Like many other students, when I started college, I was told it would be a time for exploration. It was 2011, and I was a freshman at Purdue University. And sure enough, as I explored, my personality flourished, and my interests bloomed in surprising directions. It is logical to expect that the more you experience in life, the more things you will find to enjoy. This is simple probability. But discovering what I looked like as a blond, or that I loved sushi, or that I was great at sand volleyball or had an affinity for the arts was worlds apart from realizing I was sexually attracted not only to women, but to men as well. Those other things were great. But bisexuality threatened to shatter my dreams as an athlete and undo the lifetime of dedication it had taken to bring them within reach.

College may have been time to explore, but college sports, not so much. When I joined the football team, it was a lot of the same — the same techniques, the same drills, the same plays, the same goals, and the same objectives. In fact, it was common wisdom that fidelity to routine — dedication — was the key to success. That first year, sitting on the bench, as I worked hard to gain weight and be worthy of my team, I also began to hone my skills and focus. The dream of playing in the National Football League felt more realistic with each workout, rep, and sack. But my newfound sexuality seemed poised to undo it. Would coming out improve my game or would it ruin any chance of a professional career? Could I be different from all my teammates in this way and still belong? Would I ever be able to tell them and get the same support in life and on the field?

Confidence is a massive part of an athlete's success. Once you get to a certain level in any sport, it is this mentality that will set you apart from the rest. At the collegiate level, nearly everyone is talented, physically gifted, fast, and strong, so it is the mental aspects of the game that determine the great players. You study a technique, a play, a team, over and over again so that when you see your opponent on game day, you are confident that you can execute at the highest level. Legendary sports careers are built upon such confidence. But I had none — only questions that made me feel I had to hide a part of who I was, or might be.

Despite these questions, as a freshman, I began to succeed on the field. Earlier that year, the Washington Redskins drafted Defensive End Ryan Kerrigan, who had played for Purdue the previous season. That meant the university team was looking to fill some big shoes. I also played defensive end and wanted that starting position. After an offseason of extreme effort and dedication, I won the job.

During that first year, I managed to gain some recognition (I received a Big Ten all-conference freshman honor) and helped my team make it to their first bowl game in years. After our six-win season, we were scheduled to play Western Michigan at the Little Caesars Bowl in Detroit. Western Michigan had an incredible offense at the time and an NFL prospect that held all of their school’s records. The game would be the hardest test of our defense all season.

In the final minutes of the bowl game, we were up 37-32, but Western Michigan had the ball. Defensively, this was when the great athletes would shine: when Ray Lewis would make a big hit, when Dion Sanders would make an interception, and when Bruce Smith would get a sack. Suddenly, my preparation and instincts took over. It didn't matter that this was my first year starting or my first bowl game. It didn’t even matter that I was uncertain of my sexuality. The only thing that mattered was the play.

After the snap, I flew past the offensive tackle like a madman. Western Michigan's quarterback did the one thing he could do to protect himself: he ran. I hadn't seen much of this quarterback running, so for a moment, it seemed as though the whole play might crumble before me. Then I realized the reason I had never seen him run was that he couldn’t (at least not quickly). He was still behind the line of scrimmage when I tackled him and drove my fist down against the top of the ball. I felt it come loose. Fumble! Now the ball was fair game to both sides. After the dust cleared, it was one of my teammates in possession, sealing the victory for Purdue.

After an impressive freshmen season and this historic game-winning Purdue moment, I was on the NFL's radar. I was closer than I had ever been to actualizing my dreams, but the big question in my head grew louder. Self-doubt about my sexuality and who I was turned into self-doubt about who I should be and what my future held. How ironic that as I got closer to my dream, the more I felt compelled to shrink from it.

I was convinced the NFL wanted me precisely because they didn't know the real me. What I understood about sports, and especially football, was very straightforward and rigid. There was a certain archetype, a certain kind of man who I thought could play and succeed. What athletes could do and be was clear in my mind, and I felt myself living a double life, performing for the team while questioning myself in private. I had hidden my creative side from my teammates for years, playing the part of a one-dimensional jock, and I was still doing it with my college teammates. I worried that a guy who writes poetry, draws, and enjoys slow songs about love would be seen as less masculine and, therefore, less of a football player. Being queer seemed like my kryptonite.

During the 2012 season, there were no out players, not in college, and definitely not in the NFL. Still, the beginning of Purdue's season and non-conference play that year was successful. In our first four games, we went 3-1, and I was wildly successful in my position. But when the conference play began, we suffered loss after loss. After five in a row, a lot of my teammates began talking about transferring or even quitting. They talked for hours about what our problem was, and the conclusions ranged from the staff to the talent, to the difficult work schedule at Purdue and everything in between. But I was convinced of my own personal problem: the growing question about my sexuality.

Duality was a tricky beast. There were moments when I donned the Purdue black and gold that I felt like I was fulfilling my purpose. Other times, I felt like a complete fraud. What was the point of coming so far in my career if, when the NFL found out about my bisexuality, I wouldn't be welcomed? What was the point of being good if it wasn't good enough? Little did I know, these gaps could only be filled by bringing the two pieces of myself together.

The idea of one world crashing into the other and obliterating it completely was the most substantial fear I had ever felt in my life. All the success I acquired on the field I attributed to my sports world, my perseverance, my hard work, my masculinity, my sacrifices. But all the failures I blamed on my duality. A bad game was never just a bad game. It was a knock on my personal world, my creativity, my emotions, and my sexuality.

The only solution I could come up with was to quit football entirely. I couldn't live in two worlds anymore, so maybe I should scrap one of them. My personal world — being bi — couldn't change, but when faced with thoughts of quitting, the idea of no NFL, it felt a lot like I could die. I couldn’t kick football, and I couldn't run from the biggest parts of myself. I was stuck and alone.

Then, one evening, when playing Madden with my best friend and teammate, Joseph Gilliam, in our dorm room, something finally broke open for me. Joe was the closest person to me at the time. We had bonded not only through football but also through the hardships we had overcome and the vision we shared. Joe and I both had NFL futures, but he managed to split his time between being an amazing student, a devoted boyfriend, and a star linebacker. I looked up to Joe, always had, from our 6 a.m. workouts to the times I could persuade him into going to a party. He was the best part of our team and was everything we aspired to be. I was lucky to know him, and even luckier to be his roommate.

The night in question, we randomly selected our teams, and Joe landed on the Atlanta Falcons, while I got the New York Jets. Joe liked teams with a strong running game and a vertical attack, and he was gashing me. We would often play sports video games, but during a rough patch in the season, it was always a little more competitive. That night though, I wasn’t even trying. Once Joe saw I wasn't putting up a fight, he asked me what was wrong. He knew I didn't quit. Not in the virtual world, not in the real world, not ever. So, the fact that I had handed the game to him alarmed him somehow, I think. He didn't turn to look at me, but he couldn't help but ask me what was going on.

I didn't know what to say. Honestly, up to this point, much of my time in college had been spent trying to figure out what not to say. Everyone talked about their problems, but what if the problem was me? If I couldn't confide in Joe, I couldn't confide in anyone. He had picked me up from the bars many drunken nights and never judged me, only delivered me back to our dorm room safely. He was the first person to give me credit and the last person to rag on me. But he was always honest. And he deserved my honesty in return. I was attracted to women; I knew that with all my soul, but there was something else there too, and that something else was starting to call everything into question.

I remembered that Joe and I shared the same favorite artist, Frank Ocean. When his album Channel Orange was released in 2012 and Frank revealed he was bisexual, Joe hardly flinched. When his record came on that evening, this piece of knowledge flashed through my head and comforted me. It was a sign. Or if not, it was just enough of a push.

Practically shaking, I asked Joe if he felt like we were close as a team, if we gelled well together. Joe took a deep breath and answered "Sometimes.” He explained, “Some people are here to be great, some people really care, and others don't give a fuck. They come to practice high and drunk and are just used to losing."

I asked him, "How well do you think you know everyone on the team?"

"I know them well enough. I know who is here to win," he said with a shrug. It was that simple for Joe, he didn't care about anything other than a man's character and a teammate's work ethic.

"What if they were gay?" I asked. The word “gay” didn't quite fit me, but at the time, I thought no word did.

Right as I let the word slip out of my mouth, Joe sacked my quarterback, and, suddenly afraid of what I’d done, I couldn't hear much over my own labored breaths and the pounding of my temple pulsing through my eyes. I didn't look away from the television.

"If he's here to win and he respects me, I could care less."

It was an answer that should have made me feel better, but it wasn't enough. "What if he was also your friend?" Joe took a breath that seemed shaky, but I didn't know if it was because he just threw an interception to my cornerback or if he was picking up on everything I wasn't saying.

Joe asked me, "How close of friends?"

The world stopped, and though my running back had just pushed through a huge hole in his defense for a touchdown, I couldn't hear the announcers shouting. I wasn't sure how much of what I was saying applied to me. Did it even matter? He had said he didn't care about the sexuality of a teammate. What if this was just some kind of phase, and my attraction to women would win out in the end? What if I married a woman, and this was all for naught? What if the rest of the team found out? If the truth stained me somehow, and everyone in the locker room could see it on me? Would I lose my chance at the NFL? Would I not be able to support my family? Would I lose my scholarship? My best friend? Why did I have to know what Joe thought about a queer player, what he thought about me?

Barely above a whisper, I responded by saying, "What if it's your best friend?"

Joe responded firmly, "If he's my best friend, then that's all that matters. We're best friends."

And like that, I received my salvation.

Coming out to anyone, whether it be the world or a friend, is about your own self-love and well-being. But as an athlete, keeping my secret affected my performance. The mental aspect of the game is so important, and when I was in the habit of second-guessing myself, judging myself, and even hating myself, all of it seeped in. If you have a leak in your bathroom, it doesn’t matter whether or not you close the door — if you don’t solve the problem, eventually, your house will flood. I wasn't only second-guessing my bisexuality. I was second-guessing everything. My every move, my future in sports, and even my right to play the game.

But I was born to play football, just like I was born to love both men and women. And I earned my right to play the game through the effort I put in. All that mattered was that I was hard-working, a person of good character, and a dedicated teammate.

That 2012 season, we turned around a rough losing streak, beating an undefeated Illinois team on homecoming and going undefeated ourselves to close out the season. I allowed myself the freedom to make mistakes on the field and move on. I allowed myself to just be, and I moved forward, knowing I had the acceptance of a teammate. If I did make a mistake, Joe was right there picking me up. That’s what teammates do. That’s what the world should do. And guess what — I made it to the NFL.

Now that I’ve come out, I realize that the whole time up until now, I’d been blocking my own light. So get out of your own way. Your future — and future you — will thank you.

Published Jul 1, 2020
Updated Jun 23, 2023