that’s how we roll
Posted on 20. Apr, 2008 by Nick in lifestyle
words > PHILLIP LONGMAN
photos > DUSTIN CRAIG
They live by their own rules, and I mustn’t say too much. I can’t tell you their real names or what they do for a living. They might be your child’s fifth-grade teacher, but if I rat them out, my only warning will be the sound of roller skates on asphalt.
The trip started, as all truly scandalous things do, on a quiet residential court. Our hostess, who skates under the nom de guerre Senderfly’n, even had a sizable collection of porcelain figurines on display.
Roller derby is a little like hockey for punk-rock chicks and third-wave feminists, so I was not expecting Precious Moments. I asked her about them. She handed me a beer and began to casually tell me about her other collection, the one she keeps in the top drawer. She told me about the party they had recently, when the girls wrecked her house and scattered her toys around.
“Someone decided to wear the strap-on, and then they decided to put whip cream on it. And then the dog—not my dog, someone else’s dog—was licking it. Are you—you’re recording this!”
Of course I was.
Delicate sensibilities are not ideal in the fan of roller derby. The guiding qualities are an appreciation for speed, violence and strong women.
The goal of the game is easy: Both teams skate around the course together in a tight pack. A player from each team, called a jammer, tries to outpace the pack and lap them as many times as possible—scoring points for each girl they pass. The other girls’ goal is to knock down anyone necessary to hinder this process.
The women dress to offend and titillate, in torn schoolgirl skirts, tiny shorts, fishnets and elbow pads. They skate under fearsome pseudonyms. They get into fights.
Karmic Recall put it best.
“%#@! sitting there checkin’ how my skates are gonna be on the concrete; I better go see if the penalty box is gonna fit my ass.”
Allow me to paint you a picture: The trip from Wichita to Sioux Falls lasts a little under eight hours. We left Wichita around 2:00 p.m., with seven of us crammed into a silver Durango: a dominatrix, a biter, a local radio personality who shall not be named, a sleepy lesbian couple, two chihuahuas, one very thin photographer and one strategically overdressed writer. When planning to come into contact with a group of violent femmes, it’s smart to wear a tie.
On the way, the girls told me about themselves and we talked about the game. They scoffed at those who see the theatricality and dismiss the sport or question their dedication as athletes.
“It’s really involved,” Sender told me. “A lot of people think it’s just girls skating round the track. There are a lot of rules, regs, penalties—there’s a lot of stuff going on behind the scene.”
Karmic Recall offered me a belt of Rémy Martin from her flask.
“Like I said, you’ll see the ones who are just out to go to the bar and say, ‘Look, I’m a roller girl! Ooh, look at me!’ But you’ll see the ones who are out there, downtown Judy Brown, man.”
Even playing each other, Sender said, “We still walk away with bruises.”
We passed through Omaha, and they told me about the vicious beating they took there from a team that plays dirty. There are still hard feelings.
“They took us, and they made us harder, because it ain’t no pussy sport.” Shuggie Sheville said. “It is not. And at that time, I had glamorized roller derby. After that—not quite so much.”
The sioux falls roller dolls had us over for lunch before the game. It was an instant success for three reasons: They had a whole kettle of the best soup anyone had ever tasted, they also hated omaha and they loved derby.
“Unfortunately, my knee is injured right now, so I’m not skating, and it’s killing me,” a girl called Collision told me. “But I love derby. I absolutely love derby. We always talk about how we have so many different kinds of women, and we all clash and we all butt heads, but we all—you know what I mean?—but we all love each other, and it’s—I just love it.” Sender agreed.
“This is one sport that’s—we’ll work with anybody, we’ll take anyone. You have a mohawk, you got long, flowin’, beautiful hair—we’ll take you. You got prudes, or you got the freaks who will show anything—we’ll take you. We’ve got something for anyone. I think that’s why it’s so appealing to women. Because they’re so strong.”
A group of the dolls asked me to explain what ict meant.
“We’ve been trying to figure this out forever.”
I was curious about motivations, so I asked the ladies what made them strap on skates and start wailing on other chicks.
A girl called Hollie-cidal Maniac answered me laconically, “I like to roller skate.” The girl next to her laughed and said, “I like to wail on other chicks.”
Does all of this seem a little tame? Well, maybe I can hint at where the phrase “strap on” led them. It turns out that someone is a sex-toy distributor.
“That’s going to be in our contract from now on: Must bring strap-ons, at least one.”
This arena normally sees use during cattle auctions. It was cold and it smelled like cow, but the bout was sold out. The teams got ready in tents set up behind the bleachers, carpeted with Astroturf for traction. The Roller Dolls left easter baskets with ace bandages and lip gloss.
This girls were in battle mode, but they were still excited about the lip gloss. They wore black and gold jerseys, with gold makeup and glitter that we picked up at Wal-mart that afternoon. The rest of the outfit is different for each teammate. The interesting thing about this sport is that no matter what a woman’s body type is, she’s in your face about it. Sender wore skin-tight gold shirts. One of the girls on the other team skated in neon green panties.
Karma goes in for psychological intimidation. She paints her face with warpaint, and spends two hours getting her hair put in a mohawk. She’ll have to put a helmet over it before the game starts, but not before a fearsome introductory lap carrying an aluminum baseball bat.
Before they went out, the girls all joined hands for a prayer, even Jesus H. Christie, who’s an atheist. The American flag was just brought in by a marine color guard, seeming very out of place, and the national anthem was sung by a woman in overalls with a sign on her ass that read “whoop-ass cleaning
company.”
Finally, the girls came out from both teams. They sailed onto the track, led by Atomic Butterfly, an amazon with long blonde hair screaming out behind her. She may have kind of a pretty name and her hair is lovely, but i would not want to stand in her way. Soon, there was a whole swirl of half-dressed ladies in black and pink and yellow. Watching them skate around the track at high speed is really impressive. They look like dancers pumping their legs to make the turns.
There were some nice legs out on the track in fishnets and high socks that night, and I must admit I found them a little distracting when trying to focus on the action of the game. It must be maddening to try to keep score. The action seemed to move incredibly fast, especially from the front row. The only person easy to focus on was a jammer who on the outward end of her orbit, skating out by herself. Everyone else was a chaotic mass of flailing limbs and punk-rock attitude.
That chaos turned against us. Our girls just kept spilling onto the ground. Thrown into the audience even. Not good. roller derby is a bitch-eat-bitch sport, and the roller dolls were a wall of women on wheels. No jammer could get past.
“I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing: I’m sacrificing my body to the floor,” said Sender. “That’s why we drink afterward – so we can’t feel the pain.”
the outcasts have been a team in transition too long. They hadn’t played another team in some time, and it showed. the dolls were fast and they hit hard. After two half-hour rounds, the game ended in overwhelming defeat, but spirits stayed high.
“We just got our asses handed right to us. Both hands,” said Butterfly. “But man, they’re some good girls; you can’t be mad about this.”
The party started immediately. Pabst Blue Ribbon started making its way around. Pizza appeared to feed hungry athletes.
“There’s nothing like getting your ass kicked and then being handed a tallboy,” Jesus exclaimed. “It’s like going to hell and then being transcended into heaven.”
The real party was waiting for us at the red eye bar, located conveniently next door to our hotel. There was what passes for a hot d.j. in Sioux Falls. It turns out most of the derby girls are as nimble on the dance floor as they are on the track. It also turns out that I’m even worse at limbo drunk than sober.
I can’t tell you much else. I can’t tell you who took their shirt off. Or what color their underwear was. Or whose amazing talent the military must never know of. Or who got cornered by a randy lesbian who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Or even who won the late night onion eating contest. The roller girls take their omertà very seriously.
I can tell you that the after-after party was incredible. And that Omaha sucks.
