If you’ve ever had to fake a straight face while your heart did pirouettes in a closet-sized panic room, then you already know: coming out isn’t a reveal—it’s a revolution. Especially when your stage is drenched in sweat, testosterone, and phrases like “man up.” For Orlando “The Phenomenon” Cruz and Víctor Gutiérrez, breaking stereotypes wasn’t just about rainbow flags and social media likes—it was about throwing open the locker room door and shouting, “This is what I am, so what? It’s my life, so what?”
Let’s rewind to 2012. Cruz, a Puerto Rican featherweight boxer with fists of fury and a heart under siege, looked the macho sports world in the eye and said, “I had been living a lie for years, a life that didn’t belong to me.” Ranked No. 4 by the WBO and fresh off years of ducking punches in and out of the ring, Cruz’s decision to come out as gay made him the first active professional boxer to do so. Not retired. Not reflective. Active. He wasn’t stepping down; he was stepping up.
Meanwhile, in Spain, Víctor Gutiérrez was making his own waves—but in a pool, not a ring. In 2016, he made a splash by coming out as gay while still playing for Spain’s elite water polo team. “I decided that I had to share my story to become the role model I never had. I wanted to be for someone what no one was for me,” he said. Now a member of Spain’s Congress and the PSOE’s secretary for LGBTQ+ policies, Gutiérrez swapped water polo caps for parliamentary microphones. But behind the confidence was a boy who used to shrink from himself: “I tried to distance myself as much as possible from any trait, gesture, or mannerism that would identify me with what people have in their minds as a homosexual.”
Let’s not gloss over this—gay kids in sports grow up dodging more than tackles. According to sports sociologist Anna Vilanova, athletes raised in highly masculine, performance-driven environments tend to internalize shame and silence. “Since you’re little, you hear ‘don’t throw like a faggot’ every day, so you put on a mask and try to fit in with what they expect of you,” Gutiérrez explained. It’s not just a locker room comment—it’s a lifetime of being told you’re wrong for simply being you.
And sometimes, the bruises come from teammates, not rivals. Just ask José María River, who dared to speak the truth at 17: he was bisexual. “At first, they took it well, but then they started to exclude me. I started hearing certain comments, being left alone during drills…” Eventually, he quit soccer—his entire world—because he no longer fit into it. “It was a very hard blow, because at that age, you don’t understand these things,” he said. But River’s heartbreak turned into resilience. In 2020, he founded Rinos F.C., Spain’s first LGBTQ+ soccer team: “a safe space,” he calls it, where no one has to trade truth for team spirit.
While some elite athletes come out and receive roaring support (Cruz noted, “The boxing world supported me”), others like River encounter silence louder than any cheer. “Soccer clubs consider LGBTQ+ visibility to be a political issue,” Gutiérrez pointed out. Yes, it’s 2025, but many clubs still treat queerness like a PR fire rather than the human experience it is. And the scars show: 68.6% of hate crimes in Spain in 2024 were linked to sexual orientation or gender identity.
But athletes like Gutiérrez and Cruz remind us that being out and proud is a form of activism, whether you’re standing in a boxing ring or under congressional chandeliers. “We have to have more courage,” Cruz urged. “We have to say, ‘This is what I am, so what? It’s my life, so what?’” And while the applause for their bravery is deserved, Gutiérrez wisely reminds us that courage shouldn’t be expected to bear the entire weight of change: “Oftentimes, the focus is placed on athletes when it’s really the federations, the clubs and the politicians who have to oil the machinery so that we, naturally, feel supported when it’s time to take this step.”
Translation? Queer athletes can’t do it alone. You can’t build a rainbow on one set of shoulders.
There’s still work to be done. Clubs that promised to support River’s team eventually ghosted him. Awareness events were quietly scrapped. Offers disappeared. “You realize that, when it comes down to it, they always back down. They don’t want trouble,” he said. But visibility isn’t trouble—it’s truth. It’s survival.
So here’s the final round: whether you’re a boxer, a baller, a swimmer, or just a soft-spoken kid on the bleachers, remember this: it’s not bad to love. It’s not bad to desire. And as more athletes step into the light, the sports world might finally realize that strength doesn’t just come from muscle—it comes from honesty.
And honey, that’s a knockout.
Source: El Pais