Atlanta United's Rainbow Laces Campaign Returns

Atlanta United's locker room will look different for one weekend this fall. Rainbow laces will thread through cleats. Armbands in pride colors will wrap around wrists. The captain's band itself might glow in shades that wouldn't have been imaginable in professional soccer a decade ago. The club's Rainbow Laces campaign is coming back, and it's worth paying attention to—not because it's trendy, but because it's one of the few moments in Atlanta's sports landscape where LGBTQ visibility isn't treated as a sidebar or an afterthought. It's central. It's planned. It's official. Rainbow Laces began in 2013 as a grassroots campaign in England, started by a sports journalist named Lace Up, who wanted to push back against homophobia in soccer. The idea was simple: wear rainbow laces, make a statement, start a conversation. Over the years, it evolved into an organized global movement. Now, every November, professional clubs across the world—from the Premier League to MLS—participate. Some do it quietly. Some, like Atlanta United, lean into it. Atlanta United's participation isn't new, but it's notable. The club has made a pattern of showing up for LGBTQ supporters and players. This isn't the kind of corporate pride performance that happens in June and disappears by July. This is a club that has integrated LGBTQ visibility into its actual sporting calendar, its merchandise, its stadium operations. During Rainbow Laces weekend, the Mercedes-Benz Stadium experience itself shifts—from the way games are announced to the way fans are welcomed in the stands. What makes this different from what you'll read in national sports outlets is the specificity of what Atlanta United is building locally. While outlets like The Advocate and Queerty cover Pride moments with a national lens, what's happening at Mercedes-Benz Stadium is granular, sustained, and rooted in the actual Atlanta fan base. There are LGBTQ supporters' clubs within the Atlanta United community. There are conversations happening in bars on Midtown streets about soccer and identity. There are kids in Atlanta neighborhoods seeing professional athletes—people they watch every week—openly supporting queer causes. The campaign typically runs during a specific match, which becomes a focal point for LGBTQ fans from across Georgia and the Southeast. Supporters travel from Savannah, from Chattanooga, from smaller towns in Alabama and the Carolinas. For many of them, it's one of the few times they can be openly queer at a major sporting event without feeling like they're taking a risk. Atlanta's sports culture has long been complicated when it comes to LGBTQ inclusion. The Braves, the Hawks, the Falcons—these are institutions that matter deeply to the city, but they've moved slowly on visibility. Atlanta United, by comparison, has been more deliberate. That deliberation matters. It sends a signal that the club sees its LGBTQ fans not as a demographic to acknowledge once a year, but as part of the foundation of who the team is. The logistics of Rainbow Laces weekend are worth understanding. Players don't just wear the laces on a whim. There's coordination with the league, with sponsors, with the club's official merchandise partners. The stadium's graphics team designs graphics. Social media teams prepare content. It's an institutional commitment, which is different from a player making an individual statement. It's the difference between one person holding a sign and an entire organization handing out the markers. For LGBTQ fans in Atlanta, there's also a practical element to this. Soccer, unlike football or basketball in America, has a particular culture around fan identity. Supporters' groups are organized, vocal, and visible. They create the atmosphere in the stadium. When Rainbow Laces weekend happens, those supporters' groups are part of the statement. They're not spectators to inclusion; they're architects of it. The campaign also exists in a specific moment. Across the country, there's been a coordinated effort to restrict LGBTQ visibility in sports, from high school athletics to professional leagues. There are bills in various states designed to limit how teams can acknowledge queer fans and players. Against that backdrop, a major professional sports organization in the Southeast choosing to make a visible, organized statement matters more than it might have five or ten years ago. It's not neutral. It's a choice. Atlanta United's rainbow laces aren't a solution to homophobia in sports or society. They're not going to end discrimination or erase the real dangers that LGBTQ people face. But they do something specific: they make a public institution—one that matters to thousands of people—say clearly that queer people belong here. They create a moment where a kid from a conservative town in rural Georgia can sit in a stadium and see professional athletes wearing the same colors they've been afraid to wear themselves. That's local. That's specific. That's worth showing up for. Rainbow Laces weekend is coming. Check Atlanta United's schedule and mark the date. The laces will be on the boots. The armbands will be on the arms. The statement will be made. And for one weekend, Mercedes-Benz Stadium becomes a space where queer Atlanta can be fully, publicly itself—not despite the sport being played there, but because of an institution that decided to make room for it.