A Billboard, a Ballgame, and a Bit of Clarity

Why do they have to throw it in our faces?

Driving back into town yesterday, I saw two billboards.

One advertised Pride Night at the Brewers game, rainbow lettering, joyful energy, a nod to a community that’s had to fight just to be seen.

The other? A strip club. A scantily clad woman, the kind of sign that’s been on that stretch of road in one form or another since I can remember. No outrage. No commentary. Just part of the landscape.

But as I passed those two signs, side by side, something snapped into focus for me.

I’ve had friends, people I’ve known a long time, go off about Pride parades, Pride flags, and Pride Nights at the ballpark. “Why do they have to throw it in our faces?” they ask, like visibility is an attack. “I don’t throw it in theirs that I’m heterosexual.”

And I always want to respond, you do… you just don’t see it. The world throws heterosexuality at us constantly. It’s in our commercials, our sitcoms, our kids’ bedtime stories, our music, our wedding season Instagram scrolls. No one bats an eye. That strip club sign? Doesn’t register. But a rainbow flag on a scoreboard? That’s too much?

I’ve had a few friends come out to me over the years. Not to make a big declaration. Just to let me know. To trust me. And I’d say what I thought was the right thing: “Hey, I don’t care.”

But here’s the truth: I do care.

I care because I’ve watched them live with weight I’ve never carried. I’ve heard the relief in their voices when they were finally able to just be themselves, even for a moment. And I’ve seen the quiet strength it takes to claim space in a world that doesn’t always welcome it.

I’ve never walked a mile in their shoes. I don’t pretend to know that path. But I’ve walked beside them. And I’m not neutral anymore. I support them, fully. Not just because I love them, but because I respect what it’s taken to simply live honestly.

Baseball is changing. Some people don’t like that. But the game has always evolved, it’s just that now, it’s expanding its arms a little wider. It’s not just for one kind of fan anymore. It never really was. It’s for everyone who wants to be there, to cheer, to keep score, to feel something under the lights.

Pride Night at the ballpark isn’t about politics. It’s about presence. It’s saying, you’re welcome here. You matter here. And that’s not throwing anything in anyone’s face, it’s lifting up people who have been told, in a thousand subtle ways, to stay quiet or stay hidden.

I’ve changed over the years. I’ve learned. And I’m still learning. But one thing is clear to me now, support isn’t passive. It’s not “live and let live.” It’s standing up, speaking out, and choosing to see the humanity in someone else's joy. Even when it makes us uncomfortable. Especially then.

If a billboard bothers you more than a lifetime of silence someone had to endure just to feel safe, maybe it’s time to shift what you’re looking at.