He left college after two years,opting to turn professional. Figuring out his fit within the basketball world was difficult. He became a kind of journeyman,playing in Australia – a 2017-18 Rookie of the Year trophy earned during his stint with the Sydney Kings rests on his mantel – then briefly in Serbia,then lower-level US competitions,spending winters in places like Erie,Pennsylvania – one of the snowiest cities in America – while quietly attacking the gym and waiting for his shot. He was given a chance at 21,suiting up in five games for the Atlanta Hawks. In his first time on the floor,he was up against Giannis Antetokounmpo,the best player in the NBA at the time,and scored two three-pointers,right in the champ’s face. But that glimpse of another life was derailed by form and injury,and then the coronavirus pandemic. He flew home and everything stopped. “That’s when I started to realise,‘I’m pretty lonely in my life.’ ”
When the national league came back to life in late 2020,Humphries landed in Adelaide,playing with the 36ers. Now making a more-than-comfortable living,he moved into a lavish penthouse apartment on Henley Beach,with long hallways and a great room with cathedral ceilings and expansive windows on to the sea. He felt as though he could walk right out onto the water. He played each week in front of thousands of fans,signing their jerseys,then driving home alone. In photos from that time he sees it all so clearly now,the way his eyes betray his sadness.
Often he would just sit at his piano in solitude,writing dark music. Diminished chords and despondent lyrics. Horrifying songs with horrible sentiments. One evening that December,he played those melodies all night,tickling the ivories in his cavernous,empty home,while crying through dirges of self-hatred.I just want to hear you say “I love you”,or will you look at me the way that I do? He tried to kill himself. The attempt failed. He doesn’t know how. “I got up and went to practice.”
“It would have to be a unicorn – someone who doesn’t exist for half of my life,someone okay with us never being able to do anything publicly – and that just seemed unrealistic.”
He found a therapist and said the words out loud – “I’m gay.” He considered parsing his secret out to a select few. One option was to have his family and friends know,and not to tell the team or the public. But would he be filtering and juggling,constantly afraid his truth might slip out? Could he even find a partner under such constraints? “It would have to be a unicorn – someone who doesn’t exist for half of my life,someone okay with us never being able to do anything publicly – and that just seemed unrealistic.”
He came out first to his mum. His sexuality seemed obvious to her when he was little,but she wasn’t certain and didn’t press the matter. “I thought I would let him bring that to me,” she says,softly. “But I knew when there was something wrong,something deeply troubling him.” Humphries gave her the news within a song,which he played for her,through both their tears.
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He told his big sister,who was full of pride,and who has since lent him unwavering support. He told his big brother,who had protected him from bullies at school but who also came to understand that his brand of masculinity had sometimes made Humphries feel unwanted.
Close friends came next. They always asked the same question – “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I wouldn’t have cared” – never seeming to grasp that it wasn’t about their reaction. Humphries had to be fine with himself first. How do you look someone in the eye when you can’t stand your own reflection?
A year passed. Josh Cavallo became theonly out gay male soccer player in the world,while Humphries was busy organising a charity concert for 500 people. He does those occasionally,booking a theatre and band,selling tickets and giving the profits to Ronald McDonald House. He knew Cavallo’s personal video had gone around the world,but couldn’t watch it yet. “It was too real,” he says. “I wasn’t ready for it to be real for me.”
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There was something else he needed to do,too. A knee injury had shut down his second season in South Australia,so he flew to LA to do his rehabilitation – but also to explore a new world,with a few guides. One picked him up at the airport. “Firstly,finally!” said his mate. “Next,I love you,and let’s do this. Let’s show you the world!” That night they went to The Abbey – possibly the most-famous gay bar in the world – and Humphries mingled and moved,sensing no judgment or hate. This was the beginning of what he calls “my little experiment”.
He got an Airbnb in a building that could pass for theMelrose Place set. He dyed his hair platinum blond and bought bougie clothes. He dated,and wrote lovely new music. Introducing himself only as Isaac,he told people he doesn’t believe in last names the way Mariah Carey doesn’t believe in birthdays. “I wanted to explore what it meant to be gay,so I put myself right in the heart of the gayest place in the world,West Hollywood,where the streets are lined with rainbow flags and people are unapologetically themselves.”
He decided he wanted to go public,and had heard about a guy who could help with that. David McFarland was once an American national-level distance swimmer,but remained in the closet while competing. He came out during his subsequent career in entertainment and LGBTQ+ advocacy,producing a documentary about the problem –Alone in the Game – and leading the suicide-prevention body The Trevor Project. “We accept things in sport that we would never accept in any other aspect of society,” McFarland tells me from California. “Things that in other places would see you reprimanded,fired or arrested. It all starts with this issue of hypermasculinity:‘Man up’ and ‘You throw like a girl.’ ”
McFarland has worked with the likes of R.K. Russell (the first active out bisexual NFL player) and Cece Telfer (the transgender hurdler recently denied the chance to compete for the US Olympic team),and in the past 18 months added Cavallo and Humphries to his stable. He’s in constant communication with closeted athletes all over the world.
“They’re there. They’re competing,” he says. “And if they felt comfortable coming out,they would be coming out.” What about here? Is he talking to AFL players? NRL players? Rugby players? Cricket players? McFarland pauses. “Let’s just say that out of the top five big professional sports in Australia,I’ve had conversations with athletes in all of them.”
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Humphries and McFarland had coffee and hatched a plan for an announcement. Humphries drove first to Las Vegas,where the NBA world converges for its summer league,knowing his agent Daniel Moldovan,and his friend,Olgun Uluc,would be there. The air-conditioning in his black Ford Mustang was broken,and it was 50 degrees as he raced through Death Valley,but if he was going to break the news to Moldovan and Uluc,his closest contacts in the basketball world,they had to hear it in person,over old-fashioneds. “I was so scared to intertwine those two lives,” he says. “I sat on my porch the night before and thought,‘Life changes tomorrow.’ ”
“They’re there. They’re competing. And if they felt comfortable coming out,they would be coming out.”
Not long after,Moldovan won him a contract with United,and within days he was on a plane to Australia. He found his new place in Prahran,not far from the queer enclave on Commercial Road. Did Humphries intentionally choose a place five minutes’ walk from … “Poofdom?” he says,laughing. “Yep,I was told it was a gaybourhood.” Not that he could enjoy it. In LA,he’d grown accustomed to being himself – now he wore his old mask,until the time was right. “I’ve been hiding my entire life,” he reasoned. “I can hide a little while longer.”
Humphries asked Uluc to move in with him,to help navigate the announcement and address all the doubts that daily popped into his mind. They war-gamed different scenarios,like what he would do if he heard a homophobic slur on court. Do you throw a punch? Do you say something back? Do you say something later? Do you go to the ref? Or to the coach? The media maybe? Or do you do nothing at all?
“There were so many questions,” says Uluc. ” ‘Is it okay to have your arm around teammates in a huddle?’ Of course it is,but it’s heartbreaking,because no other player has to ask these questions.”
Breaking the news became an exacting,exhausting feat of planning. Key people had to be told in a weeks-long wave of conversations,so Humphries practised his preamble,perfecting it with each new reveal,from chairman to chief executive. Some hugged him,others cried,and still others tried to react casually – “Cool,nice one” – as if trying to tell him it shouldn’t matter at all. Marketing boss Tom van de Vusse was one of the latter,before he realised the gravity of the moment:“Then I just beamed.” Immediately he set to work on a new club pride logo,using smoke and mirrors to avoid any leaks,
making sure communications and branding and merchandising were all quarantined.
Sporting careers are often lived on the fringe,with athletes fighting to eke out a place in a team,and the last thing Humphries wanted to be was a distraction,so he sought out the coach,Dean Vickerman,at home in Elwood. “Look,any time you do anything a little different you ask,‘Will this impact performance?’ ” admits Vickerman. “But it was clear to me it could only bind us together even more.”
Vickerman is planning at some point after a game to tell the boys to have a great weekend with their wives and girlfriends … or boyfriends. “I haven’t thrown that one out there yet,” he says,grinning,“but it’s in the back of my mind.”
On the morning he chose to come out to the rest of the world,Isaac Humphries was tired. It’d been one of those nights where you wake up after a few hours knowing that’s all you’re gonna get. He made brekkie,popped it on the front passenger seat and headed to training. He knows his way there by the things he eats,like the traffic light where he starts munching his peanut-butter toast,or the corner where he inhales his bowl of folded eggs.
Before he got to either one,a dark grey Mercedes coupe smashed into the side of his car. The eggs and toast flew into the windscreen and dashboard,and the Mercedes sped off. Humphries stopped to gather himself,and to gather witness details from a truck driver and a dog-walker. Then he took a breath and took off,only to find the Mercedes abandoned,all doors open,a machete and drugs and alcohol strewn on its seats,details he would repeat to police while choppers searched for the fugitive. “Well,universe,” he thought,“you either don’t want me to do this and are doing everything in your power to stop it. Or you’re showing me that life is so fickle and weird and to just go for it,because anything can happen in this world.”
At least the plan was set. He didn’t want to do a press conference – too difficult to control. He didn’t want to do a video directly to camera – too forced. He didn’t want to write his story in a social post – too composed. Instead,he spoke directly to teammates in their briefing room,with van de Vusse surreptitiously filming from the corner.
“‘Will I be okay? Does my career stop? What do the people in big important rooms decide for me?’ I had no idea what my teammates would say.”
Coming out is hard and messy – Humphries wanted to allow people into that space,to show them how difficult it is. And perhaps how beautiful? “But I was f---in’ scared. I was terrified,” he says. ” ‘Will I be okay? Does my career stop? What do the people in big important rooms decide for me?’ I had no idea what my teammates would say. I was hoping for ‘We know Ice,we love Ice.’ ”
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In the briefing room,the players assumed he was going to address them about their form,so they continued taking off moon-boots and sucking down water. When Humphries uttered the words “mental health”,a collective gaze lifted to meet him. The captain,Chris Goulding,was locked into his eyes the whole time. “What a moment,” says Goulding. “We all knew that how we took the news was going to be really,really important,and hopefully we did it in a way that made him feel comfortable and safe,and happy,too.”
Humphries was fully embraced. Teammates sought him out to thank him,and others quietly inquired to see if they’d ever said anything to make him uncomfortable. An idea had been floated that everyone wear Pride T-shirts for a group photo. Humphries quashed that:“Absolutely not. Not gonna happen. What if someone’s not comfortable? I don’t want to force anyone to do anything.” They all came back and collected one anyway,and wore them that week.
The video was posted publicly the next day,and shared locally by the likes of Lauren Jackson,Dylan Alcott and Andrew Gaze. It now has almost 10 million views. Club No. 1 ticket holder Tones and I sent her love,as did devoted fan Dannii Minogue. Stories began filtering into the club and to Humphries personally,of boys struggling with their sexuality,coming out to their families that very afternoon. “You can obviously see how free he feels now. It’s in his face,in his body,” says Marcus Lee,a teammate who once played with Humphries at the University of Kentucky. “Everybody threw this positivity at him,and that’s great for him. But it’s even better for the kid who comes next.”
The trolls stayed mostly at bay,the haters’ representing a bare fingernail of the overall response. He was surprised just two weeks ago,when theCairns Taipans opted out of wearing a rainbow logo on their jersey during the NBL’s inaugural Pride Round:“We have to acknowledge there is a problem.”
But a very specific silence stung much more. While the NBA issued a public message of solidarity for Humphries’ coming out,guess how many active NBA players showed their support? Zero.
It did not go unnoticed. Humphries would never seek to judge someone for that,but not one American teammate even messaged him privately. That hurt. He has a tattoo on his arm that reads “silence is loud”. It’s a reference to his depression – to sitting quietly at home alone when his mind was all chaos and noise. “In that moment,” he says,“the silence was super loud.”
On game day, Isaac Humphries usually takes a nap,chats to his mum,and eats. Today it’s pesto penne with a crumbed chicken cutlet. “Fuel. It’s just fuel. Gotta feed the machine.” He looks over a checklist on his phone,to make sure he’s packed his shoes,socks and knee tape,and that he’s wearing his lucky stripy game underwear. That’s the extent of his superstition. “I used to be,like,‘No one speak to me before a game’,but you just grow up a bit and realise life’s not really revolving around this.”
On the drive into the game he plays big tunes with soaring vocals,and we listen to those as his white MG SUV rolls into John Cain Arena for a Thursday-night game prior to Christmas. It’s almost a month since he came out. Back to business as usual,back to the dizzying lexicon of the coaching staff,focusing on point-guard denial and hard basket cuts. Cheerleaders dance and six G-Flame units belch fire into the arena. He steps onto a “sticky mat”,removing grime from his sneaker soles,and then he’s on the floor. Back where he belongs. Back in beast mode.
He needs that. This is how he makes a living,after all. Going public might actually help. Professional athletes who come out often report playing more freely. Then there’s the “pink dollar”;LGBTQI+ people and allies are an important consumer market,characterised by brand loyalty and discretionary income. No wonder,then,that corporates from finance,fashion,telecommunications and sport are sniffing about to partner with Humphries.
But that’s not why he’s come out. What’s most important to Humphries is aligning soon with a suicide awareness campaign,or an organisation that promotes kids’ mental health. He wants to play in the NBA again,too – but realises it mightn’t happen.
Suiting up for the Boomers is on his bucket list – but if his greatest success comes off court,so be it.
Friends and neighbours try to set him up on dates constantly,but he’s not comfortable chasing love just yet. There’s too many moving pieces in his life. Besides,he’s got games to win.
He casts his mind back to the team’s toughest defeat in a tough season. United were beating the Tasmanian JackJumpers all night long,until Humphries’ direct opponent threw two last-gasp shots over the top of him. They lost,one of a string of heartbreakers,and Humphries trudged upstairs to talk to the members,as he’s required to do. “I was so shitty. They warned me not to speak,just to sign autographs instead.”
Then a little boy stopped him. He’d seen the video of Humphries telling his teammates his secret and crying,and the little boy had mistakenly believed this sorrow was ongoing. He handed Humphries a gift,a drawing of a rainbow flag with “ISAAC” written across the middle. It sits on his shelf at home. The boy said that he didn’t want Humphries to be sad any more. “And I was immediately okay. The score didn’t matter at all. We lost a basketball game,” Humphries says,shrugging. “Who cares?”
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