Before Jason Collins, before Michael Sam, there was Glenn Burke. By becoming the first—and only—openly gay player in Major League Baseball, Glenn would become a pioneer in his own way, nearly thirty years after another black Dodger rookie, Jackie Robinson, broke the league’s color barrier. This is Glenn’s story, in his own words . . . Touted by scouts and coaches alike as “the next Willie Mays,” Burke, a charismatic outfielder, kept his sexuality off the radar for a good two seasons, which included a World Series appearance. He was even credited with inventing the high five with teammate Dusty Baker. But when the Dodgers’ front office got wind of Burke’s sexuality, the damage control started, including efforts by upper management to talk him into a sham marriage. When Burke refused, he was eventually traded to Oakland, where he received a less-than-warm welcome from incoming manager Billy Martin. The prejudice, coupled with an injured knee, forced Burke into retirement at only twenty-seven years old. Now, two decades after his death from AIDS-related complications, the man who started the conversation is finally being included in it. Major League Baseball recognized him as a gay pioneer at the 2014 All-Star game. And Burke has become a source of inspiration for athletes who refuse to be defined by who they love, while doing what they love. Includes a new afterword by coauthor Erik Sherman reflecting on the two decades that have passed since Burke’s death. Foreword by Billy Bean Glenn Burke , a former center fielder for the Los Angeles Dodgers and Oakland Athletics over a span of five seasons, appeared in the 1977 World Series. Burke made history by becoming the first Major League Baseball player to announce his homosexuality. He died of AIDS in 1995. Erik Sherman has been a freelance sportswriter in the New York area since 1980. Out at Home was his first book. He is also the author of Mookie: Life, Baseball, and the ’86 Mets and Steve Blass: A Pirate for Life . He currently resides in New Rochelle, New York. FOREWORD BY BILLY BEAN, MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL AMBASSADOR FOR INCLUSION As a player, I remember hearing Glenn Burke’s name from time to time. There were brief stories about a gay ballplayer who played for the Los Angeles Dodgers in the seventies, but I always left that subject alone as I was navigating a life of my own deep inside the closet. I certainly had wondered about him, especially after hearing rumors of him living on the street, ill, and struggling with drug addiction, but I chose to ignore them. I knew that was only one side of the story, and the familiar stereotypical tone made me angry. Ironically, while playing Winter Baseball in Venezuela in the late eighties, a few of the guys were listening to some stories from one of my teammates, a lefty pitcher named Steve Shirley. He came up through the Dodgers organization, and on this long bus trip, he was describing some of the great players that he’d played with in the minor leagues. He said the two best minor league players he ever saw were Pedro Guerrero and “a guy” named Glenn Burke. There was no talk of Glenn being gay, just that he was a stud who could have played any sport and been a star. Glenn was getting some serious respect from a veteran who had played a long time and knew the game well. I hadn’t thought about Glenn much until I saw an incredibly well-produced story done by Keith Olbermann on ESPN in 1995. Glenn was dying of AIDS, and Keith captured the sadness of a career and life that were derailed by homophobia, discrimination, betrayal, addiction, and ultimately AIDS. The story was like a knife to my heart. I had just experienced the death of my own partner, Sam, weeks before, and seeing images of Glenn on TV, emaciated and fighting death with each breath, was too much. A wave of grief and sadness came over me and the tears wouldn’t stop. In 2003, when the circumstances of my own life led me to writing my book, Going the Other Way: Lessons from a Life In and Out of Major League Baseball , I remembered that moment, and even though I didn’t know his entire story, I dedicated my book to Glenn. It was my own way of honoring his courage as a major league baseball player, who just happened to be gay. We never met, but we were brothers, and we always will be. We all know that in the entire 145-year history of major league baseball, he and I could not be the only two gay men who have played in the big leagues, yet we are the only ones recognized to have done so. Glenn was much braver than I. He refused to let homophobia change him. He didn’t hide from his truth. (I struggled heavily with my sexuality, and I never came out until I had left baseball for good, and it’s a choice I’ll always regret). Glenn had his loving family, and a hometown group of friends around him for support. He was so far ahead of his time, brimming with self-confidence, yet naive enough to believe the rest of the world would be accepting, just lik