On Friday nights at the Salvation Army gym in White Center, the thud of basketballs is replaced with the sound of Reggaeton.
Players trickle in and greet each other with hugs. As they lace up their court shoes they ask each other how their week has been, how an injury they’ve been nursing is coming along or how their family is. Some see each other every week, others come sporadically. Fio Bazo assesses the turnout and forms teams of five. Once there are two teams, Bazo puts six-minutes on the scoreboard and Friday night futsal begins.
Compared to a regular full-field game, futsal is played on a court with five players on each team and a heavier ball that doesn’t bounce as much. Its origins go back nearly a century in South America. The sport has caught on in recent decades as a more accessible indoor option since it is typically played on a basketball court.
“The way I define [futsal] is, like glorified street soccer,” Fio Bazo said. “You get better quicker, because you get the ball so much faster and so many more times that your body has no choice but to react faster.”
It’s the kind of soccer Bazo grew up playing – on hard surfaces with an emphasis on speed of play and technical skills.
“Soccer is just as much a part of the culture in Peru as is politics and religion,” Bazo said.
Growing up, weekends were for soccer. Bazo remembers going to tournaments with her uncle and brothers, where she’d enjoy a weekend centered around her favorite pastime.
“I just thought that was like, normal life and when I came here and I had none of that,” Bazo said. “I kept on waiting for it and it never happened, so I’m like, do I have to do this myself?”
In 2016, Bazo and her partner, Ashlee Henderson, started to organize futsal tournaments and drop-ins. Until then, the couple played at Ballard Community Center, but found playing with men frustrating.
“They don’t pass the ball as much, and it’s just harder to play with, it’s a different vibe,” Bazo said. “So we just wanted to start futsal for women.”
Two years later, Bazo and Henderson launched Queen City – a futsal league that promised to offer more than soccer.
To start, they opened the league to men as well, but with a caveat. Teams could only have one man on the court at all times besides their goalkeeper, in an effort to keep the majority of players women.
“The rhythm of the game completely changed. It was six women on the court with two men, basically. And then that was a real shift that, honestly, everyone loved,” Bazo said.
After a successful first season they had enough players to form a women’s league. For a year and a half, Queen City has cultivated community across the league – something other leagues across the region don’t do. They’d post player spotlights on Instagram and host afterparties to encourage connection. Then the pandemic paused everything.
When COVID restrictions eased, Bazo and Henderson organized masked futsal sessions. The return was slow and restarting a 10-team league wasn’t immediately possible. They decided to focus instead on a weekly, pick-up game specifically for women and nonbinary players. Cis-men were welcome to be goalkeepers but that’s it.
Many players from the original league joined these weekly pick-up games, along with some new folks who discovered Queen City post-pandemic. The group varies between 15 and 20 players, who range in age from being in high school to in their 60s. For many, Friday night futsal has become a ritual.
“I feel like if I don’t show up on Friday, my week won’t start well,” said Mireya Olmos, who is from Zacatecas, Mexico, and didn’t start playing soccer until she moved to Seattle in her 20s.
“If you play soccer, then you’re behaving like a man and that was not acceptable,” Olmos said of her hometown experience. “So when I knew about soccer in Seattle, I was so surprised, like wait, women are free to play?”
Bazo recalled her own experience in Peru, playing with the boys since there weren’t any girls who played. Although Queen City has high schoolers who’ve been playing since they were 6-years-old as well as semi-pro players who drop-in, Bazo emphasized how important it was that the space is for everyone regardless of skill.
“Every Friday, every time that I got the opportunity to play soccer, for me, it’s like the World Cup, you know? That’s how amazing it feels, because it was unbelievable to be able to do this,” Olmos said.
In September, Bazo and Henderson launched a new project, an offshoot of Queen City, called “Mijas,” [me-EE-has]. Which means “my daughter” and in Mexican Spanish can be used between friends as a term of endearment — something the couple picked up from Olmos and her partner who use the term for each other. It’s like pals calling each other “bro” or a female friend group calling each other “my girls.”
“Mija, at least for me, it’s really endearing, but it’s also like how the community cares about each other,” Henderson said. “It’s like we have each other’s back, and we’re connected in that way of like you would say to your daughter, how you care about them, how you’ll support them, how you’ll always be there.”
Unlike Queen City, Mijas will be more expansive. Bazo and Henderson have been working on a documentary and zine featuring local figures in the women’s soccer community.
“Rather than revive Queen City, we really wanted to focus on offering fun soccer experiences for women with tournaments and mini leagues,” Bazo said.
Mijas is a reflection of Bazo’s upbringing where soccer was more than just sport, but part of the culture. To kick things off, the couple hosted a tournament on Capitol Hill. Reggaeton blasted from the rooftop of the Northwest School and banners lined the field reading “soccer is our culture.”
“I want to show people that you don’t just have to sign up for a league and play for a team, and that’s soccer,” Bazo said. “Soccer is having fun with your friends and family in an event, it’s watch parties, it’s fun little tournaments. Soccer is part of it, but the other part of it is, the prizes, the giveaways, the pictures – the fun around it.”
Teams snacked on chips and sipped agua fresca as they waited for their games. Spouses, friends and children of players cheered from the sideline. This is what Bazo was waiting for – a space where soccer was part of the culture and the culture was soccer. It’s something she desperately hopes others pick up on and encourages them to start their own thing.
“There’s so much untapped potential that I wish people could tap into,” Bazo said. “Starting a pickup night, which has been the most valuable and the most successful I’ve ever felt – building this community – it’s not that hard. Put out the call, bring two homies, and then they can tell other people, and then, little by little, it’ll grow.”
