The grim reaper, it seems, has no respect for a well-executed pick-and-roll. Jason Collins, the NBA pioneer who treated homophobia like a slow-footed defender and blew past it, has shuffled off this mortal coil aged 47. The news hits like a rogue elbow to the ribs; it stings, it aches, and it leaves you winded.
Collins was the first openly gay player in the four major US sports leagues, a man who came out not with a whimper but a statement in Sports Illustrated that made the old boys' club choke on their cigars. He played 13 seasons, mostly as a journeyman center with a game that was less flashy than a brick wall and just as effective. But his real legacy was in the locker room, where he dismantled prejudices with the same quiet determination he used to set a screen.
The UK sports community, in a rare moment of collective decency, has laid down its tributes like floral wreaths at the altar of progress. Gary Lineker, that sentient eyebrow, tweeted something heartfelt. The Football Association mumbles a platitude.
But what does it matter? The man is dead. Collins leaves behind a world that is fractionally less stupid, a small victory in the grand farce of existence.
His number 98 jersey – a nod to Matthew Shepard, the gay student murdered in 1998 – hangs not just in arenas but in the collective conscience. So raise a glass, or a basketball, or a middle finger to the bigots. Jason Collins is gone, but his ghost will haunt the paint for eternity.
