What Comes After Blokecore
The door is closing on indoor soccer-chic
Microtrends are to New York as the Norovirus is to a cruise ship. The spread is inevitable and violent. The origin is unidentifiable, but it doesn’t matter. Everybody’s saying fondue night was to blame just like everybody made the first Tik Tok coining the phrase “Tomato Girl Summer,” but the result is so massive, whether or not it started with bread dipped in hot cheese could not matter less.
We all want to know exactly who we are. And even more than that, we want to tell you. This the lifeblood of a healthy trend cycle — our insatiable desire to affirm our personalities, our affiliations, the memes we think are funny and the restaurants we like with every new shoe or bag or shirt we wear (for Tomato Girls, maybe a cropped white tee with cans of tinned fish on the nipples). In a city wherein we have a million mini interactions a day, we have to use every one to say something about ourselves as quickly as possible. (Look at my Salter House bloomers! Yes I do also have those small cherub-shaped molds for my butter.)
Some trends burn hot and fast — mob wife and coquette and cottage-core have already subsumed each other in a beautiful rat king. But throughout the bows and Gardenheir clogs, one signifier has remained a north star. No matter what, everybody wants look like they play indoor soccer.
Sambas are our glimmering beacon. As recognizable a symbol as the cross or the middle finger. I think they’re a pretty technically perfect shoe. The silhouette is sleek and sexy in a way that makes your foot look like it really takes care of itself, there’s a colorway for every personality (unless you, like me, have Wales Bonner collab taste on a Not Wales Bonner collab budget). They possess the chameleonic power to complement everything you could want to wear, bringing a sort of “let’s just get beers!” vibe to an otherwise prudish antique lace shift dress, a “this is for me, not for you” quality to an ass-hugging silk skirt.
The Samba (with the help of her sister, Gazelle) in its pervasive perfection has laid a ground so fertile, so rich, that it’s borne a whole trend around it. In a post-athleisure revolution, our appropriation of sportswear has evolved from off-duty to on the pitch. Joggers and hoodies have been supplanted by game-day uniforms. Trainers have given way to full kit, and “blokecore” has become nearly ubiquitous, too.
Jerseys have all the makings of a perfect trend. Necessarily, they’re replete with signifiers. They’re our new band tee, with an equivalent, twofold appeal. First: Everybody loves a big font, especially when the words and letters don’t otherwise mean anything. Guns & Roses & ACDC = blah blah blah FC. And second: In wearing them, you project your affiliation with an entire subculture, instantly — “¡olé!” and all that, and, most importantly, exactly the “I’m European” air on which Le Dive is capitalizing.
It started with the genuine articles, snatched from Ebay. But what I’ve loved so much is watching designers and brands take jerseys, coopted for fashion, and coopt them even further. Palard makes the jersey of your dreams for a team that doesn’t exist, technically gorgeous because they’re not beholden to any pre-ordained palette and they don’t have to put “Fly Emirates” across the chest. Conner Rives takes vintage football (British!!) jerseys and shirs them to perfection. The result makes me literally drool and I’ve been signed up for restock notifications for months. And in a complete snake-eating-tail twist, Full Kit Wankers source vintage jerseys and PRINT BAND NAMES ON THEM.
But this boom of productivity is bittersweet, because I believe it can only mean that blokecore is coming to a close. Before it ends, I think Umbro shorts will have a last gasp (I have three pairs. I am wearing my blue ones right now. You are welcome). I think there’s still juice in the Americana contingent, proven by Relax Lacrosse’s perfect mesh, Bathsheva’s repurposed hockey jerseys, and genius Ruby Redstone’s custom vintage merch. But it’s time for a new beacon of sportswear style. My vote? It’s tour de fashion. Goodbye blokecore, hello bikes.
I can’t believe it had never occurred to me before, given that every time I see another hardo (with love) road biker in Prospect Park I think “hello, gorgeous,” not only for their toned legs but also for their body-hugging kit. The bike shirt is a silhouette so tailor-made for appropriation from the fashion set. A gorgeous high neck, a quarter-zip front for choose-your-own-adventure immodesty, exposed seams that accentuate the shapeliness of your torso, and all the graphic appeal of its forebearers.
I canvassed my sources* (*my cousin Charlie who owns a bike shop) for both his blessing and his brand recommendations, and my Ebay search was so fruitful it brought tears to my eyes. This is how the first prospectors must have felt during the Gold Rush. Here I was, sticking my cupped hands in the lazy river and bringing them up full of jackpot.
I’ll be taking my cousin’s advice and wearing them layered over a puffy white blouse, paired with my tiered petticoat-ish skirt, and yeah, tucked into my Salter House bloomers. Y’all can go ahead and draft off me, now. Join my peloton.
ALD S/S 23 did Roadie core and I thought it was about to happen for guys with smooth legs and weird tan lines
Buon giorno, Papa!