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This is the way I heard.

October 2nd, 1977, it's a warm Sunday afternoon in downtown Los Angeles, and the young baker is just trying to get home, there's a spring in his step and a smile on his face and for good reason. The young baker loves his job and he's just finished another very satisfying day at work. But suddenly he's approached by a known homosexual behaving erratically. The young baker isn't sure what to do. The known homosexual is standing in front of him and jumping up and down and yelling incoherently, he raises his right hand high over his head as if he's about to strike a blow or throw something.

The young baker knows how quickly things can escalate, especially in this part of town, so he strikes first, smacking the known homosexual in a place where he does not expect to be smacked.

And just like that, the incident is over before it began.

Except it wasn't that night. Video of the encounter made the evening news and the reaction was swift. Almost immediately, people began smacking each other all over town. Soon, the smacking was being replicated in San Francisco, New York, Kansas City, Baltimore, Philadelphia and Boston. It spread like a virus and no one was immune. Gay, straight, old, young, black, white, rich, poor.

Millions of people were impacted. And today, nearly five decades later, we're still not sure who's responsible. Was it the young baker who was trying to get home or the known homosexual who accosted him? For his part, the young baker, no longer as young as he used to be, takes no credit. It was all his idea. He said he was the one who came running toward me whooping and hollering, looking like he was going to jump out of his skin.

I really didn't think twice about it.

I just smacked him. But according to the known homosexual, no longer as known as he used to be, it was the baker who started it. He was the one who made it happen. If he hadn't done what he did that day, I'd have never approached him like that.

Besides, I had no idea he was going to smack me like that.

Sadly, the man on the receiving end of that surprising smack is no longer around to reflect on the details of his famous run in with the young Baker, in spite of his exceptional talent, his lifestyle made the boys in the front office uncomfortable. So they traded this known homosexual to Oakland, where his new boss introduced him at a team meeting with these words. Say hi to Glenn Burke, everybody. He's a faggot. Sorry to be indelicate, but according to a player called Claudelle Washington, that's exactly how Billy Martin introduced his new outfielder to the team.

Oh, well, at least he didn't call him. The N-word. Oh, yeah, in those days, Glenn Burke heard the N-word almost as often as he heard the F word, he was a known black man after all, as well as a known homosexual playing Major League Baseball decades before the more enlightened among us realized that racism and bigotry could be combated by reducing racist words to a single letter. Funny thing, though, about enlightenment today, everyone remembers Jackie Robinson as the first black man to play Major League Baseball, but how many people remember Glenn Burke as the first openly gay man to do the same?

Very few, it seems, and you've got to wonder, why was Glenn Burke any less courageous than Jackie Robinson? I don't think so Jackie Robinson endured endless abuse because of the way he looked, and that took a lot of guts. But what choice did he have? Jackie Robinson couldn't change the color of his skin, even if he wanted to.

Neither could Reggie Jackson, Willie Mays, Ernie Banks, Bob Gibson, Satchel Paige, Ozzie Smith, Hank Aaron, or for that matter, the young baker who was just trying to get home 30 years after Jackie Robinson paved the way for him. But Glenn Burke could have been right there with them had he simply stayed in the closet. Everyone said he could have been the next Willie Mays. All he had to do was pretend to be someone he wasn't.

But that's not how Glenn rolled. Consequently, the first openly gay man to play professional baseball never found a home in the big leagues. Instead, Glenn left the Oakland A's and spent the rest of his career playing for the Pendulum Pirates, a gay softball team in San Francisco.

Sadly, when he succumbed to AIDS in 1995, this known homosexual was all but forgotten. He died alone, racked with so much pain he couldn't even lift his hand over his head the way he did so enthusiastically in his rookie season. On that unforgettable day, he made history. October 2nd, 1977. It's a warm Sunday afternoon in downtown Los Angeles, and the young baker walks slowly to the plate. It's the last game of the regular season and the stands are packed with forty thousand witnesses hoping for a miracle.

The young baker has already hit twenty nine home runs on the year, and if he can hit just one more, he'll be the fourth Dodger to hit 30 that season, the first time in history that any team could make such a claim. It would be a huge accomplishment, but this is the young baker's last at bat. It's now or never. On deck, Glenn Burke is cheering for his teammate, hoping he'll get a pitch he can hit and he does a high fastball, which he drills deep to right field.

It's a home run. The crowd goes wild, and so, too, does Glenn Burke. As the young baker rounds third base, Glenn runs out to greet him. He's jumping up and down, yelling incoherently. His right hand held high over his head as if he's about to strike a blow or throw something. The young baker isn't sure what to do, so he reaches up with his own hand and smacks his teammate where he does not expect to be smacked squarely in his open palm.

And that's the way it happened, a serendipitous smack made possible by an unscheduled meeting between a young baker who was just trying to get home and a very excited rookie who was just trying to say congratulations, Dusty Baker and Glenn Burke, two ball players who accidentally invented a new way to celebrate life with a simple gesture that's been repeated billions and billions of times all over the world by men and women of all races, all ethnicities and all sexual orientations. An elegant reminder that in spite of our many differences, we all play for the same team.

Something to think about next time you say congratulations with a friendly smack called the high five. Anyway, that's the way I heard it.