Well, grab your gin and steel your nerves, because the grim reaper has swished a three-pointer through the heart of progress. Jason Collins, the man who bulldozed the NBA’s closet door off its hinges, has shuffled off this mortal coil at the tragically premature age of 47. The UK sport establishment, never ones to miss a chance for a solemn clap, are now falling over themselves to hail a trailblazer they largely ignored when he was actually, you know, alive and playing.
Let’s cut through the pious fog. Collins came out in 2013, a decade after he’d last been relevant on the court. He was a journeyman centre, a guy who made a living by being 7 feet tall and standing in the way of better players. But that one announcement, that quiet confession in Sports Illustrated, turned him into a lightning rod. He became a symbol of courage in a locker room culture that still reeked of stale homophobia. And for that, he deserves a monument, not just a pat on the back from a nation that’s already moved on to the next outrage.
Now, the tributes pour in like cheap champagne at a wake. “He paved the way,” they chirp. “He showed that gay men can play in the big leagues without the sky falling.” Yes, and the sky didn’t fall. Instead, Collins endured death threats, sidelong glances, and the lonely burden of being the first. He did it so that some kid in Peoria could dream of playing ball without being ashamed of who he loved. That’s not just sport. That’s a bloody revolution fought with sneakers and a singular, defiant act of authenticity.
But let’s not kid ourselves. The same British press that now douses him in hagiography was, for years, complicit in the silence. They tiptoed around the “issue,” preferring to gawp at his sexuality rather than his jump shot. Now, post-mortem, they’re claiming him as one of their own. It’s the classic British move: wait until someone’s dead, then elevate them to sainthood. Saves the bother of actually supporting them while they’re still breathing.
In his final years, Collins became a reluctant activist, speaking at schools and sitting on panels. He wore the mantle with a grace that belied the constant, grinding pressure. He was not a saint but a man who happened to be gay and happen to be tall. He wanted to be remembered as a decent player, not a diversity statistic. But history, that fickle tosser, has other plans.
So here’s to Jason Collins. May his death serve as a reminder that every closet has a door, and someone had to kick it open first. And may the suits who now sing his praises remember that the fight isn’t over. There are still gay athletes hiding in the shadows, terrified of the spotlight. Collins showed them the way. It’s time for the rest of us to actually walk it, instead of just applauding from the stands.
And as I drain my gin and tonic, I raise a glass to a man who did more for equality in one announcement than a thousand diversity seminars ever will. Rest in power, Jason. The court is now truly open to all.
