If I had my way, someone else would have already done this.
In the spring of 2013, Jason Collins stepped forward where no active male athlete in major North American team sports had stepped before, declaring his identity in plain language and reshaping what professional sports could look like. He spent the remaining years of his life not merely as a symbol but as a working advocate, carrying that act of courage into schools, locker rooms, and communities. On Tuesday, at 47, Collins died from Stage 4 glioblastoma, eight months after his diagnosis — leaving behind a legacy that belongs less to basketball than to the longer, unfinished story of human dignity. His life reminds us that a single raised hand, at the right moment, can change the room.
- A man who quietly carried a secret through thirteen NBA seasons chose, at the twilight of his career, to speak — and the sports world had to reckon with what it had long refused to see.
- The response in 2013 was swift and largely affirming, but the real disruption was structural: Collins proved an openly gay man could occupy a professional locker room without the culture fracturing, dismantling a fear that had silenced countless athletes before him.
- He wore jersey number 98 as a silent memorial to Matthew Shepard, transforming every game appearance into an act of remembrance and resistance that most fans never fully decoded.
- After his playing days ended, Collins redirected his visibility into sustained advocacy — schools, communities, and the NBA Cares platform — building inclusion brick by brick rather than resting on a single historic moment.
- Last week, too ill to stand at the podium himself, Collins received the inaugural Bill Walton Global Champion Award while his twin brother accepted in his place — a final, quiet image of a life spent in service to others.
- He died at 47, eight months after disclosing his diagnosis, leaving a legacy his family described simply: he changed lives in ways no one fully anticipated, and inspired people who never met him.
Jason Collins, who became the first active male athlete in a major North American team sport to publicly come out as gay, died Tuesday at 47 after an eight-month battle with Stage 4 glioblastoma. His family announced the death, thanking the medical team and the many people who offered support through his illness.
For thirteen NBA seasons, Collins was a reliable center across six franchises, with his strongest years coming alongside the New Jersey Nets in 2004-05. But his deeper significance arrived in April 2013, when he published a first-person essay in Sports Illustrated opening with the words: "I'm a 34-year-old NBA center. I'm Black and I'm gay." He had been moved to act, he wrote, after watching his Stanford roommate Joe Kennedy III march in Boston's Pride parade — something Collins himself could not do. "Nobody has," he explained, "which is why I'm raising my hand."
The moment drew support from Kobe Bryant, the White House, and Bill Clinton, whose daughter had been Collins' classmate at Stanford. He signed with the Brooklyn Nets and played twenty-two games that season, demonstrating in practice what he had declared in print. During his final stints in the league, he wore number 98 — a tribute to Matthew Shepard, murdered in Wyoming in 1998 — turning each appearance into a quiet act of memorial.
After his playing career ended, Collins became an NBA Cares Ambassador, working in schools and communities to push professional sports toward greater inclusion. The Players Association called him "a global beacon of hope." Just days before his death, he was honored with the inaugural Bill Walton Global Champion Award; too ill to attend, he was represented by his twin brother Jarron, also a former NBA player, who told the audience: "He's the bravest, strongest man I've ever known."
NBA Commissioner Adam Silver remembered Collins not only for breaking barriers but for "the kindness and humanity that defined his life." His family's statement offered perhaps the simplest measure of what he had done: "Jason changed lives in unexpected ways, and was an inspiration to all who knew him and to those who admired him from afar."
Jason Collins, who broke through one of professional sports' most stubborn barriers when he came out as gay in the spring of 2013, died Tuesday at 47. His family announced the death after a months-long battle with Stage 4 glioblastoma, a brain cancer with a grim survival rate. Collins had disclosed his diagnosis in December, eight months before his death.
For thirteen seasons, Collins moved through the NBA as a center, playing for six different teams and averaging 3.6 points and 3.7 rebounds across his career. His best stretch came with the New Jersey Nets in 2004-05, when he put up 6.4 points and 6.1 rebounds per game and helped the franchise reach two Finals. He was a capable, professional player—but his real significance lay elsewhere. In April 2013, with his playing days winding down, Collins wrote a first-person essay for Sports Illustrated that opened with a simple declaration: "I'm a 34-year-old NBA center. I'm Black and I'm gay." He was the first active male athlete in a major North American team sport to make such a public statement. The piece explained that he had been moved to act after watching his Stanford roommate, Joe Kennedy III, march in Boston's Pride parade in 2012—something Collins himself could not do. "If I had my way, someone else would have already done this," he wrote. "Nobody has, which is why I'm raising my hand."
The response was swift and largely supportive. Kobe Bryant spoke out for him. The White House acknowledged the moment. Bill Clinton, whose daughter Chelsea had been Collins' classmate at Stanford, offered his backing. Collins signed with the Brooklyn Nets as a free agent and played twenty-two games that season, becoming a living symbol that an openly gay man could compete at the highest level of professional basketball without the sport collapsing or the locker room fracturing. During his final three stints with Boston, Washington, and Brooklyn, he wore jersey number 98—a reference to Matthew Shepard, the Wyoming college student murdered in 1998 because he was gay. The number became a quiet memorial, visible every time he took the court.
Beyond his playing contract, Collins became an NBA Cares Ambassador and devoted himself to making professional sports more inclusive. He worked in schools and communities, pushing locker rooms to examine their own cultures and assumptions. The National Basketball Players Association later said his courage "shattered barriers, making him a global beacon of hope for the LGBTQ+ community." Just last week, Collins received the inaugural Bill Walton Global Champion Award at the Green Sports Alliance Summit. He was too ill to attend; his twin brother Jarron, also a former NBA player, accepted on his behalf. "He's the bravest, strongest man I've ever known," Jarron said from the stage.
At Stanford, where Collins had been a standout center, he shot nearly 61 percent from the field—a school record that still stands. He was an honorable mention All-America selection before the Houston Rockets drafted him eighteenth overall in 2001. His former coach, Mike Montgomery, remembered him as someone who was "big, smart, strong and skilled" but also "a very bright and nice person." NBA Commissioner Adam Silver said Collins' "impact and influence extended far beyond basketball" and that he would be remembered "not only for breaking barriers, but also for the kindness and humanity that defined his life." His family released a statement thanking the medical team that cared for him and acknowledging the prayers and support that sustained them through eight months of illness. "Jason changed lives in unexpected ways," they said, "and was an inspiration to all who knew him and to those who admired him from afar."
Notable Quotes
I'm a 34-year-old NBA center. I'm Black and I'm gay.— Jason Collins, in his Sports Illustrated coming out essay, April 2013
He's the bravest, strongest man I've ever known.— Jarron Collins, accepting the Bill Walton award on his twin brother's behalf
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
What made Collins' moment in 2013 so pivotal? Athletes had come out before.
Not in the major team sports, not while actively playing. Collins was the first. That distinction mattered because it meant he was still in the locker room, still competing, still visible—not a retired figure looking back, but someone saying this is who I am right now.
Did his coming out change how teams and players actually behaved?
It opened a conversation that hadn't been possible before. You can't point to a single moment where everything shifted, but the fact that he played, that he was accepted by teammates, that the league supported him—that gave permission to others to imagine themselves differently in that space.
He wore number 98 for Matthew Shepard. That's a very deliberate choice.
It was his way of carrying something larger than himself onto the court. Every game, every broadcast, that number was there. It said: I'm not just playing for me. I'm playing for people who didn't get to.
What about the eight months between his diagnosis and his death? That's a long time to fight something with such a low survival rate.
His family called it a valiant fight. He was still receiving the Bill Walton award just days before he died, still present in the work. That's the other part of his legacy—not just the coming out, but the persistence afterward.
Do you think he knew what his coming out would mean?
I think he knew it mattered. But legacy is something others build around you after you're gone. He was just trying to live honestly and keep playing basketball.