The Post-discipline Issue

They landed in Milan like a sudden summer storm. Hot, electric, full of noise. Fashion week, but nothing was really happening. NYC-based collective/brand/vibe Homerun, known for turning sweat into style and style into letters, posted up in the city for a week-long takeover with Mental Athletic. An unbragged-about series of workouts and street-level activations, featuring cult juice lord Tom’s Juice, local anomalies rodeo clown, video wizards NO TEXT, the sharpest gallery in town Milliony Arlekina, the ever-elusive legends from CTO and many others. A loose constellation of names.

You don’t need a primer on Homerun. They’ve already been in your feed, your group chats, maybe even your wardrobe. What stood out most, though, wasn’t the merch, the buzz, or the crowd around the block. It was the energy. Clear-eyed, clean-burning, contagious. The kind that doesn’t just light up a room, it organizes one. In the subcultural spillover zone where graffiti, design, art, music, and everything in between used to mean staying up all night and burning out by 30, something’s shifted. The same kids who once chain-smoked through underground gallery openings are now linking up at 7am for stair sprints. Movement has become the new chaos: precise, deliberate, unignorable, hardcore.

For Homerun and the wider world they circle in — the one where artists are athletes and athletes are artists — sport isn’t self-care. It’s self-construction. An act of authorship. You train not to escape your demons, but to spar with them. Repetition becomes revelation. Technique becomes texture. What happened in Milan wasn’t an event. It was a field test. Of bodies, of bonds, of how fast a community can coagulate around the shared joy of doing something hard, together, without a name on it. It wasn’t about branding or broadcasting. It was about building. With sweat. With trust. With timing.

There’s no need to mythologize it, but something real happened. The discipline hits different now.