Is there a Mrs Smith?
The anxiety of questions and partial truths
Summer 2015 like any other in England: mild days, occasionally warm, cloudy skies, intermittent rain and a gentle breeze.
That year was my first at the club. Closeted, I avoided all conversations that may trigger ‘the question’ with teammates. I tried to navigate my way between being friendly and remaining private through that season. I had an Achilles heel though. I didn’t want to be seen as aloof or unfriendly and as I didn’t know people well I would, on occasion, ask people about their lives, their family, friends, work.
The natural consequence of this? Eventually, questions boomerang back.
I existed in a state of internal conflict. I wanted to be ‘outed’ but I was terrified of the consequences.
I’d met thirty or forty new people relatively quickly, yet I couldn’t sense how safe this club was, how safe the sport was. What were the possible consequences of coming out? Being shunned, excluded, accused, shamed were all potential nightmare scenarios that simmered in my imagination each time I interacted with teammates.
I never really settled that year despite enjoying playing cricket. I was in and out of teams, often unavailable due to other commitments and my form was patchy at best. The one thing I achieved was not being seen. There are times as a gay man that you want to be seen, you want to be open, acknowledged, for people to understand that your life experiences might be different and that they should be valued equally. Validation can be so powerful and being seen is a key part of that. But back then, in those early days, I did not want to be seen.
Looking for validation is part of identity and I do need this otherwise I’m not being my complete self — either inward or outward facing — whilst this is hidden. Maybe I need to take the plunge? I need to and then deal with the consequences afterwards. I feel sick but they can be managed I’m sure. In the end am I better off playing in fear, even if it may be irrational, or not playing at a place that doesn’t respect me or those who are different? (extract from a personal diary note to myself — June 2016)
I eventually started settling into our third team. In any sport finding your level, one that you could compete at, is crucial to success and enjoyment. I felt like I could compete, even if my own personal performances did not reflect that belief.
As a team we struggled for consistency. One afternoon we were heading for another defeat and I had been dismissed again cheaply, not troubling the scorers much at all. I lay in the grass, head propped up by my elbow to watch the unfolding drama in the middle. One of my teammates, following his own less than impressive display with the bat, came sauntering over, in a way that only he knows how and just came out with the question, “So is there a Mrs Smith?”
My body tensed. I was ready for this, I had trained myself to answer coolly, calmly, to questions like this since I was a teenager. A face of stone hiding the waves of shame, fear and pain underneath. The question on this day was the first of its kind but the answer was as evasive as ever.
“No, there is no Mrs Smith”
I mustered a half-hearted laugh.
Done, settled, move on.
My heart raced. It was a truth yet not a truth. Strictly it was true, but it felt like a lie. Was this the start? Was the door now ajar, the truth that needed to be spoken? I wanted to sweep it under the carpet but wanted more questions too. Be more specific, that was my wish: back me into a corner, give me no way out. It took another year before things came to a head. It took another year for the pressure to build, forcing me to make a decision. Do I tell my teammates I’m gay and wait for the fallout or do I walk away from the one game I love to play?
This reflection, based on diary entries, is from my first year at my cricket club. You can find out more about what happened by checking out my other articles on Medium.
