Masculinity, mental health, and Queer participation in sport

Despite not being athletically inclined – frequently joked about in mum’s Christmas letters to whānau – when I was 16 years old (and 1 month), I signed up to complete my Duke of Ed Hillary’s Gold Challenge Award. Within 18 months I had completed everything except the physical recreation requirement.

6 years – and 5 attempts – later, I eventually found ballroom dance fit the bill. There was a studio 50 metres from my uni flat, and I finally completed all requirements a month before I aged out of the programme at 25. What began as a workaround became something more enduring – I continued dancing for 8 years, and later took up adult ballet, finding forms of movement that felt more like home.

Duke of Edinburgh Hilary Award, 2012 and Independent Guild of Dance Teachers (IDGT) examination certificate in Gold Stars Ballroom category, 2013. Images supplied by Scott Pilkington.

Looking back, it wasn’t simply a question of fitness or motivation. It was about not recognising myself in what “sport” was apparently supposed to look like.

Scott Pilkington and Dr Sarah Thompson dancing "Iago's dream", 2018. Photo by Simon Thornley. Photo supplied.

In Aotearoa, sport carries a powerful expectation of participation. It can be fiercely competitive, but it is also treated as a normal and often essential part of growing up. For those who do not see themselves reflected in it, that expectation can be difficult to navigate.

Rugby, in particular, has held a central place in New Zealand life for more than 150 years and is often described as a cornerstone of national identity.[1] As a teenager, at my great aunt and uncle’s golden anniversary in Pukehuia in 2005, I joked that we could afford to miss the first 10 minutes of the rugby game (on the basis that the TV coverage started probably 45 mins before the game did) to get the speeches finished. I was promptly hung from a coat hook until my great aunt ordered me down and sent to the kitchen for my own safety.

Moments like this speak to rugby’s cultural weight – not just as a sport, but as a space where ideas about masculinity are performed and reinforced. Strength, toughness, competitiveness, and stoicism are often celebrated, while vulnerability and difference can be marginalised.

Ans Westra, British Lions versus All Blacks, Athletic Park, Wellington, 1971, Wellington. Purchased 2012. Te Papa (O.039589)

In 1998, a different kind of moment took place over Labour Weekend in Wellington: the first gay interprovincial rugby match between the Krazy Knights and the Ponsonby Heroes (also known as the Rainbow Heroes). Today, taonga associated with that game – including a signed ball, a jersey, and photographs – are held in Te Papa’s collection.

Krazy Knights rugby jersey, 1998, New Zealand, by Larsen. Gift of Alan Bracegirdle, 2020. CC BY-NC-ND 4.0. Te Papa (GH018580)

Reflecting on these objects invites a broader question: what does it mean for Queer men to participate in spaces so strongly shaped by traditional ideas of masculinity?

While legal and social conditions have shifted significantly since the late 1990s, one pattern remains striking. In many professional sports, there are still very few openly Queer male-presenting players competing at the highest levels. The absence of visible role models continues to shape how Queer men imagine their place within sport — and, by extension, within wider cultures of masculinity.

In this context, fictional narratives can take on an outsized cultural role. The ice hockey romance web series Heated Rivalry,[2] became a social phenomenon over the 2025–2026 summer, prompting strong emotional responses across social media, including from sports teams themselves. Many viewers found recognition in a story that depicted intimacy, desire, and vulnerability between male athletes – experiences that remain largely invisible in professional sport.[3, 4]

I was often left in tears not only by the series itself, but by the intensity of response it generated. What people were reacting to was not simply a romance, but the rare opportunity to see forms of connection and emotional openness that are seldom associated with male sporting environments.

That response reshaped how I understood the Krazy Knights taonga. Learning that players from the team later formed relationships, and speaking with people connected to the game, transformed these objects from historical markers into traces of lived experience – records of connection, intimacy, and community within a space not typically understood to accommodate them.

Kalvin Sankoli, Krazy Knights rugby team after their historic game against the Ponsonby Heroes, 1998, New Zealand. Gift of Alan Bracegirdle, 2020. Te Papa (O.049076)

As someone whose own experiences of sport were shaped by exclusion and bullying, I initially felt little connection to these taonga. That connection emerged not through sporting achievement, but through moments of recognition – glimpses of belonging that had previously felt out of reach.

Sport has long been associated with forms of masculinity that prize toughness, control, and resilience. These expectations can create environments where aggression is normalised and where femininity and Queerness are stigmatised. While this affects many men, Queer men often experience an added layer of pressure, navigating participation within systems that often assume heterosexuality.

These norms can have significant impacts on mental health. Rigid ideas about masculinity can make it difficult for men to express vulnerability or seek support. For Queer men, this challenge is compounded by the need to negotiate acceptance within environments where difference has historically been marginalised.

There are signs of change. Research in Aotearoa and internationally suggests that sporting environments are becoming more inclusive, with shifting attitudes among players, clubs, and organisations. Community-level participation, in particular, can offer spaces where connection and support are possible without the pressures of elite performance.

Sweat with Pride sweatband, 2019, New Zealand, by the Burnett Foundation (formerly known as the New Zealand AIDS Foundation at time of collection). Gift of Gareth Watkins, 2022. Te Papa (GH018547)

In Aotearoa, visible gestures of support have become one way of reshaping sporting culture. Since 2018, professional players – including members of the All Blacks and Super Rugby teams – have worn rainbow laces, often in connection with community initiatives such as the New Zealand Falcons and campaigns like Sweat with Pride.

Originating through organisations such as Stonewall, rainbow laces are intended as a simple, public signal of allyship. Research associated with these campaigns suggests that many Queer people still do not experience sporting spaces as welcoming. Against that backdrop, even small acts of visibility can carry weight, offering both reassurance and a prompt for wider cultural change. [8]

Efforts are also underway to improve men’s mental health. Harmful and rigid ideas of what masculinity means prevent a lot of people from reaching out for help when they need it. While this applies equally to all men, Queer men have the additional burden of asking for help against a backdrop of expected heterosexual behaviour.

Participation in sport, in this sense, is not only about competition. It can also be about community – about finding ways to connect, to belong, and to be recognised.

The taonga associated with the 1998 match do more than mark a historical “first”. They point to the complexities of participation: the tensions between visibility and absence, inclusion and exclusion, tradition and change.

They also highlight what is still at stake. In the continued absence of widespread representation at the highest levels of men’s sport, moments of visibility – whether through historical events, community participation, or even fictional narratives – take on heightened significance.

These objects do not simply show that Queer men were present in Aotearoa’s sporting life. They invite us to consider how participation is shaped, who feels able to take part, and what it might take for sport to become a space where more people can see themselves reflected – not as exceptions, but as part of the game itself.

Kalvin Sankoli, Krazy Knights rugby team players, 25 October 1998, New Zealand. Gift of Alan Bracegirdle, 2020. Te Papa (O.049078)

Scott Pilkington (he/any) is a Tāmaki Makaurau-based researcher and creative practitioner working across Queer history, museum practice, and material culture. His work explores what material culture can tell us about Aotearoa’s past and present, particularly where stories have been overlooked or obscured. He is currently exploring Aotearoa Queer stories through taonga held in museum collections.

Footnotes

1. Neill, L., In What Ways Do Kiwi Identity and Kiwiana Hold Relevance for Non-pākehā Migrant Communities?, in Institute of Public Policy. 2018, Auckland University of Technology: Auckland, NZ.

2. Tierney, J., in Heated Rivalry. 2025-, Crave; HBO Max: Canada.

3. Stewart, H., Why the Heated Rivalry TV series understands gay men better than the book. The Conversation, 2026.

4. Wright, J., Heated Rivalry shows how queer joy can disrupt hockey’s culture of masculinity. The Conversation, 2026.

5. Pringle, R., Are We Really That Inclusive? An Examination of the Performance of Masculinities in Rugby Union Clubs in England, Australia, and Aotearoa/New Zealand. Sociology of Sport Journal, 2025. 42(2): p. 140-150.

6. Lutherus, K., “It's Always Good to have a Beer with your Teammates”: Alcohol Consumption and Hegemonic Masculinity within Community Sports Clubs in Aotearoa New Zealand, in Master of Health Psychology. 2023, Te Herenga Waka — Victoria University of Wellington: Wellington, NZ.

7. Shaw, S., Queering inclusion: the experiences of LGBTQ+ women in rugby in Aotearoa/New Zealand. Sport Management Review, 2025. 28(3): p. 423-444.

8. Groufsky, J., Tackling prejudice. 2024, Auckland Museum: Auckland, NZ.

Note on language: This essay uses ‘Queer’ and ‘Rainbow Communities’ as inclusive umbrella terms for a range of sexual orientations, gender identities, and expressions. These terms are capitalised to recognise their use as collective and political identifiers. They are culturally and historically specific, reflecting contemporary Anglophone usage, and do not fully encompass the distinct meanings of terms such as Takatāpui, MVPFAFF, or other Indigenous and diasporic frameworks.