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| Ross |
It was my second season playing for FC Utrecht, the local soccer team. Which was in the highest league in the country. It had been a dream of mine to get to play soccer in Europe, where the best players of the world play. And I couldn’t complain. I was playing professionally! But the Dutch league wasn’t the same as the ones in Spain, Italy or England.
FC Utrecht in the last few years consistently ended around 6th in the national league. It meant the club was often close to the large European tournaments but missing out. My arrival as a new striker last year hadn’t changed that fortune. But I had definitely made my mark, scoring 10 goals last season. And I could feel myself growing as a player as well.
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| Ross |
I looked over. A middle-aged man and his family looked my way.
“Ah, je bent het! Jij bent echt top, man! Mag ik een selfie?”
I smiled. My Dutch wasn’t fantastic, but I figured out what he meant. I posed for a selfie with the man. Afterwards, he slapped my chest and said something I didn’t catch. But it was clearly complimentary.
He noticed my blank stare.
“Oh! Yes! American. I forget. Keep up the good… playing! Yes. Thank you.”
The family walked off. One of the teenage daughters looked back at me as she left.
For longer than I had anticipated, I had been able to walk the streets of Utrecht in a hoodie and not get recognized. But it seemed like those days were over now. I, of course, appreciated the fans. Unfortunately soccer fans in Europe as a group weren’t known as the most progressive. Often yelling racist, homophobic or sexist things from the crowd during matches.
I was unaware of any out gay players in the Dutch league. A high-level goalkeeper whose ex-girlfriend leaked a tape of him getting fucked by her with a strap-on, had to end his career. The audience would throw dildos at his goal all the way down to the amateur leagues. I didn’t blame anyone for not risking it.
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| Ross |
I passed by Café Kalff, one of the city’s gay bars. I had passed it so often. The large window offered a look inside. I had wanted to go in every time I passed it. The risk of getting recognized was too high. Utrecht was progressive and gay-friendly, but I was stuck in a subculture where that wasn’t the case.
Utrecht was home. And I was making my dream come true. But it was lonely here sometimes.
It started raining and I rushed back to my apartment. I was changing into sweats when my phone rang. The display said ‘Coach’. Coach didn’t tend to call. Especially because I would see him at training tomorrow.
“Lewis!”
“Hey Coach Ron”, I responded.
“I wanted you to know I was called by a colleague today.”
I was still puzzled as to the purpose of this call. I stayed silent.
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| Ross |
Clint Foster had recently been appointed to coach the US men’s national team for the qualification to the World Cup. I stuttered.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“Coach Foster wants you to come to Orlando for a training camp. You can make the national team.”
I was stunned.
“Oh wow! That’s such an honor.”
Sure, Europe was the place to be for professional soccer clubs. But to be called up for the national team, where there’s only room for 23 of the country’s best players… It meant a lot. Especially if I could actually play!
The next day at training, Coach Ron announced the news to everyone in the locker room. The entire team congratulated me. Several of them had already been playing for their respective national teams. It felt like I had a chance to become part of a very select club of players.
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| Ross |
The training camp would last a week if I made it all the way through. A few days after, there would be a friendly match for the new selection. I was hoping to play in that match, but I realized that even if I was asked to leave, I could visit friends and family in Alabama before returning.
They had put everyone up in a hotel. I shared a room with this young guy named Chris Williams. Or at least younger than me. He was 20, I was 24. There were two double beds. We both had trouble falling asleep. When we went down to the field the next morning, we were both incredibly nervous. Chris was a defender for Chicago Fire and we were separated.
I ended up with a group of about 20 forwards. We were each passed a ball in the penalty box, one by one. The pass was different each time, and also different from what the guy before me got. I think I did OK.
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| Ross |
I didn’t immediately realize that the group got smaller, it was actually quite a sudden realization. After three days, I was no longer sharing my room. Chris was just gone. I knew it couldn’t be much longer until it was my turn to leave.
On the morning of day 4, I consciously took the time to check how many guys were left. There were maybe 40 people on the fields, compared to what must have been almost 80 on day 1. I took a deep breath and tried real hard. If it was going to be over soon, I was going to go down fighting. I was again put into a new team.
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| Cesar |
A charming guy walked up to me. He shook my hand.
“Cesar Ramirez.”
“Ross. Ross Lewis.”
He looked a little older. Maybe 30. He had a smile that made my groin stir.
“You take the high balls, OK?”
I laughed.
At 5’7’’ (171cm), he was shorter than me. Though I knew I was tall for a striker. Both my long legs as well as being able to head a high ball, at 6’1’’ (185cm), I was genetically gifted for just that position.
As Cesar walked away to take his position, I couldn’t help but notice his butt and how his shorts fell across it. This guy was very sexy. He was all beef, but it turned out he was very fast too.
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| Cesar |
It worked like a charm. We each scored twice, beating the other team 4-0. At the end he came over and high-fived me.
“You’re good!”
Cesar sat with me at lunch. He said he plays with Monterrey in Mexico. He had been selected for the national team before and actually went through the World Cup qualifiers last time. The US men’s team hadn’t qualified.
I noticed the coaching team put me and Cesar together several times after that. And Cesar and I connected both on and off the field. On the field, we often seemed to have the same play in mind. Off the field, we were becoming friends.
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| Cesar |
“Happy to be playing with you, man.”
I called my family and they were so happy. Instead of me visiting them, they were going to book a flight to Orlando to come see me play.
When I hung up, there was a knock at the door. It was Cesar. He had a suitcase with him.
“Hey. With so many guys gone, they asked me to switch rooms. I said I would be OK to room with you. Is that OK with you, too?”
“Oh yes! Of course! Welcome!”
“Thanks man! Oh you kept it neat in here. I hope I don’t get on your nerves.”
I chuckled.
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| Cesar |
Cesar said that his girlfriend Jessica was flying over, as well as his mom, his brother Arturo and Arturo’s boyfriend. He said it so casually, I wasn’t sure I had heard it correctly. It was the very first time I had heard anything even queer-related in a soccer setting. I didn’t want to make it into a big deal, but my mind was in overdrive.
“Ross?”
“What?”
I looked up and saw Cesar in front of the mirror, his briefs working hard to contain his round glutes.
“I asked who from your family is coming to the match.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
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| Cesar |
“No girlfriend?”
Cesar didn’t even look my way as he picked out a shirt.
If there was any moment where I would feel comfortable sharing this about myself, this would be that moment.
“I… I’m gay.”
“Boyfriend? Sorry.”
“No. No, I’m single.”
“I don’t blame you. You’re still young.”
It was not a big deal, even in the slightest. But I knew I had chosen my time and my audience carefully.
“Cesar?”
“Yeah.”
“Could you please not share that with the rest of the team?”
“Of course buddy, don’t worry about it.”
Still not wearing pants, he walked over and squeezed my shoulder.
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| Cesar |
It was a friendly match against Morocco, Africa’s leading team. Cesar was playing, but the striker, Brian Buckner, was in the place that I wanted to be in. Brian was more experienced than me, so it did make sense. I did want to play really badly. There was no limit to the amount of substitutes during friendly matches, so I knew there was a chance. As long as we would win, that was the most important thing.
The locker room was tense. Apart from me, there were a few other guys who were playing for the national team for the first time. Some of them even got to start on the field. Even though I only had to sit on the side of the field, I felt nerves when we were called to walk onto the field.
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| Cesar |
I sat next to Jeff Adams, a midfielder who had been on the national team the last few years.
“They just haven’t been the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“That time we lost to Mexico, in the qualifier. And Brian said some racist shit about refugees. Cesar’s Mom was an immigrant who got deported when Cesar was 11. They acted like they had talked it out, but I’m pretty sure it’s still affecting them on the field.”
About half an hour in, the worst thing happened. Morocco broke through the American defense and scored. 0-1. It was a tough pill to swallow, but there was time to turn it around.
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| Cesar |
The first half ended on 0-1. During the break, in the locker room, Coach told me I was going in. I thought I already felt nervous, but it just got worse.
“Buckner, you’re out!”, Coach said.
Brian nodded and took his kit off. Grumpy and naked, he walked to the showers.
Coach told us about changes in strategy. He gave us a very stern and very loud pep talk. Before we were called to go out, Cesar sat next to me.
“We got this”, he said.
His hand was on my leg. He squeezed it.
I walked on. My name was announced as the substitute for Brian Buckner. Winning this would mean so much for me, for my family, and for US men’s soccer. I felt pressure. But when the whistle blew, I knew exactly what to do.
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| Ross |
However, the third time, he was faster. He outsmarted three players. And I could tell he started to look for me. I ran towards the penalty box. Cesar passed. I ran around one final defender. The ball was high, but would go over my head. I noticed the goalkeeper coming out towards me. I stretched out my right leg as high as I could, as far as I could. I felt the ball hit my shoe. I dropped to the grass. I looked at the goal. The ball was bouncing in. It had already passed the goalie and hit the net.
It was like everything went in slow motion. The Orlando crowd went wild. I got up and ran to the supporters. I looked for my Dad. I thought I was about to cry. I saw him. He was crying, and my Mom too.
I turned around. Cesar was already here. He jumped in my arms and wrapped his legs around my waist. In a reflex, I put my hands on his buttocks. He kissed me on the lips. Other players hugged me too. Someone slapped my ass.
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| Cesar |
Morocco was not just going to take this. But our team grew in confidence. We were just as tough as the Moroccan team. Wayne, our goalie, stopped a couple of great shots. And although Cesar and I found each other a few more times, the ball was intercepted each time.
There were only a few minutes left on the clock, when Cesar and I had another moment. Everyone was tired, both teams. We locked eyes and he had enough space to kick the ball high. This time I could run for a header. I jumped, and I knew it was good the second it came off my head.
The Moroccan goalie jumped too and touched the ball with the very tips of his fingers. The ball changed direction only marginally, but it hit the overhead bar! It was still in play. Cesar was the fastest to the ball and kicked the ball so hard, it was like I heard it whoosh past. The goalie was still on the ground. 2-1.
I ran to Cesar. I picked him up off the ground, again cupping his ass with my hands. We looked at each other.
“We fucking did it!”
I shouted at his face. He kissed me.
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