous to my many years of guitar study. I was suffering from asthma and thought that the game would be too much to handle. I was too skinny and thought that the other players would snap me in two. I was homosexual and wouldn’t be able to stand up to the judgment. The excuses were symptoms of being bullied all those years. Sadly, my friends agreed with my reasons not to play—but I still dreamed. Eventually I finished college and went on to build my life.

Years later, fully involved in my career path of healing and counseling, I was reintroduced to hockey in a most unexpected manner. On September 11, 2001, I was in New York to attend a children’s peace conference at the United Nations. The next morning, the towers went down. Our group ended up volunteering with the Red Cross to counsel victims of this terrible event. One person I met while volunteering was a NY Gay Hockey League member. I was truly surprised to hear that such a thing existed. A seed was planted.

Later that year, I returned to New York to visit people that I had counseled from 9-11. While there, I decided to visit the gay hockey league and watch a game. The website said that visitors were welcome with an invitation to meet the players after the game. I practically ran to Sky Rink. I was so excited and blown away watching gay hockey. I met some of the players and Jeff Kagan, the founder of the league. Everyone was friendly and welcoming. I left New York thinking how unfortunate it was that there wasn’t a league close to where I lived, but seeing NYGHA in action made it seem possible.

Years later, I had become aware of MGHA and was very excited. I started thinking about joining, but there were many reasons why I couldn’t. Work, travel, school, age, etc. I eventually realized that the real reason I didn’t join was because I was still intimidated. I finally decided that I HAD to go for it and finally face these old issues.

I joined MGHA, got in after the season had started. My first day was at a game. Despite my terror, I was thrilled beyond words to be on the ice playing hockey after some 20 years of dreaming about it. Everyone was so friendly and supportive; I cannot express what that day meant to me. Since then, I have had only wonderful experiences. The experience has been healing and uplifting and I am truly grateful for how positively it has affected me. But it is only recently that I realized how much so.

In February,I played in the Madison Pond Hockey Championships. I was nervous because this would be the first time playing against non-MGHA people, so that “safety net” wouldn’t be there. The games went well—I had fun, played hard, and did my best. I felt proud of the progress I had made over the season. Later, I had a realization. Not ONCE during the tournament did I feel intimidated, judged, or bullied. Those old, doubting thoughts about size, skill, speed, gender, and sexuality had not surfaced once the entire weekend! I had been walking around meeting people, sharing stories, cheering teams on, playing. I remembered how the old me would have felt at this gathering, and how I would have treated the “straight” people there like they were the old bullies that used to torment me. None of this happened.

Upon realizing this, I went outside and looked around. Games were happening, there was a light snow falling, rocking music, the smell of beer, and friendly chatter…and me there, a part of it all. I thought to myself, “This is a perfect, beautiful moment. I made it at last.” I got a lump in my throat and tears welled up in my eyes, and I felt immense gratitude flowing through me. It wasn’t that I was just doing the best that I could; somewhere along the way, during this hockey season, my past demons had simply disappeared and what I was now sharing with my MGHA teammates and all those other players was simply the LOVE OF THE GAME. That is what I have dreamed of for so long.

The MGHA is an amazing example of what is important and necessary about having a healthy, supportive gay community. People are given the chance to work through fears, issues, and pain,and are given the chance to be beginners without feeling pressured to perform. The result is that people are able to find confidence, self-esteem, inner strength, artistry, and passion. This, in turn, allows them to share that good energy and well-being with the people in their lives. Playing hockey with the MGHA is a dream come true for me. It’s the awakening from an old scary dream, a chance to make friends, and outlet to blow off steam and have fun. I cannot put into words the positive impact this organization and its members have had on me. I cannot put into words how much I love this game.

Gay hockey means politely declining invitations to join for years, citing your paralyzing fear of team sports brought on by 12 years of hellish gym classes.

Gay hockey means finally giving in and trusting your friends who are MGHA members that there exists a sports league that is actually supportive.

Gay hockey means doing breathing-relaxation exercises while driving to the rink for pre-season practices and scrimmages because you’re a nervous wreck over how bad you’re going to be.

Gay hockey means meditating on the incongruousness of having teammates discussing the latest episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race while putting on their hockey gear.

Gay hockey means wondering if you’re not gay enough to fit in until you remember that you wash your jersey and socks on the delicate cycle with Woolite.

Gay hockey means being surprised when your straight teammates are the most vocal supporters of adopting unabashedly gay names like “The Green Gay Puckers” as the team name.

Gay hockey means feeling quietly relieved when you realize other beginners are just as bad at hockey as you are.

Gay hockey means obsessively watching the time on the scoreboard and hoping the game ends quickly because you’re embarrassed by the number of times you’ve fallen on the ice.

Gay hockey means realizing that your coach praising you for falling down often was not being sarcastic. (Falling over, he said, is a sign you’re pushing yourself.)

Gay hockey means having to bite your tongue—hard—and simply say “Thanks” to people who say they see improvement in your playing even though you don’t.

Gay hockey means helping members of the other team back on their feet after you knock them over on the ice.

Gay hockey means members of the other team helping you get back on your feet after they knock you over on the ice.

Gay hockey means having members of your team, members of the other team, and occasionally even the refs give you positioning advice.

Gay hockey means appreciating teammates who don’t exclude you from the game despite not being able to contribute much.

Gay hockey means staring at the Facebook photo somebody posted of you during a game and realizing after a few moments that yes, that is you and you are actually playing hockey.

Gay hockey means enjoying wearing your MGHA sweatshirt because after all the spills, bruises, muscle sprains, and aches, you’ve earned it. (And also because it’s really comfy.)

Gay hockey means finally being able to relax at the games and not care about the game clock, scoring, or even team rankings because you’re just there to enjoy playing hockey.

Gay hockey means watching your Facebook friends list explode with other MGHA members—and occasionally with their drag-queen alter egos, too.

Gay hockey means going from being relieved when there are weekends with no hockey scheduled to being annoyed and upset at excuses like “Super Bowl Sunday,” “Oscars Sunday,” and “Christmas.”

Gay hockey means feeling sad when the season begins to wind down because your hockey skills have finally improved from comically bad to just bad—and feeling proud of that improvement.

Gay hockey means feeling excited to sign up for summer scrimmages so you can see everybody again and play some more.

Gay hockey means wondering why you waited so damn long.

I first heard about the MGHA while looking for chess partners on Grindr. The odd mix of a demographic not known for sporting excellence and a brutal-looking sport caught my attention. I didn’t bite right away, but I looked over the website and—months later—set up a meeting to talk details.

Patrick must have thought I was quite the pill. I had a list of questions about this so-called MGHA. When are the games? What’s the overhead? How does the G play a part in the HA? I approached the hockey league like I approach most things—with caution and meticulous planning.

Approaching my 30s, I was searching for something to shake up my routine. My upbringing prepared me for a predictable life and career held aloft by prudent decisions. I envied my friends’ stories about the spectacular but ultimately harmless mistakes they made early in life. I often felt like I was cheated out of the opportunity to be reckless.

There were a few years during which I called my parents every few days like a pious son—only to end up telling them that they stifled me. My teenage rebellion came late. The frustration was directed at two human beings who no longer exerted that kind of influence on my life. It took me a long time to realize that no one, no thing had that kind of power over me—even longer to realize that I had to live my life instead of just telling people off.

I think I ultimately chose to join the MGHA because it offered nothing familiar. Being part of an organization with gay in the name and playing a team sport were both firsts for me.

Before stepping onto the ice for the first practice, I had only skated a handful of times. I was the kid that dreaded P.E. Dodgeball seemed to me a game invented by beefy Teutons so they would have an excuse to throw things at people. During the physical assessments, I hung like a limp noodle from the pull-up bars—not able to manage even one. I was flexible, sure. But the stocky gym teacher—who threatened to “whip [me] to death with chopsticks” when I didn’t run fast enough—wasn’t impressed. Looking back, it’s not hard to see why I never thought I was athletic.

Now, a few weeks from playoffs, I’ve reconciled mainstream sports with my worldview. It might not be a revelation for most, but I get the idea now that a sport is defined by the people who play it. In the first few games, I had people from the opposing team tell me where to stand to best cover their position. When players want to improve the game, not just intensify the competition—sports can be a simple pleasure. I wish that perspective could have come to me sooner.

The experience of hockey is incredible. The long process of suiting up makes me feel like I’m stepping onto the sands of an arena or making final preparations for a space odyssey. I even welcome the butterflies of anticipation as the teams wait in files for the gate to close behind the zamboni. Then there’s the sensation of flying over a surface that confounds our naked anatomy, the chase and the quiet roar of concentration! Given more words, I could really wax poetic.

I attended every football game in high school as part of the band—never cared enough to understand the game. Then I went to Duke and forced myself to attend a few basketball games. Cheering felt ridiculous. Sports have no relevance in real life, so why care that much? But in my first game, I distinctly remember screaming my head off—before I could even classify the act as cheering. I wanted so much for my teammates to feel supported, because so many of them were doing something new and brave.

My co-workers in California often ask what it is that makes the 12-hour round trip every weekend worthwhile. A family? A pretty girl? At the start, I explained a bit apologetically that it was a hockey league. But I have long since omitted any qualifications. Sometimes I even throw the gay in there for extra shock value. When I think about the camaraderie, the easy, intimate conversations, the space left by a missing teammate, it feels like a lot of life had happened in just a handful of Sundays. I have no doubt that what I’m doing is worth the trouble.

The rush of playing hockey is just one part of it. Meeting new people was always stressful because windows of opportunity for me to bring up my sexuality would open and close—each time making me wonder whether I was being too evasive or too in-your-face, rather than engaging the person in front of me. Not having to concern myself with that felt fantastic.

More than just silent understanding, teammates would often lend me their perspectives. What is it like to be one of the other letters of LGBT? What is it like to struggle with depression? How does a person find happiness after defeating an addiction? These unasked-for gifts have given me the means to reach out to people I have yet to meet in life. I couldn’t be more grateful.

I’ve lived in Madison for seven years. For four of those years, I worked and played with a young, well-to-do, heteronormative cohort. For the other three, I spent most of my time in hotel rooms in other states. I was fond of Madison, but I couldn’t call it home. Joining the MGHA marked the first time this place became a community my thoughts couldn’t leave behind.

I’ve been meaning to set up a debrief with Patrick to tell him how much the organization means to me. The opportunity hasn’t come up. But since this love letter is addressed to the full cast of the MGHA, this essay was the perfect opportunity to put down my thoughts. Each person has contributed to making this season an unforgettable experience.

In an ironic twist, I’m missing my first MGHA game as I conclude this reflection (sitting in a DTW diner called SlapShotz). The monitor across the way indicates that the flight back would be delayed until after the puck drops. Might I be granted the serenity to accept these things I can do nothing about.

What It Means

Becoming something larger than you ever imagined you were going to be, with the realization of the limits you set against yourself.

There is none able to decide what they are brought into. To grow up with aspiring opportunities or to strive for the next sunrise are close yet far. With struggles in life that deny our wishes or stomp out our dreams only succeed from our failure to ourselves.

Finding something that seemed as unique as I was, something that seemed to have every great aspect of any other sport slapped into one hard puck, finding someone who knew how to play the game and make a name by his presence during the Lindros years of the Philadelphia Flyers, it became the great escape. I knew I could be something in it. Something like he was, my own saga.

Without money for food or a stable home most the time, how the hell would one pay for hockey fees let alone make the team? I never wanted to give it up. I worked for change to buy supplies to make baked goods to sell at my library or gas stations but never enough. When the time came, I gave in and kept the channels tuned in, as that was all I would ever get.

Thirteen years later that forcibly matured kid is working 70 hour work weeks as a lineman, still recording Flyers faithfully. The choices and decisions, friends and enemies in those years came and went as they do for everyone.

As few do, one friend stuck out and close greatly. We were un-biological twins. Our bond had many layers, including the militaristic brotherhood as being ex-Navy and he being not-yet-deployed-Marine. Always thinking the same, doing the same, joking, laughing, crying, we shared it all, did it all. The road our future was on had turns but had no stop in sight. His motivation and life views always so motivating, we always fueled each other to keep humanity, to pay it forward, to help out no matter what.

In due time, it kicked my own ass into gear. This is your life, made just for you, and it comes to a close at any given moment. Why waste time regretting anything, you’ll only end up regretting the time you’ve wasted. I never forgot my dreams, I only forgot how to chase after them. I changed my life around. I put together my list of things I must accomplish before kicking the bucket, the a.k.a. Bucket List. I didn’t put much on there at first, but hockey took the first slot.

I spent a month on Google looking up Madison Hockey Leagues. Several came up, but one caught my attention. I pondered, contemplated, then questioned why I was even second guessing.

It was a Gay hockey league, and it admittedly frightened me. I never thought myself to be gay, but born into the wrong body. For lack of any understanding, gay was the only way to label what I was and would be most accepted to. But with so many labels and limits society places on us, why add to them? I myself was living my own life as it were to not interfere with others. To admit I was gay wasn’t shameful. I’ve always supported everyone in their lives, no matter what. But I couldn’t come to grips with what I was, or was going to be. A strong supporter vicariously chiming in at supportive gatherings that I never went to, and still haven’t.

On my lunch break, April 4th 2012, from the job that I worked myself into oblivion, and financially set me to be able to do whatever I wanted, I sat at a food joint and used my phone to complete the form for new players to join the Madison Gay Hockey League. I took a deep breath when I looked out the window upon completion. Excitement and nerves hitting the same chord. To see what the future brings.

On April 5th I had woken up, another 4AM work day, only for my life to be changed forever, as is so possible in just a second, just one moment.

My dearest friend, my military brother, the only person who had my back, the reason I had even filled out that application, that I ever considered improving my life by changing it 180 before self-destruction, had taken his life in his room on the 4th, the same day. Without a word, without a cry for help, without a second thought, without any attempt, he was, is, gone forever. It consumed me, as it would. He was always there, always over, always near, now he would never answer my calls, never reply, never know.

We would never know.

I could never get my head right. I tried to not let it go in vein, by remembering to be happy or live on or any of that junk. Easier said than done. As it never will, none of it made sense.

I had to force myself to realize, this is not my life. It was not meant for me. It was meant for me to live for others. To take that drive I’ve always had to help others, and to use it as fully as possible. The Navy for Search and Rescue, the child’s dream of being a Fire Fighter to save others, to live fueling the fire of the embers he left us.

With my miles and time and thoughts behind me through checking out of life and into work, half a year passed before I realized it. August came with a random email, ‘Welcome New Player’. I had forgotten. I had entirely forgotten I had even filled that out. I forgot my dream?

I got what equipment was needed, as orange as possible for my beloved Flyers, then hit the ice for the first time in my life. Never had I put skates on my feet before. Once at Tenney Park when I was 3.

Once.

I didn’t know how I was going to perform, but I knew I would give it my all. I had to and I would. I learned what I needed to, and took what I knew. The fear was overcome by the happiness from accomplishing something I never thought I would ever do, and meeting people who in turn, also ended up changing my life. By gaining a whole new understanding I thought I already had.

To support something, it isn’t about you. It is about that, about supporting it all, supporting others, them, those who cannot, the familiar strangers from afar, and them whom were like me, like he was, struggling to find themselves in the universe. Because you can, and they cannot.

We later put together his struggles with himself, questioning himself. That he could help everyone else but not himself. Too familiar for me than I wished to admit.

With every game I hit the ice it was for Elmo as the other players caught onto. For him. For myself as well, I did not forget. It was because of him, but for me.

What it means, to be apart of something bigger than I originally expected. That I ever imagined being. Ever imagined happening. To be with a group of excellent people of my city, who are happily accepting of you, as you, not because you are gay or straight, but because you are here, as we all are, to have the best time we can playing the best sport there is. The over powering feeling it was to have that be my first ever hockey game I ever seen in person, to have people asking me for advice, to get critiqued, to be there, to hold the stick, slap the puck, have my first goal, assist, shoot out, to find out my dearest friend’s favorite color was orange, to have orange to do everything with hockey then, to have his initials on my hockey stick, to pass by the bench dedicated to him at Tenney Park while practicing hockey for hours at night for the first time, to have the persons from hockey in my life as well, to help and be helped, to accomplish this all, by simply playing hockey,

Means a hell of a lot.

As I submitted an essay last year, let’s call this Part 2…

Over the last two seasons our hockey league has been in a state of transition around what Gay hockey means, that transition is still on-going and its destination seems yet to be determined.  In the course of fulfilling my role as a team lead this season I had to help another straight player figure out some changes to make in his play style that brought my definition of Gay hockey into much sharper focus, and I had some realizations that have not so much changed what Gay hockey means to me, as more sharply refined the definition.  When I shared this with the player in question, and our other team lead (also straight), the light bulb of this particular idea got brighter for them as well.

Initially,  Gay hockey was for me, and (I think) a lot of other players, primarily about what goes on in the locker rooms and at the bar after the games.  The League’s mission statement leads to this conclusion, especially in this sentence:  “We are especially committed to providing opportunities for those who have historically felt uncomfortable in traditional sports settings to learn and teach ice hockey in a safe, supportive, and fun environment.”  To be clear, it’s not my intention to critique the League’s mission statement, or to propose changes to it.  I’m only pointing out that it endorses my initial notion that Gay hockey is mostly defined by what goes on in the periphery of the game.

Even more explicitly, Gay hockey was hockey where the locker room banter didn’t include calling each other “faggot” or boasting about what we intended to do with (or to) our date after the game.  Growing up playing straight sports meant I spent a lot of time in that kind of locker room.  My life-long discomfort with that sort of behavior is one of the reasons that I prefer to play in the MGHA.

Hockey is a sport, and sports are competitive.  That fact carries with it the underlying assumption that winning the game is paramount.  I had been operating under the assumption that Gay hockey meant locker rooms that aren’t hostile and a focus on sportsmanship and stricter adherence to the rules, but that the underlying assumption that the point is to win the game is still paramount.

In actuality, if that were true, we wouldn’t be playing Gay hockey.  We’d be playing Straight hockey where it’s okay to be Gay.

What I’ve come to realize is that Gay hockey is a challenge to that most fundamental assumption about sports.  I’m not saying that winning isn’t more fun than losing, or that as a team lead I don’t encourage my team to try to win the game.  But the imperative to win the game isn’t paramount to everything else.  It’s a priority, but no higher a priority than the priorities of sportsmanship, inclusiveness, and safety that are explicated in our mission statement.

At the end of the 11-12 season the league president pointed out that nine of the top ten goal scorers in the league were straight men.  I know that some in the league took that as trying to make the league less welcoming to straight players.  I would like to suggest, respectfully, that the players that saw that statement as trying to create a rift between Gay and Straight players missed the point.  There are Gay players in the league that have played their whole lives, and are great hockey players by any standard.  The fact that those players weren’t amongst the top goal scorers meant that they were choosing to play the game with a different set of priorities.  Therein lies, for me, the definition of Gay hockey.

Gay hockey means that if we can’t win inclusively, we don’t win.  It means that we keep our beginning players on the ice for their shifts when we’re down on the scoreboard.  It means that, as an advanced and physically large player, I moderate how I challenge opposing beginners and smaller players for the puck.  If I can’t challenge them in a way that isn’t aggressively physical then I give up possession.  It means that, while I’m capable of carrying the puck end to end on my own, I rarely do so because I’m looking for opportunities to pass.  It means I pass to the beginners on my team when they’re open, even if passing to that teammate has already resulted in multiple turnovers.  I could go on, but I’ll leave the examples at that.

The point that the president was making was that the straight players in question were playing Straight hockey where it’s okay to be Gay, as opposed to Gay hockey.  This is a Gay hockey league, I think it’s incumbent upon everyone to try to play Gay hockey.

How the league defines Gay hockey appears to me to be very much up in the air, and the way that I’m defining it here is not ubiquitous.  I think the league moved this past season a bit away from Straight hockey where it’s okay to be Gay, and more towards Gay hockey.  I hope that the movement in that direction continues.

Oh, hey….I didn’t see you there but since I have your attention, why don’t you stay awhile and listen?  People call me Chuy.  I am from a small town called Chicago, where my family settled down from Mexico way back in the day.  (Which was a Wednesday if you care to know…)  I have recently celebrated my 10th anniversary of being 21 and I am currently a student with a goal of a career in the health field.

What I really want you to know about me is that I am a hockey player.  Yes, that is right and I am proud of it!  Granted, I just completed my first hockey season where I recently learned the game.  I didn’t even know how to skate before joining the Madison Gay Hockey Association (MGHA)!

So how did a Mexican-American gay boy like me pick up hockey at the tender age of 31?  Well, I didn’t know much about the sport before.  I don’t think I have even watched it on tv.  It just seemed like a sport out of my league, dominated by big rough Caucasian straight men with no teeth.  Well, I found myself at a very awkward period in my life around the beginning of the season.  I lost my job, went back to school, and moved into a new place with new room mates.  At certain times, the big changes in my life was very overwhelming and scary.

Then one day I met a friend of one of my room mates that was recruiting for MGHA.  I figured why not try something new, along with all the other changes I have been going through at the time.  What is one more thing?  I could use the exercise and it would be nice to get to know the gay community better and become more active.  Let me tell you, this was the best decision I’ve made all year!  I can’t believe I didn’t join sooner.

Now, I should tell you.  I am very secure with my sexuality.  I’ve known ever since I was little, growing up in a Machismo environment back in the inner city of Chicago, that I liked boys.  Growing up, I’ve had to come to terms with who I am very fast.  So while I have always appreciated LGBT support groups, I’ve always felt ok on my own, having my family and friends that I have already established.  I guess that is why I didn’t think to join a gay club or organization before.  It was through recent changes in my life that lead me here.

I understand you want to know what does gay hockey mean to me.  I feel that it is so much more than a gay organization, it is more like a family.  MGHA is such a diverse community.  We have gays and straights, men and women and transgendered, young and old, students and professionals, and everybody in every walk of life it seems.  We all choose to join MGHA through the interest of playing hockey.  And it is through that bond we share where we can break down borders set by society and come together as a team and create an environment of respect and support.

I have to admit.  In the beginning of my first season, I felt out of my element with the sport.  I didn’t know the rules, I didn’t know how to skate, and my feet and body were killing me.  I felt very disenchanted at times and missed a lot of the beginning games because I felt I wasn’t good enough and was frustrated.  Despite all of this, the support I received from the league was amazing.  No body cared that I was new.  I never once felt rejected or put down because I wasn’t a good player.

I remember one moment during one of my first few games we were losing.  I told my captain that I am ok with sitting out the last period so that they can have a better player out there to make some points.  I will never forget what he told me.  He said that wasn’t the point of the game.  Winning or losing doesn’t matter.  All that matters is that I go out there and try my best and have fun.  I can only get better if I try.  It was at that moment that I knew I found my place.  It is in MGHA where I found a place where I can play a sport I am increasing becoming fond of and not be afraid to be myself.  Here I can receive the support I need to become a better athlete in a respectful and fun environment.  Being gay did not once inhibit my ability to play or have a good time.  I don’t think I would have joined this sport if I didn’t have that reassurance.  I only hope that this finds other people looking for a similar experience.  I look forward to playing with them on the ice!