There’s a longstanding stereotype that all women jocks are dykes, and all dykes are jocks. And while dykes, of course, play sports as much as our heterosexual counterparts, it’s obviously untrue — a myth steeped in homophobia and sexism that has made it difficult for LGBTQ+ people to feel at a home in athletics, from professional leagues all the way down to local community pickup games.
Over the last decade, soccer stars like Abby Wambach, Megan Rapinoe, Ali Kreiger, and Ashlyn Harris have not only come out publicly at the height of stardom from Olympics and World Cup wins, but spoken to the necessity of LGBTQ+ inclusivity both on the field and beyond. Their visibility and candor have sparked more interest from those who previously felt like the pitch wasn’t as queer friendly as it could be, among them artist Alex Schmidt, founder of Dyke Soccer.
“I think the main thing is there’s just not really anything like this,” Schmidt tells me. “It’s the confluence, maybe, of soccer and wanting to be together again in a space that’s defined by health and support more than it is by a bar. Once we started, it was kind of insane to realize the thing that pushed me out of [soccer] is just not feeling like I had my people.”
In 2018, Schmidt, a lifelong soccer player, started missing the game.
“I dabbled for a semester in college and off-and-on with co-ed leagues after,” Schmidt says, “but that always felt more like I was filling a quota than anything. I stopped because all throughout, I never felt like I had my people.”
Schmidt says those environments, sometimes co-ed, “had a homophobic culture and/or a toxic culture of masculinity.”
“While I didn’t quite connect the dots that that’s what took the joy out, I’ve realized how essential acceptance, authentic friendship, community, and queer pride are to my success on the field,” Schmidt says. In April 2018, she started dating now-girlfriend Jolie Signorile, who also loved and missed playing the game. Together they created Dyke Soccer with a specific mission of creating a queer-centric, multi-cultural, body-positive space for sport with no gender policing, no physical contact, and no barrier to entry.
“It just feels really good to have a place where you go once a week,” Schmidt says. “I don’t want to say it’s a church, but I think it scratches an itch, going to a place and coming together around a shared vision and a shared project.”
What started in May 2018 as a weekly pickup game in Brooklyn became a hundreds-strong mailing list, as well as a popular Instagram account, newsletter (“Tongue in Cleat”), and now an expansion into three cities, where “dykesdykes, transfolx, gender-variant folx, and for whomever this feels like home” gather to play soccer, make friends, and, of course, cruise. New York, Los Angeles, and Washington D.C. are now home to Dyke Soccer communities that not only come together to play sweaty matches in sports bras, but stay connected through group texts, potlucks, comedy shows, and post-game outings.
You don’t even have to play to be a part of the Dyke Soccer community. Whether due to physical limitations or have what someone at my game referred to as “sports anxiety,” and there are other ways to participate in the Dyke Soccer family, because ultimately, the game is an excuse to bring the family together.
