Societal Satire in Shorts
They See Me Rolling
S. G. Lacey
GR8 SK8 K8 [#8]:
As I watch the stadium clock tick down, I take note of each 10 second cadence. However, not on the traditional zeros, but instead every time a symmetrical “8” is displayed on the neon-green, light-illuminated, digital clock which sits adjacent to the track. Timing awareness is a critical element of being a successful roller derby jammer.
Currently, this device is monitoring the remaining duration in the warm-up session. While all the players have been mingling randomly on the track, stretching their legs and warming their wheels, soon the atmosphere will become decidedly more organized, and combative. Our team is making one last loop around the arena as a full squad of 15, pumping up both the crowd and ourselves. Now, the timer shows we’re just seconds away from the start of this epic match.
Another key trait is an innate confidence, which some perceive as arrogance, and others composure. It’s amazing how fans from both teams can interpret the same series of events in completely different ways. As such, the only interaction which motivates me more than a cheering supporter is a swearing dissident, most of which have no idea how this complicated game is played.
My mental fetish with the number 8, essentially an infinity sign rotated vertically, is a nod to my own perpetually motor on the track. I can out breath, out maneuver, and out skill anyone on this smooth, flat oval. Sometimes, in this line of work, I even need to evade my own teammates.
The seemingly simple amalgamation of consonants and numerals on the back of my jersey pays homage to my Russian heritage. Two and a half centuries ago, this powerful namesake leader was presiding over one of the largest domains in the world. Fortunately, I’ve been blessed with the lanky frame, and savvy mind, both traits which led to Catherine’s success as a ruler in the late 1700’s. These same characteristics are of equal value in a roller derby context.
I treat performance on the track like a dance, albeit a jarring and violent display. Think ballet combined with rugby.
My outfit exudes this same combination of finesse and power. As part of the Las Vegas High Rollers squad, there’s no shortage for avenues for inspiration.
My long legs are adorned with fishnet stockings, one gold, the other black, with my pasty white skin visible through the innumerable diamond-shaped holes in the mesh. My right skate is metallic reflective silver; this look is accomplished by a reflective foil tape covering which I meticulously applied over the complex contours of the shoe. My left skate remains in its original black leather form, aside from the red stiletto shoe profile which I’ve painted on the outside of the upper.
Jewelry is not a wise choice for the rough and tumble jostling of the roller derby rink. Instead, I’m wearing sleek satin gloves, again one gold and the other black, which cover both my thin hands and my bulky wrist guards. These color-matched appendage treatments, combined with our team-issued uniforms of the same flashy hues, provide a unique image, half gothic knight and half exotic dancer.
While this attire would be absurd in normal daily context, my curated wardrobe is mundane in roller derby parlance. This sport is personified by the colorful characters who risk their bodies each match, and take as much pride in their visual expression as their physical craft.
I’m pulled back into the present by the sound of my stage name being piped through the impressive stadium speakers. The bombing voice of the announcer elongates the last rhyming syllable in each word of my clever title. I can’t help but smile at the big stage I’ve been placed on.
Simultaneously, the scoreboard timer resets to zeros, basically 8’s missing their center light bar in digital clock format, signifying the match is about to begin. The dull ambient roar in the arena transitions to a whispered hum of anticipation.
I nudge up to the jammer line, my stiletto-embellished skate raised so just the heel wheels are in the track, with my tall body’s posture tilted back slightly, and my black gloved arm reaching forward to maintain the balance required for this visually striking starting stance.
Right on queue, a short whistle burst from the referee signifies the start of the jam. Instantly, I’m moving, transitioning from this delicate vertical pose to a much lower linear lunge. The leverage provided by long legs propels my body forward, while my arms reach for the air in front of me.
Getting off the line quickly is critical. I can figure out the rest of the plan later. During the next several seconds, the entire scene around me transforms from tranquil stoicism to complete chaos. Changing forward, I’m immediately by resistance, in the form of large blockers on the other team.
I look around, trying to spot my opposing jammer. This individual is the player who I must be acutely focused on, as our relative position dictates the scoring. My opponent for this jam is exceedingly short, almost impossible to find when hidden amongst the massive bodies of the blockers on both squads.
Through the commotion, I briefly able to detect the tell-tale cloth-covered helmet, adorned with a large star which denotes jammer status, in this case a white symbol on a purple background. I know my own helmet sheath has a similar star logo, bright gold against matte black, which matches the rest of our team’s outfit.
Content that my opponent is bottled up as desired, I make my move. Considering the quartet of big-boned ladies in front on me, this seemingly impenetrable wall of thick muscles and purple spandex is going to require all my skills. One move at a time is the trick.
I shift down to the inside of the track, making sure to distinctly bump against a few of the bulky backsides as I move, so that they are all acutely aware of my position shift. As expected, the group slides left with me, effectively blocking any passing opportunity along the inner rail. We’re almost stagnant at this point, near the apex of the turn. A perfect setup.
Pushing off aggressively with my left leg, the quarter of wheels perpendicular to my body’s motion, I’m able to move rapidly right, towards the outside of the track. My right leg, rotated in the desired direction of travel, hits the ground and rolls smoothly forward.
The opposing blockers, sensing the disappearance of my physical presence behind them, simultaneously turn their heads to locate me. Fortunately, the outer obstacle, who was furthest from my position a second ago, briefly let her guard down, so is the slowest to act.
With a pair for powerful skate strokes, amplifying the momentum and direction my body already has, I’m clear of the end and can see open track ahead of me. Again, my long frame is beneficial, as the golden arm extends out to subtly constrain the pursuers, thus providing me an open path forward. Such hand actions push the borders of legality, but as long as I don’t make a grabbing motion with my fingers, I’m in the good side of the law.
Now for the next part of my strategy. Being a jammer relies on anticipating what your opponents are going to do, and executing evasive maneuvers accordingly. Seeing my outside pass of her teammates, the best blocker, known as the pivot, will inevitably act. She was the inside portion of the wall, and therefore still has a positional advantage on me due to the shorter arc of the track.
I’m sure she will accelerate quickly, moving forward and up the turn, to head me off. Just as predicted, I see this monstrous madam barreling towards me as I race around the outside. Considering her speed and girth, it quickly becomes clear the previously wide window has closed. However, having disposed of her helpers, this now a one-on-one battle.
A split second before impact, based on our converging trajectories, I jam my left skate down perpendicular to the direction of travel for the second stint in this choreographed sequence. The first instance was to generate momentum. This time the goal is to halt it.
Here, my tall frame is my enemy, as my head and shoulders desperately want to keep moving forward. Fortunately, I’m able to arrest the body lean before I topple into my oncoming combatant. My motion quickly shifts from translational to rotational, pirouetting around single fixed point of the rubber brake on the toe of my right skate, which becomes a silvery mounting hub.
While the pivot continues up the track towards a planned intercept, I’m now moving down to the open inside of the ring. We brush arms, traveling in opposite directions, but I’m clear of the torso and upper legs which constitute a legal block.
As I cleanly clear the pack, a pair of shrill whistles from the head referee denotes me a lead jammer. A very desirable position for me, and my team.
All the tracks we perform on are flat as opposed to banked. This means that any wooden court, concrete floor, athletic mats, or paved lot can theoretically be used. Granted, some surfaces are much better than others for facilitating smooth wheel motion.
During the regular season, for most practices and even some scrimmages, we end up using any flat expanse which is available at the allotted time. Even in the mid-summer desert heat, we’ve participated in buildings without air conditioning. Often, we utilize facilities not meant for roller derby, applying the required lines with tape when we arrive, and removing any trace of these markings when we leave.
Fortunately, for the World Championships, only the nation’s elite venues are in the running to host. As such, I find myself gliding effortlessly along a perfectly smooth, precisely marked, track. It’s a glorious feeling, especially when in the lead, with only open space ahead of me.
Rounding the track at a rapid rate, I focus on taking the optimal line. Counterintuitively, this is not simply tracking around the direct inside of the oval, but instead using the width of the straightaways to generate a smoother trajectory. In addition to the geometric efficiency of this near-circular path, the increased radius mitigates the inherent instability of these traditional quad-wheel roller skates. Unlike low-friction bearing, aligned-wheel inline skates meant for racing, my current footwear is designed for stability as opposed to speed.
Along my journey, I spot another of the many conveniently placed clocks. Appropriately, it reads 0:58 seconds. This must be an omen. Each jam lasts up to 2 minutes. It took me nearly half the allotted time to evade my opponents, but now I have an opportunity to rack up some points.
Each opponent I pass from here on out adds another tally our total score. If I can get back around quickly, I may be able to engage before the purple wall can reform. This round turns out to be easy. Barely needing to slow down, I bob and weave through the pack at will, in a deft display of dystopian dance.
As I make my third successful escape of the jam, I hear raucous cheering from the crowd. Initially, I assume they are celebrating my own achievements, but a closer scan of the masses as I rush past them shows many individuals yelling represent the opposing squad.
Arcing around the tight oval, I glance back and see the real cause of the commotion. The other team’s jammer has finally cleared the pack, for the first time, and is motoring towards me. I know from past match-ups that this girl, while short in stature, is incredibly fast on the open track. A glance at another of the ever-present clocks around the ring, which displays 1:48 seconds, confirms my strategy.
Rising from my skating crouch, I touch my hands to my waist, and my actions are immediately acknowledge by 4 short whistle blasts from the referee. 8 points for the Las Vegas High Rollers. A good start indeed.
As the officials bring the proceedings to an end, and update the scoreboard to reflect the tallies for the first jam of the match, the crowd roars, half in approval, and half in disgust. Roller derby fans are very eccentric and passionate, nearly as committed as the athletes themselves. At least this representative mix, as opposed to the decidedly non-partisan, home-biased, mob we had to contend with during yesterday’s match.
Feeding off the throng, I nod my head in an exaggerated demonstration of satisfaction, causing a pair of braided blonde pigtails to bob vigorously from the sides of my helmet. This clunky but mandated headgear is currently adorned with a huge gold pentagram, on a black background. I appreciated the irony of the successful symbolism, like when the English teacher in elementary school put a similar shiny gold star on my spelling test as I strived to master this second language.
Combative banter, both on and off the track, is what makes this the most engaging and amusing pursuit of my life. As I glide over the bench, a complex mix of cheers and jeers reign down.
They see me rolling. They hating.
THEY CALL ME . . . BIG FUN [#2.5]:
Standing between the only two radial lines which bisect this oval track, I take stock of my position. Positioning is everything in this sport.
The thick neon orange line, just a few feet behind me, is easily visible on the textured dark brown base of the carefully laid floor tiles. Each seam is mechanically interlocked and perfectly smooth, creating an ideal flat and grippy surface for skating. Well off in the distance, over 30 feet way, on the far end of the straightaway, is a similar vertical marking.
The length of these lines is subtlety different, the nearer 15 feet wide, the further 13 feet. This layout, unknown to most viewers, and even some of the less-experienced derby participants, is a key element of the sport.
This tapered runway, where the action starts each jam, inevitable dictates the action and scoring. The trapezoidal shape creates a funnel, condensing and jostling the pack as it enters the first turn. With the jammer line just behind me, and the pivot line well off in the distance, this zone is the crux of the entire game, both physically and metaphorically.
The name for both of these two starting lines is quite apt. Like roller derby as a whole, these denotations juxtapose the constant struggle between offense and defense, jammers and pivots, success and failure.
While I’m still a large woman, the diversity of skills required to play roller derby at an elite level has definitely improved my health and wellness. Though skating is understandably a key part of the sport, I enjoy the full-body exertion which our diversified training regimen provides. Roller derby requires a unique combination of athletic skills: strength and speed, pace and patience, aerobic and anerobic.
As such, we utilize a wide range of training activities. Full team tug of wars, sumo ring wrestling pitting dissimilar body types against each other, weight training despite limited equipment resources, extensive yoga and stretching to develop the core.
This variety of workouts makes each practice different, and keeps me excited about exercising. I don’t know what I would be doing with all the free time which would be available if I wasn’t playing roller derby, but I’m highly confident that I wouldn’t be as health as I am today.
My nickname is a combination of several physical attributes; some obvious and visual, others completely unknown to the common observer.
First, there’s my build, a Samoan heritage, diet, and metabolism conspiring to keep my body weight above 200 pounds since my 13th birthday. Another tangible element of my genetic profile is the deft balance and delicate footwork I possess, despite my hefty stature. There’s a reason my two older brothers are also elite athletes, in football and mixed martial arts accordingly.
The more obscure element of my moniker ties into my bubbly, perpetually social, demeanor, combined with a debatably addictive attachment to 90’s rap. There’s always some hip-hop bumping as we prepare for a match, but my callsign is an ode to one of my favorite artists, who would have been a mean roller derby blocker, in a different life, and form.
My uniform # is obligatory humor, tracking my general weight in the stereotypical deuce, deuce and a half, format. There were a few blind dates in my past where I would have loved to sit on such judgmental characters. Now secure and confident in my body, I’m able to laugh at these likely insecure males.
While we have some standardization to our uniforms, there’s still plenty of opportunity for artistic freedom. Basic jerseys, encompassing stretchy mid-thigh shorts and a loose tank top, are donned by every player. Considering the wide range of physiques represented on most roller derby teams, especially our Las Vegas squad, the basic outfit needs to be pretty simple and accommodative.
After incorporating these vague core requirements, the rest of the wardrobe is fair game. Considering my large physique, I push this optionality to the limits.
My tournament accoutrements are based around one of the most amusing elements of Las Vegas culture. Weddings. Though I’m happily married, to a supportive young Puerto Rican lad who’s undoubtably raucously cheering somewhere in the crowd, I still enjoy keeping up with bridal trends.
Today, I’ve donned dainty, plush gloves, tall, tight-fitting socks, my shiniest vinyl roller skates, and of course, a pair of garter belts. The girth of my thighs, around which these lacy rings are stretched, makes these loops more appropriate as a belt for the average-sized woman.
In true wedding fashion, all these items are stark white in color. This hue selection is bold, in a violent sport, where black scuff marks, yellow sweat stains, and red blood drops, required constant cleaning. A sacrifice I’m comfortably willing to make in pursuit of maintain my amusing persona.
Taking stock of my outfit, and my position, one last time, I, like all 10 individuals currently on the track, wait for the anticipatory starting whistle. This shrill retort comes right on cue, and my entire body starts moving instinctively.
Blocking is all about collaborative teamwork, in contrast with jamming, which is a decidedly individual effort. Formulated through countless hours of practice, we have a foundational aligned strategy, with countless adaptations based on the behaviors of our solo opponent.
The action progresses in fits and starts, as it often does early in a match, with both teams feeling out each other’s strengths and weaknesses.
A jammer’s bold foray, easily countered by a cooperative blocker rebuttal. A stalled pack, defined as all skaters who remain upright and inbounds, tightly bunched within 10 feet of each other. A momentary lapse on defense, which provides a glimmer of hope to the offensive. A general sense of fatigue, as this physical jam grinds on.
By rule, we are all motivated to maintain the primary grouping, since moving just 20 feet ahead, or falling 20 feet behind, without reasonable justification, risks being penalized. All skaters, aside from an escaping jammer, must stay in this defined but dynamic region, deemed the “engagement zone”.
The sport of roller derby thrives on close quarters, constant contact, and quick collusion to keep the action lively, and the fans engaged.
I use all of the available tools afforded to me, including the robust physique I’m endowed with, the individual skills each of my blocker teammates possess, and the oft-liberal interpretation of the rules. There’s a fine line between a fair flummoxing, and an illegal imposition.
My unique combination of hulking size and catlike reflexes allow me to get away with more questionable maneuvers than most.
Right on queue, through my peripheral vision, I catch the telltale streak of a moving jammer on my right. As the outside piece of the formation, it’s my job to ensure this rouge element isn’t able to sneak past me. Seemingly magically, I glide right, while simultaneously alerting my adjacent teammate to shift as well, with a skillful nudge of the hips.
Moving as a unit is key, to avoid gaps in the wall. We’re not allowed to interlock appendages, be they feet or arms, so more subtle communication methods are required. Our impenetrable barrier must be dynamic and fluid, as opposed to static and rigid.
I have confidence my partner will execute the same non-verbal communication with the other colleagues downstream. Now, my singular focus is to close the gap on the outside of the track. Fortunately, this is one of my specialties. I lean forward with my broad shoulders, establishing first position in the lane. Meanwhile, my sturdy right leg, bent at the knee, creeps outward as well.
While legal blocking engagement can only occur with the core of one’s body, there are not many jammers who are willing to charge directly through my tree-trunk-like lower limps at full speed. Including this opponent.
Her momentary hesitation allows me to get to the desired spot a split second ahead. Feet spread wide, I angle my toes inward to create a wedge with my skates, and immediately come to a full stop, as a result of frictional engagement. My right skate is implanted on the outer demarcation line of the track, with my substantial rump extending out well beyond the invisible vertical perimeter represented by the orange stripes’ extension.
While my behind is already broad, I supplement this intimidating mass with stealthy foam hip pads, which I acquired from my lineman brother, and wedge into my stretchy shorts. Though designed for the football field, these elements work equally well on the derby track.
The benefit is twofold, increasing my blocking width, while providing an additional layer of impact protection. Both features are now beneficial, as the racing opposing jammer, still thinking there is a gap on the outside, rams directly into my physical barricade, then bounces off, sliding across the out of bounds area on her backside. My ass is barely phased.
As this demoralized jammer slinks to the back of the pack, our quartet of blockers takes this rare moment of downtime to celebrate. However, we all know the respite is short-lived. We’ll be reengaged soon enough.
MOM’S TANG [#H20]:
Watching this team, my team, play, is a very emotional experience. I can relate to every player on some level: the exuberant young jammer, the sexually conflicted bench player, the unrecognized middling blocker, the limping fatigued veteran. I’ve served all these roles during my 3-decade roller derby career.
I can even associate with the officials, based on my volunteer work in the junior derby leagues from time to time. That experience doesn’t make me any less judgmental of the professional referees for this match.
With this current role, I need to wear a lot of hats, and wigs, and helmets, and pressure. This is just the second season since I finally relinquished my on the floor responsibilities. There’s no doubt my skills have been waning, but until recently I was able to make up for lack of physical competency through experiential prowess.
As the leader of this squad, I’m no longer able to wear my emotions on my sleeve. However, passive rationality is not my specialty.
Unfortunately, I’ve hung up my skates for good. Fortunately, my competitive spirits remains strong. Unfortunately, my lack of participation has resulted in my minions providing me with a new nickname. Fortunately, I’ve got very thick skin.
“MOM’S TANG”, capital letters arch across my back in unnecessarily large, gold foil, text, vividly highlighted against the matte black synthetic fabric of my jersey. While I no longer need to wear the padded vest which personified my rough and tumble days as an undersized blocker, and occasional underspeed jammer, my lack of physical training in recent years has caused my own lumpy curves to fill this uniform back out to a similar bulbous form.
Lately, I’ve been spending free time in the office, reviewing post-match video, in the locker room, providing motivational feedback to my players, and on the streets, drumming up community support. All these off-track efforts finally seem to be paying off.
My gals have been performing amazingly over the past few days. The format for the World Championships is grueling, with quarters, semis, and finals held on consecutive days over a single weekend in mid-November.
Based on our regional performance throughout the regular season, we earned the 6th seed in the 8-team national field. What happened since the tournament started has been magical.
A convincing upset of the 3rd position Texas Rollergirls, widely considered the originators of the modern sport of women’s roller derby, pulling their athletes from a massive state with historical pedigree. Next was a hard-fought battle against the 2nd seed Gotham Girls on their home turf; my squad was able to overcome not only their well-trained opponents, but also the hostile, biased crowd.
This unlikely journey has led us here to the finals, playing the perennial roller derby powerhouse, and understandable heavy favorite, the Rose City Rollers of Portland, representing the west coast metropolis a opposed to the eastern city of the same name.
The opposition isn’t getting any easier, and just getting to the final duel has already exceeded my expectations as a coach of these crazies.
Las Vegas is not known as a perennial powerhouse in women’s roller derby, but the immense efforts I have made in terms of recruitment, facilities, training, marketing, and fundraising over the past 5 years are finally paying off. I now consider this squad my baby; an opportunity to bring this great sport to a new cohort of athletes, and a new city of fans.
My own career highlight to date is being able to compete for the United States team in the most recent World Cup. It was amazing to travel outside America for the first time in my life, and see how global the sport of roller derby is becoming. This worldwide competition only occurs every 4 years, and while my playing days are now over, I’m hoping a few of the talented ladies on this team will experience the immense thrill of representing their country in the future.
Extensive practice is required to create the comradery required for a top-flight roller derby team. However, even at the elite level, there’s no way to make this athletic pursuit a full-time, profitable endeavor. Even at my advanced age, I still work as a blackjack dealer intermittently, to supplement my meager salary leading this band of misfits.
Roller derby is a huge life commitment. With a minimum of 4 practices per week, and up to twice as many sessions leading up to key meets, my ladies see each other on essentially a daily basis. This requires me to add secretary and babysitter to my many other team leadership roles. While fans just see the High Rollers for a few hours on the weekend, there’s countless time being put in behind the scenes by all these athletes.
It’s difficult to schedule track sessions around the team’s divergent schedules. Everyone on the squad has a least one other job, with many juggling multiple employment commitments. Roller derby is a labor of love, as opposed to a lucrative lifestyle.
Personally, I’ve worked in over a dozen different professions during the course of my dynamic adulthood. In fact, I can see myself at various points in my own career arc through the current efforts of my players.
In my teens, working fast food gigs, the only job I could procure with my meager resume. This cohort now encompasses the most naïve, and versatile, athletic participants on the Las Vegas High Rollers. My entrepreneurial phase, which in my day meant saving enough money to open a handmade jewelry stand at the local farmer’s market. Now, enterprising modern ladies are pedaling their crafty products online, but the ambitious premise is the same. Getting a real job, with an annual salary, and actual benefits, like health insurance and retirement accounts. Only two of my women, predictably the pair of elder statesmen after my on-track retirement, have achieved this vaulted status, which necessitates our current schedule of primarily evening practices.
Enough reminiscing, time to get back to my current important job. Leading this diverse group of elite skaters to victory over a tenacious and worthy counterpart.
Roller derby is an incredibly fast-paced game, not just on the oval, but with regards to the entire logistical format. During each brief hiatus in the general run of play, I must confirm the last jam score is tallied correctly, congratulate, constructively criticize, or console the previously participating skaters accordingly, and then select a new crew to take the track based on my prediction of the opposing coach’s actions. There’s a lot to keep track of, in the punniest sense.
Sometimes, even I, with decades of experience in the sport, get overwhelmed. Fortunately, I have a few allotted 30-second timeouts to extend the break between jams. Right now seems like a worthy scenario to use such a respite.
My squad just gave up 16 points on the last session, a result of our jammer getting injured, plus multiple penalties incurred by our blockers, including our lead pivot. In such a scenario, getting lapped was inevitable, with the only goal being score mitigation.
As I look at the sweaty, heavily breathing, collection of characters sitting on the bench in front of me, I contemplate my options. The running clock which dictates the time remaining in this 1st half has dipped under 2 minutes. Hopefully we can hold on for one more jam, then recover in the locker room during the midgame break.
Our substantial lead, generated by an excellent start, then spurred on by the adrenaline of this championship stage match, has evaporated. Our score differential is now single digits, a tally which can be easily registered by our opponents in the next jam, especially with our fatigued and depleted squad.
I always like starting the second period with a lead, even a menial one. There’s a clear psychological motivation associated with winning the first half in any sport.
We need to survive one more session. My main jammers are currently fatigued, injured, or frustrated. As such, the best plan is to slow down the gameplay, and grind out this last battle before the break. Time to put in the big guns, and big buns. Stack the pack. Slow and steady will win the race, or at least no lose it.
My heavyweights, a cultural smorgasbord, including a Mexican, an African America, and Samoan, and an Eastern European blend, all know their role. I’ve been training these ladies over the past several months for just such a scenario. Their conditioning is impeccable, and their skills dialed.
With a combined total mass exceeding a ton, the opposing jammer will hopefully be jammed up for the final session of this period. Granted there’s a distinct difference between the low-pressure banter of practice at the local gym, and the bright lights of a stressful, max-capacity, World Championship venue. Still, I have confidence in my gals, especially this core group of defenders.
I have one more job to do now that my desired squad has been selected. Ream out the judges, who caused us to lose the past 3 successive jams, at least in my mind. Regardless, I need to stick up for my crew, and vent some frustration.
Even before the starting whistle blows, I’ve spotted the head ref, standing in the center of the ring, clad in the traditional black and white stripes used by other professional sports like football and basketball. However, in this case, bright green arm bands provide clear differentiation from the uniforms of our opposing teams, plus this individual in on roller skates, as opposed to traditional shoes.
For this final, critical match of the season, no expenses have been spared. This even applies to governance talent.
A full suite of supplemental officials are seated along the straight front stretch of the track. Each individual has a role: timing, penalties, positioning, scorekeeping, substitutions, etc. This cohort represents a perfect target for the verbal rant which I feel is necessary to inspire my team, and relieve the passionate fire burning inside me right now.
Despite our frequent disagreements, I have a ton of respect for the lead referee, who remains on her rolling feet all match, adjudicating and engaging with the players. In contrast, these chubby, inept, ancillary characters are buffoons, who fail to understand the nuances of the game.
Time for some hot and heavy griping. I’ve got a few grievances to air, based on the run of play over the past half hour. Maybe I can even buy a few extra seconds of rest for my fatigued ladies.​
MISTY MEANER [#488]:
I’m sitting in the penalty box yet again. It seems like I spend more time in this punishment post than on the bench. It’s lonely here on my own, but I’m used to isolation based on my trajectory of life experiences.
Even in my stagnant seated position, I’m treated as being passed each time the action progresses beyond the penalty box location. That’s why it’s critical for me to return to the live action soon.
As I watch the activity from the sidelines, the true impact of my recent transgression plays out with frustrating clarity. Our jammer is still stymied by the quartet of opposing blockers, while their jammer has already lapped us 1.5 times, tallying 6 points, with just our veteran pivot, and soon to be me, providing an encumbrance to future scoring.
My penchant for poor behavior is ever present: from my bratty childhood conduct in a broken home, to my frequent juvey stays as a result of various shoplifting debacles, and now my debatably illegal roller derby maneuvers. I love pushing the limits of authority, and this sport has fortunately provided a much more productive outlet than the ventures of my adolescent years.
A key tenant of roller derby is paying it forward. All new adults, whether they are transferring in from another city, or just starting to learn the sport, are assigned a veteran mentor on the team. My mandated tutor, an incredibly jovial Polynesian native, has been instrumental to getting me comfortable with the nuances of this newly found pursuit.
Also, all of us ladies are passionate about educating the next generation of roller derby enthusiasts. Considering the lack of structure during my own upbringing, I’m happy to help young girls find a safe and healthy passion early in life.
Granted, roller derby isn’t always fun and games. With limited funding and a small fan base, us athletes are required to wear multiple hats. Everyone helps out at meets as a volunteer in any means needed: arena setup, ticket and food sales, locker room clean-up, and all manner of other menial tasks that even participants in standard high school sports never have to think about.
Several tournaments we hosted this year, I arrived before the sun was up, and didn’t leave until dark set in, earning nothing but bruises and pride for my effort. Fine by me, I need such structure and support.
A key element of this cohesive team is embracing one’s past, while forging one’s future. As such, my jersey name wrote itself, especially since my given name of Michelle spread through my new teammates with a snicker.
Comradery is a critical element of roller derby. As a former degenerate, I’ll accept any positivity provided by this sport. Even if the token backing from my teammates is a little snide at times. Like the prison environment, I know I need to slowly earn respect amongst my comrades.
At this elite level, uniforms must be consistent across the entire team, with the main jersey colors between the 2 teams highly contrast. No issues with that requirement in this championship match, with the black and gold of our flashy Las Vegas squad well differentiated from the vibrant purple and white of our Portland counterparts.
Also, all players must have large, visible numbers on the back of the jersey, as well as their upper arms. My time in prison definitely provided a different perspective on using numerals as a personal identifier.
My selected trio of digits reference a well-known police code. This is the call sign for petty theft, an act which I committed many times while my life as a teenage spiraled out of control. It now serves as a reminder of why I spend several years in the juvenile penitentiary, and more importantly what I’m trying to escape with this current bout of clean living.
I’m extricated from my reminiscent trance by a buzzer, which denotes the final 10 seconds of my penalty. Instinctively, and obligatorily, I stand, rocking back and forth on the 4 red wheels of each skate. It’s time to rattle some heads on the opposing team.
While most participants in this sport spend a lot of time refining their image, I could care less about outfits. Having spent a decent portion of my life in facilities with mandated outfits, and I’m not talking about posh boarding schools, I’m fine wearing whatever attire is provided.
In additional to the black and gold uniform of the High Rollers, there’s some mandated protective gear which each player must don. Considering the transgressions of my life to date, I can comfortably say roller derby is one of the safest activities I’ve participated in, voluntary or otherwise. To skirt the regulations, I simply pull on thin, short, compression sleeves over the 4 main joints of my body, my elbows and knees. There’s not a lot of equipment auditing on this circuit.
One area where the rules are unwavering is with regards to head protection. While each player must some form of hard shell, foam padded, offering with a chin strap to ensure retention, aesthetic requirements are quite vague.
As such, this is the one region of the body where I’ve chosen to add my own flair. The smooth surface of my black helmet, a thrift store item originally intended for a scooter rider, is adorned with so many white skull and crossbones sticker logos that a pirate ship captain would be jealous.
The newest addition to my facial presentation is a pair of mirrored sunglasses, initially subtly suggested, more recently mandated and provided, by our coach. Apparently, my glassy right eye, deep scar across my left lid, and generally grim facial demeanor, is too intimidating, even for this aggressive women’s sport.
I’ve quickly grown to appreciate the anonymity this ocular covering can provide, allowing me to glare at others, from opponents, to referees, and sometimes even my own teammates, without an admonishing rebuke. Plus, I’ve been getting poked in the eye a lot less frequently since accepting these protective goggles.
The penalty box is conveniently located adjacent to the first turn of the track. Even more fortuitously, the main pack is working its way along the front straightaway, heading directly towards me. The timing couldn’t be better.
With 45 seconds remaining in this jam, I still have a chance to contribute, hopefully redeeming myself, and mitigating the opponent’s scoring my absence facilitated. As the lively action approaches, and my time in solitude ticks down, my body immediately begins to twitch with anticipatory excitement.
As soon as the sideline official, who’s tasked with penalty box management and timing, denotes that my stint is up, I’m on the move. My skating is still a work in progress. I can move forward in a straight line at a reasonable rate. However, the more subtle elements of turning, and even more impressively, traveling backwards, are not yet in my repertoire.
Seeing our pivot is clearly fatiguing, I put all of my effort into rapidly coming to her aid. I plot my trajectory anticipating the movement of the engaged pair, one intent on restricting forward travel, the other keen to escape into open space. If I time this well, I’ll be able to pick the opposing jammer off right at the apex of the turn, thereby turning the odds of success in our favor.
As I near the impact point, accelerating on powerful but inexperienced legs, it starts to become clear that there may be a mistake in my novice trajectory calculations. The moving mass which I’m aiming to intercept has accelerated more than anticipated, transitioning from a slightly frontal, to slightly rearward, angle of engagement.
This seemingly subtle distinction is actually a critical element of roller derby etiquette, and rules. All blocking interactions must occur with one’s torso, engaging only the front of the jammer. As time slows, and impact becomes imminent, it’s clear I’m about to break both these mandated regulations. Like I often do.
Realizing the error of my ways, I try to slow, but speed and space conspire against me. My skate-clad feet, still a relatively foreign sensation, become entangled. Suddenly, my entire body is moving forward, flailing forearms and helmeted head leading the way.
The left side of my face smacks into the back shoulder of the opposing jammer, my cheek seemingly scraping the letter “T” off her name. Blinded and disoriented, I reach out with my right arm, finding lots of air before latching onto something solid. Briefly.
My hold gives way quickly, and the world come crashing down around me. Or more accurately, my teammate and I come crashing down on each other. As I lie on my back, through star-dizzied eyes, I can see the purple flash of the competition, striding off at a rapid rate on the inside of the track.
The next revelation is even more demoralizing. Taking stock of my own bodily functionality, I realize I’m lying atop my teammate. Working back through the blurry sequence of events, it becomes clear the attachment point which I latched onto was the right forearm of the only functional individual on our team. Apparently, I caused her fall, and she broke mine.
Helping my pivot matriarch up off the track, all I can do is silently mouth “I’m sorry”, before slinking back off to the penalty box. This is becoming a recurring theme tonight, and throughout my brief roller derby career to date.
This is my 6th penalty of the night, and there’s still 10 minutes left in the 2nd half. This equates to 1/4th of the total violations incurred by our team this match, as denoted by the running total displayed in the bottom corner of the huge scoreboard.
Each player is allowed only 7 offenses per match, after that I’ll be booted out for the remainder of the game. Aside from the demoralization of having to sit on the bench for the duration, there’s another, even more compelling, motivation to avoid another penalty. I’ll be letting my teammates down, as the total number of participants for each team is fixed at 15.
If I incur one more trip to the box of purgatory, I’ll be hindering my team’s ability to close out the championship victory. As a result, I’m going to need to tread lightly for the remainder of the dual. Such pacificity is not one of my specialties.
Staring directly at the official who was the most recent to call me out, I flash her a broad-lipped, open-mouth, smile. However, this seemingly innocuous act is by no means meant to be friendly. My exaggerated facial contortions reveal a mouthguard, which protects my already mangled teeth, a result of two decades of rough and tumble existence, with limited access to dental care.
This piece of formed rubber is adorned with a toothy grin which any zombie would be proud of, stark white, empty blackness, and blood red, conspiring in gruesome effect. I’ve gotten all manner of reactions to this chilling visage, and revel in the surprise of the reveal every time.
This may not be the best way to make friends with one of the governing bodies who controls my fate in the contest moving forwards, but sometimes I can’t help myself.
Moving slowly towards the penalty box, again, I’m happy to find it still unoccupied. I could use some contemplative alone time to settle down. Plus, if multiple blockers from the same team end up being suspended, it’s a disaster in terms of mitigating scoring. In fact, this prison is only designed for a maximum of two.
Hopefully my defensive teammates can regroup, since the jammer will be looping back around in under 10 seconds. Fortunately, this session of epic failure will time out soon. The only minor consolation is that no injuries were incurred by our squad. Sometimes I wonder if the High Rollers would be better served by me staying on the bench, not participating at all.
We’ll find out now, since my most recent 30 second penalty extends beyond the duration of the current jam. With nothing better to do, I instinctively reach up to release the restrictive chin strap on my helmet. My fingers unexpectedly contact locks of hair, a sensation which is quite foreign to me. Then the pieces of the puzzle jumbled come together.
While my general look is decidedly goth, I’m not completely monochromatic. Since shaving my hair in prison to satisfy a lost wager, using the only available currency I had at the time, I’ve kept my dome short. Recently, the newly discovered Las Vegas amenities have offered up a wealth of hair options which I never knew existed.
Any color, cut, and curl is available, for a mere penance, even considering my menial budget. Granted, these bargain wigs are clearly synthetic, with marginal durability, and no washability. However, I only need to don a neon persona for actual derby matches.
While I’m currently in wig mode, I’ve resolved to grow my own locks out, feeble and tangled as they may be, and work in some real, albeit embellished, hairstyles in the near future. Another of the many positive shifts I’ve made to returning my life to societal normalcy. All thanks to my roller derby comrades, and their positive influence on my lifestyle rebirth.
​
SWITCH [#69]:
I’ve always been conflicted about my sexuality. And my role in this world, if I’m honest. It wasn’t until I discovered the sport of roller derby that I finally found my calling. And my tribe.
While I’m well aware of the sexual innuendo of my chosen jersey number, having participated in various acts with various individuals over the years, this is not my primary reason for this specific selection. Rather, the numerical choice is primarily aesthetic. I appreciate how this pair of inverted, curved numerals, when viewed with squinty eyes, merges into a perfect circle.
As a result, I wear the player identification armband on my right bicep upside down. While this is undoubtably a uniform violation, the symmetry of the digits is eerily reminiscent of the ancient Chinese Ying Yang symbol. Interlocked shapes, with aligned vertical dots in the center, the entire package creating a circular ring.
The most important element of my stage name is the reason it was assigned to me, as opposed to organic choice. My ability to skate backwards, with an uncanny sixth sense with regards to movement and navigation, which often surprises even my own limber body. There’s no doubt this skill is of value in roller derby, especially at this elite level.
My comfort in reverse stems from childhood activities, not on the roller track, but instead in the skate park. I would spend all day hanging out there, watching the skilled rollerbladers and skateboarders executing their craft, then try to mimic their complex motions with my underdeveloped body and inferior equipment. Over the years, my skills improved, along with my confidence. It was in this manner that I learned to skate both forwards and backwards, under adverse circumstances, on two pairs of parallel wheels.
To this day, I often head to the local concrete jungle after practicing on the track to ride the ramps and bowls in my roller skates. This dynamic activity is much more engaging than simply looping counterclockwise ovals. I also enjoy the sexual freedom and collaborative openness provided by this group of park rat misfits.
I like to display my pride, both physically and metaphorically. My equipment design from the knees down personifies this sentiment. Tall socks, extending just below this key leg joint, start the party. Originally stretchy white cotton, available in an affordable 4-pack at the local discount chain, I’ve painstakingly executed a range of tie-dye treatments to generate a menagerie of prismatic colors.
These lower leg coverings are just the start of my flamboyant presentation. My skates, aside from one being left-footed, and the other right, can barely be described as a pair. Fittingly, each of the octet of wheels is a different hue of the rainbow, with the only extra offering jet black rubber, which represents the industry standard.
On the tan leather base of the skate’s upper, I’ve spent countless hours meticulously painting all manner of aesthetic elements. Hearts. Question marks. Stars. Cursive verses. Unicorns. Each item executed with bold colors and refined detail.
As part of my cathartic process after each match, I sit on my small patio, with a glass of red wine, and touch up these spiritual symbols. Each update renews my faith, commitment, and reverence for the queer community which I’m a part of.
My skates don’t get scuffed by sitting on the bench. As the least experienced jammer on this team, my opportunities to contribute are limited. Our team averages around 50 jams per match, and normally I’m lucky to get into 1/10th of them.
However, here, in the championship match, due to a few unfortunate injuries from my superiors, I find myself participating in a critical jam, with the score tied. This is my chance to prove my worth, not just to my teammates, but also to my entire community, many of whom are sitting in the stands, vigorously rooting me on.
I’ve been bounced out of the ring twice already this jam. My patented move of accelerating around the track in the middle lane at high speed, then spinning around backwards without scrubbing any speed to complete the pass, is not working against the large, and surprisingly agile, blockers of the Portland squad.
Usually, as soon as I spin around backwards, and veer aggressively to the inside or outside, all with an unchanged rapid rate of forward travel, the defenders become disoriented. Apparently not this disciplined crew. Each time, just when I think I’ve cleared the corner, a boney shoulder, or substantial buttocks, has jarred me off balance, and sent me sprawling across the track out of bounds.
Time to give it one more try. I’ll make a split-second decision on which route to try as I near the pack.
Seconds later, I’m back on the ground, skidding across the smooth surface on my slippery shorts. My tailbone is throbbing from these repeated impacts. My protective knee pads and wrist guards, which work so well in the skate park, are not very effective when I’m getting bounced into the center of the ring.
My petite Asian frame is not cut out for this repeated jostling. A few of these blockers are nearly twice my size and weight, which just adds insult to injury.
The bright orange arcing line on the dark brown track clearly denotes my position. My left hand is touching this demarcation zone, which would be ideal if I was facing forward, not backwards. However, in my current sprawled position, I’m clearly out of bounds, stagnant on the inside of the oval, isolated and abandoned.
It takes all of my feeble strength to rise back up off the deck, using the wrist guards for leverage. I know if I stay down long enough for the game to be delayed, an injury will be declared, and I’ll have to sit out for at least 3 jams. Considering how little playing time I usually get, there’s no way I’m going to let a little pain keep me from seizing this opportunity.
I’ve been unable to score a single point this session. Fortunately, my own skilled blockers have stymied the opposing jammer with similar frequency. Now, with just 20 seconds left, this round looks like it’s going to be a wash.
At this point, the wise thing to do is just consolidate the pack, and let my teammates perform their defending duties. Stalemates, where neither jammer is able to make an initial pass and achieve scoring status, are rare, but do happen. The conservative play would be to sit back, avoid a penalty or misplay, and let my more experienced attackers snag some points in the next round.
However, I have one more trick up my sleeve, a maneuver I’ve been anxious to try all tournament. It’s a risky strategy, which is why we haven’t used this technique yet in this close and pivotal match. Still, I’ve put in enough work at practice with my partner in crime that I’ll hopefully be given one chance for glory.
Each time I cross the well-marked border of the oval, the rules state that I must reestablish my position behind all of the opposing blockers.
As I work my way to the back of the pack, skating clockwise, and of course backwards, around the infield, against the typical direction of travel, I catch the eye of my coach. There’s no way I’m going to attempt this highwire act without our experienced leader’s approval, especially at this late stage in the 2nd half.
Aligning with her standing, attentive, position at the head our bench, we’re now separated by the full 14 feet of currently empty track at the center of the front straightaway. I slow my pace to a gentle roll and grasp my both my forearms, creating an interlocking grip. Combined with the inquisitive look which I’m sure covers the entirety of my young expressive face, no verbal communication is needed.
Our manger’s countenance remains blank and stoic for so long I start to think she hasn’t recognized my subtle query. Then, the faintest hint of a smile flashes across her typically emotionless mouth, especially in the heat of battle. She glances up at the scoreboard hung in the rafters above the track oval, which provides all the key metrics of the current match: period clock, jam time, and official score.
Now it’s her turn to provide a cryptic communication. This comes in the form of a single raised hand, with all 5 fingers extended. She closes her fist, these reextends all these digits for emphasis, but the strategic guidance is already clear.
My secret move has been authorized, provided I wait until there are just 5 seconds left in the current jam. Fine by me. I’ll take any acceptance from this squad, especially when communicated by our fearless leader. I can feel my blush covered cheeks perk up, as a huge smile grows across my lipstick covered mouth, and my dark eyeshadow lashes twitch with excitement. Make-up is another key element of my complex appearance, and persona.
Now I just need to quickly communicate this strategy to my required compatriot. Time to whip it. Whip it good.
Tying up one of our key defenders in my offensive scheme will increase the risk of a scoring play, not just for our squad, but also our opponents. That’s why the timing for this gambit is so important. I need to leave myself enough time to make the pass, while not becoming exposed to a counterattack if my foray fails.
There are an entire litany of rules surrounding the legality of assists in roller derby. With the help of our knowledgeable coach, we have a carefully choreographed series of motions what must be executed in the sequential order, all while making sure we are both well within the confined of the main pack, the only region where both blocking and assisting are allowed.
The required steps are ingrained in my mind, and come as naturally as walking. The acceleration. The catch. The spin. The extension. The release. Here we go.
All of the sudden I’m airborne. My nearly horizontal body clears the boney knee which was previously blocking my path. Hurtling forward, I turn my head sideways in a Matrix-like maneuver. Time seems to slow. I spot the blockers I’m trying to pass, just blurs of purple. Per roller derby rules, any opponent which I’m able to gain a superior advantage on, as dictated my relative center of mass position, airborne of otherwise, will score for our team.
A faint noise reaches my earns, longer but quieter than it usually is. The whistle demoting the end of my jam.
Coincident with this signal, my brief flight comes crashing back to earth. My right shoulder is the first to hit, with my hip, knee, and eventually foot-clad skate, on the same side of my body, following in short order. Fortunately, my helmet-protected head is spared from a jarring jolt, though the elbow pad on my lead arm has become completely dislodged.
Rolling over onto my back, to ease the pain on my sensitive side, I stare up at the rooftop jumbotron, breathing heavily. After a seemingly unfathomable length of time, the score below our Las Vegas High Rollers squad clicks up by 2. Meanwhile, our opponent’s tally remains unchanged.
The risk paid off. We’re in the lead.
A hand comes down, a huge black paw, which grasps my thin, pale forearm. Instinctively, I latch on to the girthy wrist, an orientation which we used just a minute ago for the successful acceleration passing maneuver. Within a second, through no effort of my own, I’m back on my feet, or rainbow skates, to be more accurate. It’s valuable to have strong teammates.
MURDER HORNET [#1]:
We just need to stave off our opponents for one more jam to bring home the title. I’ve spent the recently called timeout talking with our knowledgeable coach about the desired end game strategy. Between us, we have over half a century of elite roller derby experience.
The basic tenants of this sport are fairly straightforward. However, each situation is nuanced, with opponents, score, injuries, timeline, fatigue, and officiating all factoring into the optimal tactics. Holding a 3-point lead, with under 2 minutes of game time remaining in the second half, we just have to stop Portland’s best jammer from lapping us. No small feat.
Our intense strategy session in interrupted by a long shrill whistle, identifying the end of the 60 second time out, the last of the three we are allotted. As captain of the player cohort, I’m responsible for calling these stoppages, and tracking how many we have remaining. Time to rally the troops one more time, and execute to perfection.
I verbally summon the 4 ladies who will join me on the track for this final melee, our last, not just of this match, but of the team’s season, and likely of my lengthy career. Hopefully we can go out on top.
I put my right hand in the center of the huddle, and am immediately met with a quartet of others, diverse in size, shape, and color. In unison, our crew executes a guttural “Roll Out!” cheer, while simultaneously raising our collective hands skyward.
This is a tradition that our team’s selected on-track participants execute before each jam. However, considering the circumstances, this symbolic act takes on extra emotional meaning for me.
In my clenched, gloved fist is my helmet covering, which anoints and identifies me as the pivot skater, responsible for on-track, in-game, coordination amongst our squadron. Taking a deep breath, I stretch this elastic cap over my helmet, making sure the broad center stripe is perfectly aligned vertically. It’s convenient that our team’s colors, black and gold, perfectly match the banded plumage of the critter which I’ve chosen as my namesake. There are several other synergies of relevance as well.
My selected number is meant to symbolize not a number, but instead a physical feature. A long, vertical stinger, which completes my insect persona.
Growing up, with limited resources, I would just write my chosen numeral on my dark skin in silver sharpie, a semi-permanent treatment which provided a gateway to the tattoo addiction I now have. I’ve contemplated getting my uniform numeral emblazoned on my arm in black ink perpetuity, however, it’s freeing to be able to change my identifier on a whim.
I’ve been around this sport for over two decades now, and have gone through half a dozen nicknames over my tenure. This moniker, which is going on its 4th season, is my favorite to date. Granted, I say that pretty much every time I make a name change.
One of the main benefits related to the sport of roller derby is the opportunity to grown and adapt. Plus, the general hilarity. As such, I try to keep my jersey name current and relevant. Endowed as dull Jada Smith at birth, any opportunity for imaginative role playing has been embraced throughout my life.
Even my recently donned helmet covering helps contribute to the desired hornet visage. Reviewing images from our team’s website, I enjoy how the black side panels resemble large, beady, insect eyes, separated by the yellow stripe which bisects this cap.
This official headgear identifier has been well earned, and is not purely cosmetic. My role as the pivot for this team on most jams comes as a result of a lifelong commitment to the sport of roller derby. A labor of love, I’ve put in the time in multiple ways. The late night practices. The long bus trips. The grueling injury rehab. Now, I’ve earned the respected and coveted role of lead pivot and team captain on this elite squad, which is currently vying to achieve a prestigious world title.
It’s a scenario I imagined often as a timid youth learning the fundamentals of rolling, but never actually thought would come to fruition. Until recently.
I take my desired position on the inner 3rd of the track, just a few feet in front of the jammer line, behind which our opposing mark is standing. I have one blocking teammate on my left, a huge Samoan with the explicit task of not getting beat on the inside of the track.
Our other two blockers, a pair of sturdy German twins, who immigrated to the America when their father decided to start a high-end car rental company on the downtown strip, are flanking my right side. These individuals, with an innate bond which only siblings possess, will need to be reactive, taking a cue from my lead motions, while also monitoring the dynamic movements of the jammer we’re tasked with thwarting.
Our own jammer is positioned on the far outside of the track. Like most of our protagonists, she prefers working around the wide perimeter of the track when attempting to pass. However, in this scenario, rather than focusing explicitly on the offensive, her role is to bottle up the outer half of the circuit, keeping pace with our pack, to create a slow moving, muddled, mass of bodies. Which should allow us to milk the clock, and secure victory.
As it turns out, this strategy works out to perfection. Once the starting whistle blows, we creep slowly around the track in the mandated counterclockwise direction. My sluggish pace is matched by my compatriots, creating a nearly impenetrable wall. We thwart a few token attempts by our adversary to pierce our barrier, and over a minute has elapsed on the clock by the time we make it to the backstretch.
Here, Portland’s jammer, apparently realizing the sense of urgency, makes a more feverish foray on the inside, but is quickly rebutted by our human wall. The simple plan is simply brilliant.
As the final buzzer sounds, I turn back to confirm that our challenger is still positioned well behind us, as she has been for the entirety of the past 2 minutes. While anticlimactic, this a fitting way for us to win the title, not with flashy jammer play, but instead with calculated and effective blocker techniques.
Our quartet of linked ladies, realizing the physical exertion is complete, and the goal achieved, veers into the center of the oval. With me in the lead, this squadron resembles like a grouping of hornets, or airplanes, maneuvering in unison. How fitting.
Here we’re met by the ecstatic remaining members of our team, all 15 ladies of various physique, plus our menagerie of coaches. The mingling of matte black and reflective gold, combined with a range of skin tones, and an even more diverse set of colorful accoutrements, makes for quite a display.
Add in the unconstrained demonstration of emotion from the various participants, and this must be a truly odd gathering when viewed from the enthralled fans’ perspective. Given the gravity of the moment, not just for the team, but also with regards to my own career trajectory, I’m quickly shedding a few tears as well.
Over the loudspeakers comes the final confirmation of our success. I generally find the commentators at these events distracting and tacky, as they generally pander to the crowd, providing little context on the nuances of the sport. But now I’m exceedingly happy to hear their official congratulatory message.
“Meet your World Champions, the Las Vegas High Rollers!” The final word of the statement is executed with multiples changes in pitch, as if the voice is turning over like the wheels on our skates.
Looking skyward, the jumbotron provides additional verification, flashing lights which resemble pixelated fireworks, exploding over what I realize is the skyline of the Vegas strip, despite the low angle of my viewpoint. I’m used to seeing the final score displayed on a small display screen, or even simple paper flip card numerals for smaller meets. However, this result is spelled out clear and bold for all to see.
“Las Vegas High Rollers = 142, Rose City Rollers = 139.”
Like most sports, the team with the most points at the end wins. Unlike most sports, there are many dynamic elements beyond the activity on the field which are of interest, both societally and from a competition standpoint. This was a hard-fought victory in both respects. Time to seek out a few of the key individuals who made this success possible.
Our star Russian-American jammer, who racked up over half of the points on the scoreboard, using a dynamic range of passing techniques. A degenerate lost soul, fresh out of prison, who the team took under our collective wing at the beginning of the season, sensing both physical and emotional support were needed. The Samoan beauty, in every sense of the word, with whom I’ve shared many a hip check on the track, and amusing laugh in the locker room, with during my lengthy career. My newly found partner in crime, and youngest member of the team, with whom I collaborated on in a momentum driven whip in the late stages of the second half, which established our margin of victory. And most importantly our coach, a woman who makes my resume look meager, having forgotten more about roller derby strategy than most of her underlings will ever absorb.
Having recently turned 40, I told myself retirement was in the cards as soon as I achieved this pinnacle of the sport. However now, just minutes after this ultimate accomplishment, I can’t imagine losing the comradery provided by my teammates, ranging from training partners, to life coaches, to drinking buddies.
The sport of roller derby clearly extends way beyond the compelling action on the track.