I used to jam my own locker in high school so that I'd have to go to the janitor's office instead of attend the living hell known as gym class. The janitors would let me squeeze into the custodian’s closet with them on their snack breaks, providing me with an opportunity to avoid the inevitable humiliation that accompanied my complete lack of hand-eye coordination and athletic prowess.

Many of us grew up with an intense fear of gym class, particularly dodgeball—or “smear the queer,” as it was lovingly referred to if the gym teacher was out of earshot. But thanks to leagues popping up across the country, LGBT urbanites are reclaiming a sport that was once the bane of our existence. Competitive dodgeball has become a different experience for gay adults, an opportunity for self-discovery and, in some cases, even some hands-on discovery with other players.

On a recent Thursday night, the teams in the popular WeHo Dodgeball League are warming up before a game at the West Hollywood Recreation Center. The gym is flooded with costumes: Some players are just wearing team t-shirts, but others are dressed like Pokemon and Care Bears, and a few are wearing nothing more than sparkly Speedos. The screech of tennis shoes across the floor takes me back to junior high—except this time, it's not so scary. In fact, it's a little exhilarating.

In a standard match, two teams face off in as many rounds as they can manage in 45 minutes. All the standard schoolyard rules apply: catching a ball eliminates the player who threw it, and you’re allowed to use a ball to block an oncoming ball from hitting you. But the speed of the ball whipping through the air is much more intense when it’s coming from adult arms.

When the timer goes off, both teams line up to shake hands with their opponents, and it’s clear there’s no bad blood. Instead, everyone seems just happy to be together, sharing an experience with players they have a common bond with.

The WeHo Dodgeball League offers a unique alternative to the bar scene, but the two activities—dodging balls and downing booze—aren’t entirely mutually exclusive. Teams meet up afterward for a post-game round at Gym Sports Bar, which sponsors the league.

Aside from making friends, players also give back to the community: WeHo Dodgeball holds clothing drives and players often volunteer for AIDS/LifeCycle events. But it's the freedom of its members to explore their sexuality that may be the greatest victory of the social sport.

Alex Claud says he met his core circle of friends through dodgeball, and even entered into a relationship with another teammate. What's more, he credits the bonds he forged with his dodgeball "family" with giving him the courage to come out.

Although Claud, 25, experimented with guys in college, it wasn’t until he joined the league—and was surrounded by other gay men in a fun, nonsexual environment—that he felt comfortable being himself. “All my friends [in the league] were gay, or if they weren’t, they were super-allies,” he says. “It was the first time I really felt genuinely 100% comfortable to actually just exist in this world. And just be myself.”

Building a community is a powerful thing: League founder Jake Mason says he knows of some straight players who have hooked up with other guys, even though it didn't alter their core sense of their sexual orientation.

“At its best, it hits this level where everyone is just so—not sexually fluid, but kind of socially sexually fluid," he says. "Where you can’t tell, [and] it doesn’t matter.”

Not all of the 600 members of the WeHo Dodgeball League are comfortable with that openness, however. Some members have argued it shouldn't be open to straight people at all.

“I’ve found that most of the time [those players] don’t even want the 'B' or the 'L.' They want [the league to be] all guys,” Mason explains. “I’ve actually had a lot of complaints about that from some people, mostly the older generation. The younger generation doesn’t care.”

League manager Ale Bustamante, who is straight, is glad to be included—and says it's inspired her to be a more vocal ally for equality.

“I had gay friends, but I was never included in all the festivities," she says. "But when I came here, it was such a welcoming presence that it made me feel very secure in our friendships. It made me fight harder for everything that the LGBT community was fighting for.”

Another straight player had an even more eye-opening experience: As a conservative 20-something from Montana, Nate Kreiter says it was something of a shock to see flamboyant men playing sports in Speedos and suspenders. But other players were immediately welcoming, he recalls.

Sometimes overly so.

“As the new guy, I was getting some looks and some flirting was going on. Once they found out I was straight, the flirting got a bit harder because maybe they weren’t sure how straight I actually was,” he jokes. “But then they got to know me, and me them, and we just became friends. Now, it doesn’t matter that I’m straight and they're gay. We're just teammates, friends.”

Kreiter credits the league with changing his conservative mindset. He now struggles to understand such fearful and ignorant attitudes towards gay people, and, like Bustamente, feels empowered to fight for LGBT rights all the harder.

That's part of why Claud doesn’t see the inclusion of straight players as a bad thing, but rather a blessing.

“Honestly, that’s one of my favorite parts. Growing up in the South...everyone who is straight kind of felt like the enemy a little bit. I always felt like I couldn’t be myself,” he says. "Here, anyone who’s a straight ally, I love them ten times more."

So dodgeball, the very game that once put fear in the hearts of little gay boys everywhere, is now uniting them with the very straight men they feared, while also providing them with hookups and a sense of belonging. And if that’s not worth having balls whipped at your face a couple nights a week, I don’t know what is.