It's estimated that 10% of the population is homosexual, and it only figures that no matter what the profession, what the industry, or what the sport, approximately 10% of those involved abide by that figure. To say that homosexuality does not occur in any of the major sports is ludicrous. Unfortunately, America still can't handle the idea of one of their idols preferring the company of men, choosing to cling to stereotypes rather than the truth. Playwright Richard Greenberg has written a play that starts with the admission of a mega-superstar baseball player on the level of a Derek Jeter or an Alex Rodriguez outing himself and explores the ramifications on his friendships, his team, and his sport from such an offhanded act. Part loving homage to baseball, part intellectual romp through human sexuality, and part sneaky peek into the dark side of male-male relationships, this script has enough going on that baseball fans or fans of the human condition will enjoy this evening.

Narrating this slightly unchronological retelling of the facts is Neal Huff as a folksy baseball player and friend to the godly Darren Lemming (Daniel Sunjata). Mr. Huff is instantly likable, the kind of nice, sharp guy with whom you wish you could watch the game and share a couple of beers. His easy way and playful needling is completely believable. Mr. Sunjata is equally impressive. He breathes rarified air and captures the gait of a thoroughbred never shied by injury or bad showing. When he begins to deal with the mixed feelings of his friends and teammates, he enters unusual territory: that of an oddity or of a pitiable figure. Balancing these two are the excellently played performance of Frederick Weller as Lemming's nemesis, a John Rocker-like redneck relief pitcher, and Denis O'Hare as a closeted accountant who discovers baseball when inspired by Lemming's statement. Mr. Weller performs Mungitt hilariously and disarmingly, while Mr. O'Hare's elegiac monologues about his growing love of baseball and infatuation with Lemming are little gems. Joe Mantello's choreographic direction captures both the on- and off-field movements of baseball quite well, and is paced not like a leisurely day at Wrigley Field, but like the ninth inning of a tied seventh game of a Subway Series.

As per the subject matter, several scenes involve male nudity and shower sequences. While most are textually justifiable, there is just a hint of gratuitousness in one or two of them. It is this situation that I fear will stifle this wonderful script from making the rounds in regional theaters like ART, How I Learned to Drive, or Proof have recently done. If this winds up being the case, America will miss a spectacular show.