Derby goals
Under the influence of Dinah Won’Cha Blow and Surly Trample
I don’t know how long they stayed. Or even how long I stayed. I do know the karaoke machine was still pumping out lyrics when I left. They performed everything from Bowie’s “Space Odyssey” to Sublime’s “Caress Me Down.”
There are few things more fun than singing a super raunchy song with a group of liquored-up women.
This is not a book club. The participants are a far cry from wine-
spritzer-sipping ladies. This is roller derby and these are the Albany All Stars.
Despite the chill inside the Washington Avenue Armory, the posse was scantily clad. I was wondering what it felt like to have enough confidence to roller skate wearing only panties and a tight shirt when Sirius Trauma approached to show off her latest injury. An enormous welt on her left ankle had turned greenish-purple and she was about to tape an icepack to it. I tried to act casual. I looked at the lump of discolored skin and suppressed a gag. Rather than twist my face in disgust and suggest she go home, elevate it and never come back, I nodded nonchalantly as if to say, “I see this shit all the time.”
I looked around the Armory at the team of 25 skaters and estimated no less than $20,000 of tattoo-ery on their bodies. Several feet away from me, a dirty-blonde amalgamation of a bulldog and troll under the bridge chugged water from a jug while someone ripped a fart that echoed through the room.
Formed in 2006 with only six members, the All Stars currently field a crew of 40 modern-day Amazons. They are among the few females in society who are encouraged to engage in blatant bad ass-ery, beating the hell out of each other while wearing glitter and skates.
They push, shove and taunt. Riotous crowds watch and cheer them on. They don’t apologize for being awesome. Their confidence is undeniable and I’m pretty sure it didn’t come from hours on a shrink’s couch. They ooze female empowerment.
They don’t care what you think. But you’re welcome to watch as they dominate.
I fantasize about behaving like this. Not about physical harm or beratement (though, sometimes). I want to feel confident and marvelous and trust my instincts. I often stifle urges to say exactly what I think. I smile when I want to grimace. I say, “Interesting” instead of, “That’s a dumb, shitty idea.” Not because I worry about being labeled as “aggressive” or “bitch” or any of the other colorful adjectives applied to strong women. I behave because I don’t want to invite confrontation in to my life. Don’t get me wrong. I have never shied away from sticking up for myself or addressing a situation that seemed unjust. But I’m no drama queen and would rather evaporate into thin air than receive negative attention. These All Stars, though. They don’t have time to fret over your perceptions. They don’t care what you think but you’re welcome to watch as they dominate.
With winter tryouts concluded and spring bouts underway, I attended practice, sat in the stands during a game while screaming for Debbie Scary to crush the she-devil coming up on her left and got drunk with the team at their after-party. What I really wanted was to lace up borrowed skates and try not to get killed on the track. Cherry Pop crushed that dream. “Due to
WFTDA” (more on that later) “safety protocol, you would not be able to be on skates.” Cue moment of disappointment and sweet relief.
Still, I want to learn everything about the roller derby culture. How infuriating is a power jam? When is an ideal time to pass the star? What does a successful waterfall require (other than Left Eye’s harrowing rap solo)? What does it feel like to pummel an opponent while wearing tiny shorts and wheels?
The early days of roller derby meant skating marathons, not the strategic and physically brutal game of today. Taking advantage of the skating fad in the 1930s, businessman Leo Seltzer created an event that drew enormous crowds: teams of two (men, women, or one of each) would lap a track thousands of times to equal a distance of 3,000 miles. This simulated a cross country race representing the distance between Los Angeles and New York. Due to exhaustion and injury during the first race, only nine out of the 25 teams finished. They skated 11 hours a day for a month. I guess people didn’t have a lot going on back then.
The initial race was a success and Seltzer took the show on the road, dubbing it the “Transcontinental Roller Derby.” He quickly realized audiences reacted with the most enthusiasm when contestants got hurt. Seltzer began coaching the teams to become more of a spectacle rather than focus simply on completing laps. By 1949, bouts were televised and Seltzer became a millionaire.
I expected the All Stars to be intimidating during practice. Instead, they were like helpful tour guides. They showed me the best place to stand for taking photos, asked if I needed anything as they rolled by and let me in on a heavily discounted merchandise sale (hello, sexy derby tank top). Before I left, Roxsackie Virus offered me a thick packet titled “The Rules of Flat Track Roller Derby,” the test players must pass and a printed outline of the skills all skaters must have or learn. Roxsackie is clearly the mother hen of the All Stars. My best guess puts her at 60ish. I think of my 56-year-old mother and immediately feel protective of Roxsackie, worrying about her well-being on roller skates. She’s plump and looks like she gives great hugs.
The night I went to practice attendance was light.
The regular schedule had changed due to a snow storm. Bonds were obvious as the 25 femme fatales started stretching, laughing and catching up with each other. They sat in small groups to put on skates and talked about the storm.
Several people roamed around, making sure they spoke to everyone. Conversations and hearty laughter continued during various exercises up and down the length of the armory. I felt a small grin on my face as I watched. Roller derby is synonymous with rough physical battles yet these women were so tender with each other.
Once their muscles were warm and it was time to suit up with helmets, elbow pads, knee guards and skates, the revelry diminished and shit got serious. Piling on their gear transformed them in to their derby personas. Everyone huddled around the team captain, Emm I. Insane, and I
was surprised at how tiny and meek she looked. I imagined her as a kindergarten teacher with an endless supply of adorable cupcakes. She opened her heart-shaped mouth and yelled, “Fucking haul ass!”
After a quick decline in popularity in the early 1950s, roller derby, which was still co-ed, reached its peak in 1972. A game in Chicago attracted more than 50,000 fans. One year later, the sport was inexplicably shut down. Veteran skater Ann Calvello stated in an interview she suspected the oil crisis of 1973 was to blame. She said without gasoline, teams could no longer travel.
A TV show, “RollerGames,” was created in the 1980s and aired 13 weeks. The track had steep banks and featured an alligator pit. In one episode, an announcer introduces a bout by explaining there would be “secret plans, hidden agendas and stolen motorcycles.” A combination of “WWE” and a Poison video, RollerGames didn’t last.
The all-female version of roller derby that is popular now began gaining steam in 2000. Nearly 400 teams belong to the Women’s Flat Track Derby Association (WFTDA), an international organization.
You don’t decide on a whim to become an All Star. Membership requires commitment and the process is difficult. If you make it through try-outs, you’re part of the B team. One must prove athleticism and sportsmanship before being invited to play with the big girls as an All Star. While being considered for a promotion, players are on probation. There’s also a 50-question multiple choice test that covers the often complicated rules of roller derby. All potential members must pass. The bout I attended was on a Saturday night and there must have been 200 people in the stands. You might not get any trouble from the folks in charge if you pack an unassuming flask.
The crowd inside the Armory was a motley crew: babies to grannies, punks to professionals, die-hard fans to virgins. Sirius Trauma’s husband, Mr. Trauma, sat behind my friends and I to answer questions about what was going on. It takes focus to understand the game. The guidebook from Roxsackie helped. My Nalgene bottle full of wine did not.
During the second half, a member of the All Stars, Lusty Crush, landed badly from a block and didn’t get up. She held her leg in pain. Medics rushed over. When she remained on the floor, her teammates formed a ring surrounding Crush to protect her from us gawkers in the bleachers. The rapport amongst these women is simple. Not necessarily friends outside the track, they always have each other’s back when the skates are on. Weekly practices elevate the All Stars’ game and enforce deep trust and respect. Everyone here knows their sister from another mister will not let them fail. Again, I admired the tenderness of these brutes.
They came in like a swarm of hornets as though they just burst off the set of Mad Max. Outlaw Annie, Explosive Daria and Slamchop, all these bitches were ready to party.
At Center Square Pub, where the official All Stars sponsor party goes down after every home game, we waited for the team to show up. I thought back to ninth grade and anticipating Brent (we all had a “Brent”) to walk in to class. It was exciting, suspenseful, and a little agonizing with quick glances toward the door every time it opened.
They came in like a swarm of hornets as though they just burst off the set of Mad Max. Outlaw Annie, Explosive Daria and Slamchop, all these bitches were ready to party.
Far from boasting a spot in their posse, I was fortunate to spend some time in the vicinity of these phenomenal, multi-faceted athletes. I think Debbie Scary spoke for everyone when she said, “I was able to find a place to get that unique joy from competition and teamwork that I was missing in my life.”