In 2003, Travis Garone and Luke Slattery shared a “quiet beer” at the Gypsy Bar in Melbourne, Australia and joked about the moustache’s tragic fall from grace. Over the next 10 years, that initial conversation would morph into a global movement hellbent on changing the face of men’s health, growing from 30 bros to well over a million sporting lip fuzz for a higher purpose. We know it as Movember.
Last year, Movember raised $147 million for prostate and testicular cancer awareness thanks to the combined efforts of 1,127,152 men and sympathetic women in Australia, Austria, Belgium, Canada, Czech Republic, Denmark, Finland, France, Hong Kong, Germany, Ireland, Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Singapore, South Africa, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, the United Kingdom and the United States. That’s a lot of whiskers.
When I’m not covering hockey for BostInno, I play for the Boston University Inline Hockey team. I’d liken my style of play to Cam Neely, if his legs were bashed with a tire iron minutes before the game; or even more accurately, a traffic cone, with the same mobility and general color scheme. Yes, it would be lonely here on the eighth line if the team did not possess such wonderful camaraderie.
That same camaraderie helped raise nearly $1,500 last year as part of the team’s participation in Movember.
Earlier this year, I found a lump. You know, down there. And for months, I didn’t do a thing about it. I didn’t tell anyone, and I certainly did not schedule a doctor’s appointment. Make no mistake, it wasn’t for lack of funds or resources; as an employee of the State of New Jersey, my father has fabulous insurance, on which I’m fortunate enough to be a dependent. The simple truth is, I was afraid.
Finally, in September, I toughened up and made an appointment with my doctor, who promptly scheduled me for an ultrasound at Boston Medical Center. I took a hot, sweaty bus over to Longwood. I was quickly whisked into an examination room and gown. I’ve heard people kid that they’d bet their left nut or give their left nut for this or that. There, in a dimly lit room usually occupied by expecting mothers, I stared at a grainy, black-and-white rendering of my left nut.
Though I pride myself in growing a formidable playoff beard, my moustache alone leaves something to be desired. When my parents were first set up on a blind date back in ’86, my mother’s cousin told her my father looked almost identical to Tom Selleck. Her cousin was right. Unfortunately, I received all of zero of those genes, and more closely resemble someone who Magnum P.I. would bust for possession of questionable pornography than Magnum P.I. himself when I grow out the ol’ ‘stache.
As it so happened, I did not have cancer. For a few weeks afterward, I refused to snip off my hospital bracelet. As bad as my day could get, I reasoned, I could look at it and think, “At least I don’t have cancer.” But the bracelet soon became dingy and crinkly after a few dozen showers, and I was forced to do without. The meaning of that bracelet will live on, however, in the form of my pitiful, strawberry blond moustache.
I will grow a moustache with my teammates, in conjunction with the BU varsity and club ice hockey teams, to raise awareness for men’s health and break down the stigma that kept me away from an examination room – and transitively, peace of mind – for too long.
How many men could have caught their prostate and testicular cancers far earlier had it not been for that same stigma? That needs to end.
