The windows were tinted like those of a Social Security office or an offtrack betting storefront. This shrine to American masculinity had some mystery behind it. I’d walked by the Buffalo Wild Wings on State Street almost every day since moving to Ann Arbor, mildly disgusted by the stench of wings and crass displays of sports fandom, but also intrigued. It wasn’t until my fourth year in Michigan that I set foot in bro mecca. During a time when I wanted to explore my sexuality, but still hadn’t gotten past my shame and cultivated the self-possession I needed to go wild on Grindr and convene with my own kind, I lost myself in the hypnotic habits of straight people.
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On the cozy Midwest campus, I found myself in a dreamscape of athleisure and mac and cheese and football-viewing parties. I didn’t know if it was self-hate or repression, perhaps a fear of my own effeminacy, but in my first few semesters in grad school at the University of Michigan, I had a fantasy of growing into the perfect normcore boy. I had come out as gay seven years earlier, yet I was addicted to the look of male heteronormativity. I’d always worn crewneck sweatshirts and simple sneakers and had recently introduced a backward baseball hat into my wardrobe, even as my main passions remained The Real Housewives of New York City and Britney Spears deep cuts and gossiping with all my girls. I was more interested in boyishness as a style. I didn’t actually care about throwing tight spirals or using my eyes to track the ball into my hands.
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They’d taken me under their wing when I asked them to teach me how to play the game I’d managed to avoid completely back in 1994. In a park at dusk, I played catch with two straight men.
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When I was 26, I learned to throw a football. My first trip to Buffalo Wild Wings was the peak of my return to boyhood, a process that started a few months earlier - and 20 years too late - with pigskin. There was something comforting about watching athletic events I couldn’t explain in the most mainstream sports bar imaginable. I should’ve felt mortified at the bad taste, oppressed by the performances of straight masculinity, hungry without anything real to eat - but instead I felt soothed. I was a gay vegetarian who hadn’t set foot on a basketball court since I was forced to in high school gym class.
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In a restaurant where the servers wore football jerseys and the only food on the menu I could eat was french fries, I should’ve felt alienated. Everywhere I looked, there were TVs showing different basketball games and rapt, rowdy men, wearing plaid and downing chicken and beer. On the first day of March Madness 2014, I found peace in the Ann Arbor Buffalo Wild Wings.