Killing Two Birds with One Big Gay Dodgeball

I play gay dodgeball. No, this is not a set-up to a punch line; it’s a fact. I play dodgeball in a rec-center in the West Village of Manhattan. I play on a team sponsored by Manhunt.net. A friend of mine was signing up a few months ago, and convinced me that it would be an hour of hilarity every Monday night, we’d go, stand around and bitch about the smelly gym, half-play the game, and then go out to the bar. I’ll confess, a lot of my motivation for signing up was sheer curiosity. What kind of homosexual signs up for dodgeball? I wasn’t sure, but I was willing to guess they were the kind with a great sense of humor. I was not disappointed. And, I’m happy to report, there has never been a better smelling gym in the history of indoor recreation. There’s a lot of Axe body spray happening in there, and it’s delightful to the senses.

I played organized sports growing up. I was often referred to as a tomboy (shocker) and (more kindly) an athlete. I didn’t know this would later translate into lesbian. When I finally figured that part out, I had long left behind the days of chasing (ironically) balls around open fields of boys. Since crossing over to the gay side of the street, I have purposefully avoided all athletics for fear of becoming (gasp!) a cliché. As if it were avoidable—never mind dating my ex-girlfriend’s ex-girlfriend and sleeping with my bestie as retribution for her girlfriend stealing mine…. Ah the early years! But this year, I will embrace my quarter century on this earth and accept the inevitable fact that I am, indeed, a dodgeball dyke. You’ve heard of softball lesbians, you know of theater fags, and perhaps you’re even familiar with the ever illusive “power lez.” Let me introduce you to the new breed.

There are nine teams in our league, and each team has two girls and six boys on it. That means there are only seventy-two out and proud dodgeball dykes (I include the boys in this title as well because of the alliteration works nicely) in New York at this moment. We don’t all know each others’ names, we don’t congregate in the corners. None of us are crying in the bathroom, or on the court. And every single one of us shows up in lackluster sweats and running sneakers. We aren’t hipsters, we aren’t corporate, we aren’t cruising, we are: THE GAME. For two hours, every Monday night, we shed all other labels and become, in a word: Dodgeball. It’s refreshing to be in a room full of homosexuals who are not out to simply get laid. It’s delightful to be in a group of sober gays. And it’s super-cool to see lesbians engaging in an activity that is neither political, nor sexual. We’re just there to play.

Here’s the thing about dodgeball: no one looks cool doing it. You’re bending your body like a wet noodle trying to get out of the way of flying red rubber balls. You’re bobbling a catch, or sliding across the floor. Everyone gets hit at some point, and everyone eventually trips. We’re all in the same over-sized t-shirts. And we’re all having fun. Dodgeball dykes ) can’t take themselves too seriously. They can’t be princesses or image-obsessed. Even if you’re awesome at dodging balls, it makes you look like a professional pussy—like you’re really good at avoiding having things thrown at you. What a skill to have developed!

I’m proud to have found my place in the gay community. I’ve accepted that I’m a walking cliché—an ex-soccer jock dyke, reliving her glory days on the NYC dodgeball court, working out my anger-management issues and my arm muscles at the same time. Killing two birds with one big gay dodgeball.