“Faggot!”

The voice rang out just as I was about to serve.

Fault. Second serve.

“Butt Pirate!”

Fault.

“0-1,” the chair umpire said into the microphone. It was Universe Team Tennis. No-ad scoring.

I moved to the Ad side and set to serve again.

“Fudge Packer!”

Fault. Tears stung my eyes. In twenty-five years of tennis, I’d never cried on a tennis court. Not when I blew out my Achilles at the Orange Bowl when I was seventeen and not when I lost a two sets to love lead in the Semis of the U.S. Open in 2008. I blinked back the tears and set to serve again.

“Cock Knocker!”

Fault.

“0-2.”

There was a scuffle among the floor seats. A folding chair or two clattered to the ground. Security strong-armed a man to the door.

“Davey Douglas, you fucking queer. I hope you rot in Hell.” The voice faded away into the distance as the man and his security escort disappeared into the bowels of the gym.

It was true. All true. Every single slang expletive that asshole had yelled. I was gay. Homosexual. Queer. Not everyone gets outed on Twitter, but then again not everyone gets caught banging their male personal trainer by their former Miss America runner-up, Victoria Secret model wife. I guess I deserved it. I guess. She didn’t accuse me of anything I wasn’t doing.

The tweet was up two hours before my agent managed to get it taken down. Two hours.

“@mirandaevans just caught @thedaveydouglas10S fucking a DUDE. In their bedroom!!!”

Good news travels fast. Miranda, my wife of six years, must have called her sister/personal assistant/busy-body who began the social networking campaign against me. She never liked me much. Miranda was supposed to be in New York. In fact, we’d just fought about it the night before. I wanted her home for the start of the Universe Team Tennis season. This was our second season in my hometown and I thought she should be here to lend support. She didn’t agree. Or so I was led to believe. Until she showed up in our bedroom at the exact wrong time.

The night before, my phone rang. The grand-dame of American tennis, founder and president of Universe Team Tennis was calling. Before she could even say hello, I cut her off with a flurry of apologies.

“I am so sorry. I know what this could do to the league. It’s totally the wrong time. I understand if you want me to quit and not play. I get it. I’m sorry.”

“Good lord, Davey. Take it easy. It’s not the best publicity, but it’s not that bad. You’re not a serial killer or a pedophile. You screwed a man. It’s the 21st century for Christ’s sake. Men screw men. Haven’t you heard? Gay marriage is legal.”

“So you don’t want me to quit?”

“Hell, no. This could actually pump up attendance. Shoot, Universe Team Tennis hasn’t gotten this much media attention in decades.”

I grew quiet. I wasn’t sure I wanted to play. I knew there would be backlash. Even in my hometown. Maybe especially in my hometown. The Grand Dame and I had been friends for a while. It was as if she read my mind.

“That’s if you want to play. Davey, you have a decision to make. Getting out on the court so soon after a scandal like this… I don’t envy you. But you do need to let me know one way or the other. The first match is tomorrow night and if we have to replace you in the line-up, it could take some doing.”

I told her I needed a couple hours to think. I had assumed I’d be out. I never even thought for one moment the league would let me play. I paced a moment and made the call I’d been avoiding.

“Hi Dad.”

“David! How are you holding up, son?”

My father had been my coach until I turned pro. Even after that, he travelled with me for most of my career. We were close. But I wasn’t sure how close we’d be now. Not every father finds out that his son is gay via social media.

“I’m ok. Hey, look, Dad. I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to be like--”

He cut me off.

“Let me make this easy for you, son. Your mom and I always wondered. I mean ever since she found a bunch of Playgirl magazines in your room when you were a teenager. We honestly thought you’d out grown it when you started dating that rotisserie of super models.

“I tried, Dad. I tried. I’m sorry.”

“Nonsense. No apologies, David. Your mom and I have always been so proud of you. And we still are. How you handle this…this ‘outing’…will speak volumes about who you are as a man.”

“What do you mean, Dad?” Here I was thirty-three years old asking my dad advice like I was a pre-teen.

“There are couple ways you can go. You can choose to deny the accusations and live a lie. Or you can own this. You can tell the world who you are and live honestly."

“I don’t know, Dad. It’s no one’s business who I choose to be with.”

“You’re in the public eye. You may not have chosen fame and fortune, but you sure didn’t turn it down either. For better or worse, many people idolize you. That means you carry a great deal of responsibility.”

“Should I keep playing? Universe Team starts tomorrow?”

“You can either run or stand. It’s up to you. If you do choose to play, your mother and I will be there to support you.”

The loud-mouth bigoted asshole got under my skin. Before I knew it, I was down 0-4. My serve had a huge case of the yips and I couldn’t hit a groundstroke. Coach called a time-out.

“Sub for me, Coach.”

“That’s a chicken shit request,” I heard him say over the blaring rock music that played during the time out.

“What?”

“You heard me. Davey, this is your time. Your city. Your fans.”

“But they barely applauded at my introduction and then that guy started mouthing.”

“Bullshit. Play. You can beat this guy. I’m not letting you off that easy.”

I fumed as I walked toward the baseline. I threw my towel at the ball girl. It hit her in the face. I muttered an apology. I took two balls from another ball kid and prepared to serve. On the opposite side in the upper deck, four young men stood. One unfurled a rainbow flag. He began waving it.

“Oh, fuck. Here we go,” I thought.

I steeled myself and toed the baseline. As I bounced the ball, the young men called out in a unison sing-song voice.

“Let’s go, Davey!”

Soon the crowd joined in.

“Quiet, please,” the chair spoke into the microphone.

“Let’s go, Davey!”

Suddenly my case of the yips disappeared. I won that game on an ace and three service winners. Three games later, I tied up the match on an overhead smash. As I pumped my fist in the air, the packed house (the publicity hadn’t hurt attendance) rose to their feet and the boys in the upper deck waved the flag. Applause rained down on me.

Yes, this was my town, my people. I owed them a win. I buckled down and won the tie-breaker. Coach asked if I wanted to play doubs and mixed. I looked at him like he was an idiot.

“Hell, yeah. Why wouldn’t I?” I winked at him.

After the match, I officially met with the media. My moment of truth.

“Davey! Davey! Davey!” It was a circus minus the elephants.

I pulled the microphone closer and cleared my throat. I pointed at the representative from the local newspaper.

“Go ahead and ask.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, she shouted above the cacophony, “Davey, are you gay?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

I cleared my throat again and spoke a little louder and prouder, “Yes, I am.”