As a teenager, Collin Martin felt he had to make a choice. For as long as he could remember, his ambition was to become a professional footballer, to make a living doing what he loved. He had the feeling, however, that it was not compatible with what it was. Martin was gay and there were no – as far as he knew – gay footballers.
The two things, he believed, could not coexist. He could either play football or be himself. In his narrative, he approached the choice with cool rationality.
“That doesn’t seem like something I can take with me while I’m chasing my dreams,” he said of his reasoning. “I was more than ready to be in the closet. Forever.” Or at least, he thought, long enough “to live my dream.”
In reality, this contrast was not so sharp. In 2018, at the age of 23, while playing for Minnesota United in Major League Soccer, Martin came out as gay. He was believed to be the only openly gay male professional footballer in the world at the time. There were, he said, occasional awkward moments with teammates, but he found the situation tolerable. His fear was misplaced. His sexuality and his profession were not in conflict.
And then, a few years later, his “nightmare” happened. During a crucial late-season match against San Diego Loyal in the USL, Martin heard an opponent call him a homophobic slur. He reported it to the referee. Martin was immediately expelled. the official had assumed Martin was using the slur against him.
What followed was messy and confusing and, from Martin’s perspective, excruciating. In the footage of the match, the referee looks bewildered, lost. Martin’s teammates surround him explaining the misunderstanding. His coach, Landon Donovan, begs his counterpart, Phoenix Rising coach Rick Schantz, to remove the player involved. When he refuses, the San Diego players kneel and then walk off the field.
This scene is the climax of “The Last Taboo,” a German documentary that chronicles the experiences of a handful of openly gay players in men’s soccer over the past half century. Compared to the story with which the film opens – the ostracism, abuse and eventual suicide of Justin Fasano, England’s first openly gay professional – it’s hard not to feel encouraged.
Martin may have been abused and Sands may not have understood the gravity of the situation, but the player had the support of his teammates, his manager and his club. They were all prepared to sacrifice a game – and a crucial one – for a start. This alone shows that football is definitely a more welcoming place now than it was in Fashanu’s time.
The same goes for the story of Jakub Jankto, the Czech international who came out as gay last year. In the weeks following his announcement, there was great concern in the Czech Republic about how he would be treated. Not so much from his teammates — they were “fantastic,” he said — but from the opposition fans.
In the film, the suspense centers on a match against Banik Ostrava, one of Jankto’s club’s fiercest rivals at the time, Sparta Prague, a few weeks after his announcement. Their meetings are always tense, the kind of circumstances that warrant riot police and snarky Belgian Shepherds. The Ostrava fans, everyone believed, would shower Jankto with homophobic abuse. Football’s shameful relapse would occur once again.
When race day arrived, nothing happened. Yankto came on as a substitute. His name was announced on the field. There were no boos, jeers and concerted expressions of homophobia. He ran onto the field. The game started again. Everyone moved on with their lives. “It’s no longer history,” as Thomas Hitzlsperger, the former Germany international who came out after his retirement, said.
It is difficult—in any medium, but one imagines especially in film—to capture the meaning of a story that is no longer a story. The muted indifference doesn’t make for a particularly compelling or emotional finale. It is, in many ways, a triumph, proof that a battle has been won, but it feels somewhat unsatisfying.
And yet it is important to tell these stories. That there are many more gay players in the men’s game than the few who have come out isn’t really in dispute, even if the evidence for it is necessarily anecdotal, the math sketchy and the tone of the discussion around it somewhere between happy gossip and pure witch hunt.
It is equally clear that the majority still feel as Martin once did, as if who they are and what they do are in irreconcilable tension. At one point in “The Last Taboo,” Matt Morton, a player and manager in England’s lower leagues, lists all the openly gay players in the professional game. He only needs to use their first names.
There is one possibility, of course, that will never change, that football will never create a safe enough environment for everyone to feel comfortable being who they are.
Martin is a bit more positive than that. He is, by his disposition, quite a sunny character. He has many stories detailing how difficult it is to be out and about as a footballer. The fact that he was able to build a solid career, to fulfill his dream, does not mean that it was not a challenge.
However, he prefers not to dwell on the most difficult moments. “Telling these stories doesn’t help the next person,” he told the filmmakers. Far more constructive, he believes, is to focus on aspects of his life and career that will reassure others that who he is and what he does are not diametrically opposed.
His experience in that game with Phoenix is instructive. As his teammates leave the field, Martin lifts his jersey over his head. What he feared most was happening: His sexuality was preventing him and his team from playing football, literally. He is visibly upset.
As his teammates pass him, though, they reach out to pat him on the back, to ruffle his hair: tiny and powerful gestures of solidarity and sympathy. They couldn’t understand exactly what he was going through, but they knew he was suffering and they were with him.
Looking back, now, that’s what Martin chooses to take away from this incident. Not the suffering — agonizing and acute — but the support he received and the symbolism of the moment. She believes this will help others understand that deciding who they are and what they do is not a choice they have to make.
Cancel your plans
Last weekend was a remarkable one in the footballing calendar. In the space of about 24 hours, we’ve had the Madrid derby, the meeting of Italy’s top two contenders and a clash between the teams who will finish second and third in the Premier League. Before, during and after, it felt like the first truly defining weekend of the season, the moment the build-up ends and the tear-down begins.
But this was just for fun. the main event is yet to come. Saturday kicks off with Jordan taking on Qatar in the Asian Cup final. Victory for the hosts would mean Qatar retain their status as continental champions. Qatar, it seems, is now very good at football. Perhaps this has been the goal of the 2022 World Cup all along.
A few hours later, another uneasy tale unfolds: Girona, the underdog in Spain’s title race that is, rather sadly, owned and operated by a vast network of clubs owned by a nation-state, travel to Real Madrid, hoping to record another installment in the improbable title challenge.
By these standards, the meeting between Bayer Leverkusen — Big Pharma FC — and Bayern Munich offers a fairly obvious hero. Bayer Leverkusen are unbeaten this season, have a storied reputation for choking and are overseen by the smartest young manager in European football. Bayern have won 138 Bundesliga titles in a row and are so fed up with winning the league that they sometimes seem to be actively trying to find ways to implode.
And then, to top it all off, Sunday brings the Africa Cup of Nations final. In a sense, everyone wins here: Victory for the host nation, Ivory Coast, would be a stunning conclusion to a tournament that started with results so poor that the country fired its coach. Victory for Nigeria would signal the restoration of Africa’s great superpower in waiting. Either way, it’s probably worth clearing your calendar.
