Derby City gallops past ROCK
Ed. Note – Our regular ROCK correspondent, Troy Lyle, was called away on a fur trapping expedition in the wilds of Montana. After a brief stay in a Great Falls clinic due to a nasty case of the Collywobbles brought on in part by a mixture of Butterscotch Schnaaps and wild mushrooms, we are hoping for his safe reclamation of this column within the week. In the meantime, you get this late submission.
By Thomas Helmers
“You know that I fell in love with a Roller Derby Queen
Round and round. Oh round and round
The meanest hunk o’woman
That anybody ever seen
Down in the arena.”
–Jim Croce
“I have to leave for a coupla weeks. No time to get into specifics. The Montana wilds are beckoning,” I was told. “I’m going to need you to go down to the Lexington Ice Center and observe the Roller Derby bout while I’m absent.”
“But aside from ninety second bursts on late night cable during my salad days,” I noted, “I don’t know anything about Derby, Troy. I wouldn’t know what to make of it. There’s no way Mayer will let me publish anything I write on the bout.”
“Don’t you worry about that lousy disc-throwing sap of an editor. I’ll take care of him. You just make sure to send him 500 words, no more, and make sure to do it by Sunday afternoon. I’ll see you when I get back from Montana.”
With that, my evening commenced Saturday night in the upstairs bar at Pazzo’s. I met one of my companions whom I had handpicked to tag along on this half-baked excursion. Three Fullers ESB’s and one Calzone later, I finally felt cognizant enough to make haste to the other side of town in time for the National Anthem.
After dumping a handful of crumpled bills and Sacajawea dollars onto the counter, we made our way to our awaiting vehicle. A ten minute drive, and we were pulling into the parking lot of the Ice Center, an unimpressive monolith of painted cinder blocks and aluminum siding. I had been here before, late one winter’s eve with a group of people who wouldn’t bother to claim me now for an Eastern Kentucky University/Radford College ice hockey match. The place stank of mildew and stale popcorn that night and the game itself was an affront to all things sporting. Next door at the biblically themed miniature golf course I aced the dreaded “Water into Wine” hole. Fond memories to be certain, but those wouldn’t even scratch the surface of what awaited me inside on this warm evening.
“This must be the place,” I stated upon seeing a husky young gentleman wandering the parking lot. He wore a faded red t-shirt and had what appeared to be a large Dallas Cowboys’ star shaved into the back of his otherwise bulbous head. The parking lot began to fill with all manner of sedans and SUVs as we chain smoked Kools and waited for our third companion, a suitor, I was to find out, of one of the girls who would be competing that evening for the Roller Girls of Central Kentucky (ROCK). His arrival was delayed, something involving an excruciating decision and multiple Captain America shirts. After an appropriate lecture on the scruples of punctuality, we headed inside.
There would be no beer or any manner of vice permitted in this establishment, only good clean fun and girl on girl violence. Thankfully, I had already resigned myself to this and was in about as wholesome of a mood as I could be. After paying the requisite seven dollar spectator fee, we were ushered into the arena. I went immediately to the “Suicide Seating,” right on the turn, a mere two and a half feet from where the action would be. A committed sports fanatic, I was ecstatic. Any event where I might be in danger of leaving with a few teeth missing is certainly right up my alley.
A mere three yards to our right, the black and pink clad ladies of the home team warmed up. They were imposing, yet completely striking at the same time.
I observed them as they took laps around the arena, effortlessly gliding on eight wheels. They had names like “Rainbow Smite”, “Ragdoll Ruby”, and “Ellie Slay.” Truly, women after my own heart.
The opponent tonight was the squad from Louisville, The Derby City Rollergirls. Their uniforms were hastily assembled and I noted that they certainly had the ROCK girls outsized. They were mean, to be sure, and I was not liking the prospects for our beloved hometown ladies, but then again, what the hell did I know? I couldn’t even make head or tails out of the rules of the game even after poring through the program for a good solid thirty seconds.
At 8:15 PM sharp, the bout was underway. From my vantage point, things were very confusing. All manner of pushing, shoving, elbow pads whizzing by me at speeds I had failed to expect, let alone comprehend. Having no concept of the game, I could only gather things were not going well when ROCK member Bitty Bast’rd was absolutely laid out by a leviathan two and a half times her size a mere 3 feet from where I was now currently stationed. She hit the floor with a sickening thud, but sure as hell, she was back upright in less than a second and skating back with fury towards the rabble that by this time had already made its way to the other side of the track.
Things were not going well for the ROCK squad. I could tell that from the scoreboard. The Derby City squad had immediately jumped out to a sizable lead, but that was of no matter to myself. I was here to witness the spectacle, not report on the specifics of strategies and play by play. It was almost half time and only now was I finally starting to get a layman’s grasp on the ins and outs of strategy and scoring. The girls with stars on their helmets, I realized, were the ones to watch. Skating through the wall of competitors to day light seemed to be the priority. I found myself starting to openly cheer the ladies of ROCK while maligning the wildebeests from Louisville that had been, up to this point, completely decimating the home team.
Halftime came quickly, and mercifully. The scoreboard read Derby City 76 ROCK 9. I didn’t have to be a Rollergirl enthusiast to know that things were certainly looking bleak. “No need to throw in the towel now,” I thought. I’m here to witness this thing from start to finish. Never forget the ‘86 Mets or the Buffalo Bills. Perhaps the ROCK ladies could circle the wagons and pull off the most unlikely of all comebacks, or at the very least, put on a second half performance that could breed confidence for the next time they run into these thugs.
Sure enough, after I had gotten into a slight verbal altercation with the lad who was working the concession stand over the preposterous fact that they no longer had large soft drinks available, let alone any fresh popcorn, I returned to my spot on the floor in time to see ROCK re-emerge from the locker room. They still were smiling, had the fire in their eye. If I hadn’t known the score, I would never have dreamed that they were getting absolutely pasted by the team on the other side of the arena.
The second half became a little hazy. The beer had worn off, and there was word of a Cincinnati Red pitcher working on a perfect game buzzing through the arena. “No time to involve myself in that,” I said. “There are more important things afoot right now.” The home team had a different fire about them right out of the gate, having more than doubled their score a mere 9 minutes into the second half. The hitting continued unabated, escalating even. For reasons which I failed to grasp, ROCK member Meracle Whip was shown the gate with about 7 minutes remaining in the match.
The match was almost in the books. The ROCK ladies were clearly done for, but never gave up or turned down the intensity. The shining moment of the evening for my companion to my right was when team captain Ellie Slay was knocked off her feet and skidded directly into him, nearly knocking his beverage to kingdom come when the duel was near its conclusion. I must admit that I was a little envious. I had started to find myself growing increasingly smitten with these gals. The sheer athleticism and brute strength put on display before me was enough to make me as giddy as a thirteen year old watching Cinemax.
The final horn sounded and the score read like an obituary. Derby City 156 ROCK 45. Of course, that meant nothing at all to myself. I had bore witness to one of the most invigorating evenings that I could have asked for. Without question, I was now a full on Roller Derby convert.We left the assembly hall and proceeded to drink Wild Turkey and ruminate on the fine turn of events we had been involved with until the sun had nearly come up. See you in August ladies.
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