Kentucky Wildcats Basketball: A Way of Life for a Queer Comedian
In Kentucky, basketball isn’t just a sport—it’s an identity. It’s an emotion, a tradition, a reason for celebration, and sometimes, a way to cope with life. For many in the state, the Kentucky Wildcats basketball team represents more than just athletic achievement. It embodies a shared history, a cultural pride, and a place where community and individual stories intertwine. As a queer comedian, the story of my relationship with Kentucky Wildcats basketball is a reflection of my life—full of joy, struggle, and the search for belonging.
Growing Up Kentucky: The Power of the Wildcats
From the moment I could understand what basketball was, the Kentucky Wildcats were a central figure in my world. Born and raised in Lexington, the heart of Wildcat country, I never had the luxury of pretending that basketball wasn’t my religion. It was embedded in my DNA, in every family gathering, every Friday night game, every story shared about the greats—Pat Riley, Jamal Mashburn, Anthony Davis.
For my family, Wildcat basketball wasn’t a casual interest. It was the pulse of our household, an event that transformed the mundane into the extraordinary. I remember my dad, a man who wasn’t much for showing his emotions, standing in front of the TV with his fist clenched after a clutch three-pointer by Tony Delk. I could see his face light up in ways that made me realize how deeply this sport touched him, how deeply it touched all of us. There was something almost sacred about the tradition—the way Kentucky fans live and breathe basketball, the way the team represents the pride of the state.
But for me, growing up as a queer child in a place where traditional masculinity and heteronormative values reigned supreme, my love for Kentucky basketball was also a battleground. It was a place where I could escape into a world of strength and power—something I didn’t feel I could access as a young girl who didn’t quite fit into what society expected me to be. Yet, in the noisy roar of Rupp Arena, surrounded by tens of thousands of passionate fans, I realized that the very things I admired about the game—teamwork, resilience, and the ability to thrive under pressure—could help me navigate the challenges of being a queer person in a largely conservative state.
The Intersection of Queerness and Sports
Growing up, I didn’t see many queer figures in sports. This lack of representation left me grappling with how I could love basketball and feel seen at the same time. I learned to love the game not just for its athleticism but for the stories of underdogs, outcasts, and misfits who managed to carve out a space for themselves. In some ways, being a queer comedian was similar to being the kid on the bench who didn’t get much playing time but had to bring all their heart, humor, and energy to support the team.
The Kentucky Wildcats are a team of icons. They’ve seen highs and lows, champions and heartaches. Much like my own journey as a queer individual, their history is a testament to resilience. I grew up watching players like Jamal Mashburn, Tony Delk, and Anthony Davis, whose talent seemed to transcend what I thought was possible. These athletes were larger than life. But as a queer person who didn’t always see myself reflected in those dominant images of power and masculinity, I struggled with how to claim that power for myself.
In the early years of my adolescence, I often felt alienated, like a stranger in a world of locker rooms and gymnasiums, where masculinity was defined by how well you could shoot a three-pointer, how many rebounds you could grab, or how strong you appeared in front of your peers. I was not that. Or at least, I didn’t think I was. It was hard to reconcile my love for a team whose power dynamics seemed so deeply rooted in the traditional ideals of strength and conformity with the realization that I didn’t fit the mold.
Yet, my love for the Wildcats never wavered. There was something about the game itself—something in the rhythm of it—that made me feel alive. The back-and-forth of the court, the tension in every possession, the collective exhale when the ball finally hits the net—it was all a metaphor for the struggle I felt in my own life. In some ways, watching the game became my therapy, a place where I could work through my own identity while witnessing others grapple with their own challenges on the court.
As I got older, I began to see the connection between my queerness and my love of sports in a new light. Basketball was about more than just the game. It was about belonging. It was about finding your place even when the world seemed like it was telling you that you didn’t fit. The Wildcats represented that same idea—an ever-evolving team where players, regardless of their background or history, could come together and create something greater than the sum of its parts. For me, that was the essence of queerness: a refusal to fit into a box, a celebration of individuality within a shared community.
Comedy as an Extension of My Wildcat Pride
As I began to find my voice as a queer comedian, I realized that my love for Kentucky Wildcats basketball and my queerness were not separate parts of me. They were intertwined, constantly informing each other. My comedy became a space where I could process my relationship with basketball—how the sport shaped my identity, how it helped me navigate the difficult terrain of being a queer person in Kentucky, and how I could subvert the hypermasculine narratives surrounding sports culture.
Through my comedy, I found ways to express my frustrations, my triumphs, and my desire to be seen. It was no longer just about making jokes; it was about creating a narrative where queerness and basketball could coexist in a way that celebrated both. I could make fun of the wild fanfare of Kentucky basketball—how we all, at times, took it a little too seriously—while also celebrating how deeply it connected us, how much it had shaped our identities as Kentuckians.
I started to use basketball as a metaphor for the ways I approached my queerness. In a game of basketball, you’re constantly shifting roles: you play offense, defense, assist others, and sometimes take the shot yourself. It was much like navigating a world where my queerness was often in conflict with societal expectations. I had to be quick on my feet, willing to adapt, and always ready to shoot my shot, even when the odds felt stacked against me. The Wildcats, in their best moments, embodied that very resilience.
When I perform comedy, I sometimes joke about growing up in a town where “the most important thing you could be” was a fan of the Wildcats. The punchline often draws laughter because it’s absurd. But it’s also deeply true. In Kentucky, basketball was a communal experience that transcended differences, at least on the surface. Yet, as a queer person, I found myself constantly navigating that surface and longing for something more beneath it.
A Legacy of Transformation
Today, as I look back at the role Kentucky Wildcats basketball played in my life, I realize it’s not just about the game anymore. It’s about how I’ve evolved within that context—how I’ve managed to integrate my queerness with my love for the sport and how, over the years, I’ve come to see basketball as a reflection of my own journey.
In Kentucky, basketball continues to be a way of life. For me, it’s a place where I’ve grown, learned, and found ways to express parts of myself that once felt hidden. It’s a place where I’ve witnessed triumphs and heartaches, and it’s a community where I’ve carved out my own space.
As a queer comedian, I now see that the Wildcats were never just a team. They were a metaphor for the struggle, the resilience, and the power that queer people carry every day. And maybe, just maybe, when we all rise up and cheer for our Wildcats, we’re also cheering for our own ability to defy expectations, create our own identities, and be unapologetically ourselves.