From the Front Desk: Girls, Gays, and Theys Are Writing Again

The girls, gays, and theys are writing again, and, this time, it’s not sunshine and rainbows (OK, maybe some rainbows). USQ Executive Assistant and former player Erin Moreno tackles gender and quadball for Pride Month. 🌈

As a child, I never questioned my gender identity, though I did chafe against the stereotypical definition I was taught as to what it meant to be a girl. I didn’t want to wear skirts, dresses or, frankly, anything that got in the way of playing outside in the dirt, and young Erin had more male friends than female. Although I grew up in the Midwest, I also grew up at the tail end of the “not like other girls” era. I wore my naturally tomboyish nature like armor, far too young and uneducated enough to recognize it as the internalized misogyny it was.

By the time I reached college, I had grappled with the internal narratives I’d adopted without thought, and I had many wonderful relationships with other women. I was fully on the “women can do anything men can do” train. And it was there where I found myself at my freshman club activity fair writing down my contact information for the Ball State Quidditch Club.

Ball So Hard, Must Be Female

As someone who works in marketing and makes a living through storytelling, I wish I could tell you that our sport helped me find my gender identity. But, the truth isn’t so tidy. I never questioned my gender before quadball, but I also didn’t personally identify with it other than with a vendetta to prove that women could be as good at sports as any man. Truthfully, I never cared what anyone saw me as, especially when I barely understood how to view myself as a person—let alone as a woman.

When I joined quadball, I was thrilled to have the opportunity to prove that I was just as strong as men. I had better-than-average endurance and a high level of athleticism from swimming competitively for 11 years. Although I had never played a sport with a ball (other than an ill-fated attempt to join the volleyball team in middle school—let me tell you, the girls didn’t like me that much), I knew I was generally more athletic than the average person and was excited to play a sport and get to know people on campus through a shared activity. Although I don’t remember a second of my first practice, I left the fields that day completely hooked.

I quickly learned that despite being advertised as a sport where all genders could play equally, women were anything but equal on the field. At the time of my first regional championship (USQ National Qualifier, as the kids call it these days), the game’s meta was to hit the smallest player on the field hard enough to remove them from play. Generally speaking, this was one of the two female positions on the field. Due to the high level of physicality at the position of beater, this usually resulted in the female beater (we were still years away from Lulu Xu coining the positional terms of “engage” and “free” beater) getting hit by one of the largest men on the opposing team.

I had felt the unfairness of ill-fitting gender expectations before this moment, but never in my life had I felt actively targeted because of my gender and smaller body. Quadball made me aware of being a woman in ways I had never experienced before.

Growing Up Through Sport

Something I think many of us forget after we leave this time period is the age at which we embark on this journey. College is a time to find yourself. You’re not only asking, “What do I want to do with my life?” but also, “Who am I?”, and, most importantly, “Who do I want to be?”

So many of us are grappling with trying to find or craft our identities at ages 17-22. Whether we’re examining past trauma or learning for the first time how societal institutions have shaped our worldview and lives, college is an incredibly volatile and transitory time.

While I can tell you now that my identity falls under the umbrella term of nonbinary, genderfluid, or genderqueer, I, in truth, didn’t bother to tackle the question of my gender identity until just a few years ago. It wasn’t until after I sought therapy to deal with the aftereffects of being sexually abused as a child and living through an abusive relationship during my college years that I finally gave myself space to question.

The reality of my gender identity boils down to one thing: While I might not have seen myself as a stereotypical woman, our world socialized and treated me as a woman. Enough where I became prey to those who held power over me—men and women alike.

Changing the language I use to chart my identity doesn’t rewind the clock on the harm that has been done to me. It doesn’t erase any damage that I’ve done to others. But it did allow me to take apart and examine all the different aspects of gender with which I grew up, and pick and choose the parts that allowed me to feel like my most authentic self. It allowed me to have a choice for what felt like the first time in my life.

What It Takes to Have Pride

As I write this with the intention for it to go out during Pride Month, I can’t help but feel like a fraud. I’m writing a piece on gender, and I don’t really care what pronouns you use for me. It’s 2026 and this month is the first month I told someone out loud that I’m bisexual, despite knowing it about myself for years.

One thing that my identities of bisexual and nonbinary have in common is that they’re middling identities—which, for some reason, can make people incredibly uncomfortable. I and many like me find freedom in the grey area between the binary, but while bisexual people make up the largest percentage of LGBTQIA+ Americans, we also have the least modern-day media representation and can face scrutiny from others in the LGBTQIA+ community for having relationships that can pass as heterosexual (i.e. the recurring “Don’t bring your boyfriends to Pride” discourse). Truthfully, I can understand the merits in both these ideas, and it’s a large part of why I never identified as part of the LGBTQIA+ community. In many different ways, it wasn’t the community I needed.

In the same vein as this bisexual panic, those who identify as nonbinary are the poster child for right-wing extremists who throw the term around with a mix of hyperbolic fear-mongering to further alienate and other anyone who looks or thinks differently.

A Brief Message From Your Local AMAB

I’ve been granted permission from my life partner and husband Kobe Kendall to briefly share some of their own experiences with gender, as they have access to a perspective I can never have—being socialized as male.

Kobe was the first person I actually met who identified as nonbinary. In their own words, identifying as nonbinary was the easy choice internally, because so much of masculine identity is built around what you aren’t. “Men aren’t emotional.” “Men aren’t close with other men.” In the end, they decided to do away with the label altogether—to release the collapsed sense of self they felt as “male”—and instead adopt the freer and more open identity of nonbinary.

While they knew this role fit them, they still allowed others to take their space with their identity to make themselves feel more comfortable. Being interviewed for this piece is the first time they admitted their preferred pronouns are exclusively they/them, finally allowing themselves to drop the optional allowance of he/him they allowed to alleviate a burden on others (including myself) for years.

Kobe had what many would consider a meteoric rise in our sport. By their second year in the sport, they were in every conversation about who the “top beaters” were in the West. While Kobe knew by 19 years old that they identified as nonbinary, they also recognized the potential strategic advantage that playing as nonbinary could allow them on the field. With this in mind, they played as male for five years. As someone who knows and cares for Kobe deeply, I encouraged them to play as nonbinary for their final year in the sport.

“How poetic and how satisfying must it be to get to play a sport at such a high level as your authentic gender identity,” I thought. After all, this is what our sport is meant to be! However, it wasn’t long before we heard comments—some snide and discreet, others more direct—from people in the community, disparaging the fact that nonbinary players were “taking play time” from women on the roster.

The Weaponization of Gender

Even in our own community, the nonbinary identity is one that has been weaponized by all sides. The strategic advantage of “identifying as nonbinary” has taken over the game, regardless of whether players are authentically representing themselves as their true gender identity or otherwise.

As a sport, we spend a tremendous amount of time talking about inclusion. We talk about creating space for people of all genders to play. We talk about representation. We talk about belonging. Yet, when difficult conversations arise, gender often becomes less about lived experiences and more about what they can provide to a roster.

Too often discussions about nonbinary players aren’t actually about nonbinary people at all. They’re about competitive advantages. They’re about roster construction and who should and should not see the field. They’re about our fears regarding the decline of women participating in quadball.

The result is that nonbinary athletes are asked to carry a burden that isn’t theirs to carry.

What’s especially frustrating is that these conversations rarely take place when that same player is sitting on the bench, volunteering at tournaments, helping a struggling college team, or quietly contributing to the community. They don’t even happen when that player’s team is ranked in the bottom percentile. The scrutiny emerges when the success appears. 

As someone whose identity is housed under the nonbinary umbrella, I know that if I could play the sport today, I would identify on the field as a woman for the very simple fact that we don’t have enough women playing the sport anymore. The nuances of my personal identity do not matter to me as much as the representation of women in sports matters to me.

But at the same time, I can't help but feel infuriated when the chorus of “play your women” starts up on the sidelines the exact second a nonbinary individual (especially male-at-birth individuals) steps into play.

Nonbinary players did not create the challenges facing women in quadball. 

They didn’t create recruitment problems.

They didn’t create retention issues.

They didn’t create coaching gaps.

They didn’t create the barriers that make sports less accessible to girls in the first place.

Yet, we frequently talk about them as though they are responsible for those problems. 

It's hypocritical at best and a weaponization of gender at worst. We say we want women to play more, but what are we as the wider community doing to make that happen?

If we wanted women to play, we would create more opportunities for them to play with men and nonbinary individuals.

If we wanted women to play, we would have structured ways to give women learning opportunities to get them equal access to playing time like we say we do.

If we wanted women to play, we wouldn’t sit quietly by or actively defend men accused of sexual assault in our community.

If we wanted women to play, we wouldn’t allow anonymous forums to cyberbully women who achieve the highest accolade in our sport—making the US National Team roster—as we attack them and use their appointment to rationalize the team’s performance that cycle. 

If we want women to play, it means potentially making the sacrifice of the “easier” win or the extra hour post-practice, in order to develop our players and give them chances to grow into the best athletes they can be.

The truth is that increasing women’s participation requires investment, patience, mentorship, and cultural change. It requires us to examine our own behavior and priorities. It requires us to build something better than what currently exists.

That’s much harder than blaming nonbinary people, but it’s also the only thing that will actually work.

Better Than Those Before Us

While I don’t consider myself to have had the easiest life, I recognize the privilege with which I move through the world. The color of my skin is a currency of which I might never understand the full value. Both as an individual and through my relationship with my partner, I pass as a cis-, hetero- woman. That holds power, and that is important to recognize.

I was lucky enough to start my quadball career alongside strong women who demanded their well-deserved time on the field. I had access to men in positions of power who listened to women, and other incredible people along my path who supported, coached, and allowed me the room I needed to grow in this sport. I was naturally athletic, which meant that while I fought for playing time early on, I never wanted for playing time after I was established (and truth be told, by the end I wanted less). I will never have to deal with being treated as less than for the color of my skin or the place I grew up. Anyone with an intersection of identities of race and gender has had to learn far harsher lessons in this world.

The brutal reality of our micro-community in quadball is that we are a symptom of the macro. A symptom of a society that is gridlocked in the systemic oppression built off white supremacy, which inherently values the delegated in-group over the out-group—groups built on a false sense of racial superiority. Our wider culture is further influenced by the patriarchy and a culture that values competition, individualism, and winning at all costs as opposed to a system that rewards collaboration, protection, and belonging.

It's because of my privilege that I am writing this today.

The imposter syndrome is real, and I don’t want anyone to think I’m writing this from a place of knowing everything or even feeling confident in my identity. The reality of being genderfluid is that things change day to day. Some days, I am proud to be a woman and can’t see myself as anything other than “she”. Others, I couldn’t care less about gender. But I’ve been sitting around waiting for this conversation to happen in our community for years.

Every so often, we get closer. We have a public post about the abuse someone has quietly survived for years and the community takes action to remove them. Or someone stands up and is vulnerable enough to share their story. We have brief moments, glimmers really, where the best that we can be shines through. I want this sport to be inclusive and in order for it to be a truly inclusive place, it has to have a place for everyone, as we’re so fond of saying it does.

As young adults in the 21st century, we’ve had more than our fair share of unprecedented life experiences. It’s easy, and sometimes very tempting, to look around and wait for the adult in the room to show up and fix things for us. But the simple fact of the matter is that many of us (club players and veterans of the sport, I’m talking to you) are the adults in the room now.

We are the ones who have the social authority and life experience to decide what kind of community we want to be a part of. We are the ones the college players—and eventually youth players—are going to look up to and model themselves after.

In order for our sport to have a place for everyone—in order for us to better society while having seemingly no power over the wider culture—we have to keep trying. We have to be better than those who came before us.

Where Do We Go From Here?

As someone who couldn’t care less which pronouns you decide to use to address me, I recognize the irony in writing a piece for Pride Month. However, there is no “one size fits all” when it comes to gender expression or experience. While my gender may not be at the top of my mind day to day, one thing that is always on my mind is equal access to playing time—one of the main tenets our sport is built upon. If we want a truly inclusive sport, we have to be willing to do the work to make that happen. 

Pass the Damn Skills

Hard truth time: It’s not enough to simply pass the ball to women. Concrete skills like catching, throwing, tackling, etc. are things that can and should be taught. A player’s lack of ability to do so is a direct reflection on their coaching, not their own ability. 

Host a clinic to teach the skills men have ample access to most of their lives: Catching, throwing, tackling and taking a hit, dunking. You don’t have to know everything and you shouldn’t assume what your team needs. Take the women on your team aside and ask them 1:1 what they need help with, set up a scheduled time to teach the skills, and repeat this as often as needed. 

Notice What Already Exists

Learn to recognize the value of skills that aren’t flashy. Everyone wants the player who can take a big hit and make a sick dunk, but the player who has a high level of adaptability, who can see changes happening on the field and adjust accordingly is just as valuable. More so, in some circumstances. The ability to lead, flexibility, coachability, teamwork and communication are skills that can all be developed, but will likely make themselves known early on. Recognize and nurture those in addition to the basic hard skills like catching and throwing. 

Learn the Differences

Stop blaming nonbinary players for the issues that exist within our sport and stop thinking of nonbinary players as a bandaid fix for lazy coaching. 

Stop assuming women and nonbinary players face the same issues. They differ widely. When you're talking about women, talk about women. When you're talking about nonbinary players, talk about nonbinary players. You do not need to always include one with the other.

Stop using “non-male”. Use “women and gender non-conforming” if you must refer to both groups. If you know the genders of the people you need to refer to say “women and nonbinary players” or “women and genderfluid players” or just “women”. If you don’t know, it’s OK to ask. 

Give Women a Seat at the Table

Intentionally and thoughtfully recruit women for your team. Ask your existing ones how to better retain people like them, then do as they instruct.

Play your women. Simple, probably the easiest on this list.

Creating a Sport We Can Be Proud Of

As author and activist Prentis Hemphill states, “Social movements are born from this mix of grief, fear, love, vision and the courage it takes to change everything.”

You don’t have to be a team leader or a head coach to implement any of the previously mentioned items. Our community is made up of many people, and we all have a chance to reach out to a struggling or overlooked player and make a difference to them. At the end of the day, the simplest way to be a changemaker in the community is this: Ask questions, be curious, and care about others. 

In quadball, we have a lot of problems and no one of us is perfect. But through all these trials, one thing that has been consistent since the beginning is the community we can build through this sport. I lived in the “quadball house” on campus. My college teammates were my closest friends through one of the hardest times I’ve faced. Even when I uprooted my life to move across the country, I turned to the quadball community to find my place in a new state. I ended up marrying my best friend, who also happens to be the last beater partner I had in the sport. Our wedding party was filled with our closest friends, who we played with on the same club team. That these experiences are not singular to my life only further shows the value of the community we can make when we find our people through this sport.

I understand the insanity of asking a community made up of people in their 20s and 30s to create a system that operates in equity when our own wider society can’t even figure it out. But this is the task before us.

It’s going to be hard, and it’s going to be messy. We will stumble, and we will fail. None of us are perfect, and there will be growing pains as there have been before. But quadball, as a community, was built by the dreamers and by those who created a sense of belonging in sports for people who had no other place to belong. If anyone can figure it out, why not us? After all, it can’t possibly be harder than learning to run with a broom between your legs.