Rat City RollerGirls

Rollergirls are a lot like ex-cons. Both boast love in the form of hearts inked across defined biceps, the latter typically outlining the name of a past mistress or dear Mom, the former housing a blazing roller skate or mere Derby. Both appear to have an abundance of pent-up aggression that under certain circumstances easily manifests into physical violence – but while a skatin’ lady receives greater applause for extra bruises delivered, a lawbreaker earns more time. And, both seem to establish solidarity among their cohorts, as though getting abused together creates an unspoken and unbreakable bond. Despite these similarities, there does remain one key and very important difference: where criminals are indisputably bad, derby girls are indisputably badass.      

They push and shove, throw indiscriminate elbows and employ whatever tactic necessary to bring their opponents to the ground, all the while maintaining an air of glamour and sensual femininity reminiscent of the pin-up era. Witnessing the stark contradiction wheel around the track ignites a similar effect amongst its viewers; the audience is left pleading for mercy while begging for more. See for yourself.

Seattle is home to the Rat City Rollergirls, LLC, (RCRG), the city’s first and only all-women derby league. What started as a grassroots movement in 2004 has now evolved into a league of five teams with over 80 member/owners. The teams compete against one another on a flat track from February through October in preparation for the ultimate goal: representing Seattle in national and international competition. 

The full-contact, highly spirited sport is played in ‘bouts,’ two thirty-minute periods that are divided into two-minute segments called ‘jams.’ During the jam each team is represented by five girls, of which there is one pivot (skater up front that sets the pace), one jammer (skater in the back that tries to pass the other team’s players for points) and three blockers (tight central pack of skaters that strive to prevent the jammer from scoring).   

Sensory Overload at the Flat Track

I read the rules. I listened to the announcer. I focused. And yet, no matter how hard I tried, I still had trouble following last Saturday’s Rat City Rollergirls derby bout. True, it’s is a complicated sport and difficult to understand upon first viewing. But I don’t think that was it. Nope, I point my purblind fingers at the fact that the entire roller derby experience is an overstimulation of the senses and thus full of distraction.

Firstly, sight. The four teams of girls were clearly identified by separate uniforms; however, each player added her own personality to the otherwise homogenized garb. Trying to read the clever names of shirts as they whizzed by became a well-rewarded challenge and clearly distinguishing Knock’er Socksoff (#36D) and Scarlet Leather (#A) was akin to earning a gold star in spelling class. It was also inspiring to see just how many different bottoms could be paired with tops of black and army green and even more so, just how many skaters skipped the pant-like attire altogether and went straight for the skivvies. I have at last uncovered the target market of the American Apparel metallic booty baskets, otherwise known as hot shorts.

As if following the players wasn’t entertaining enough, the audience members provided an endless pool of people watching. It was as though the venue had been confused by attendees of a rockabilly concert, drag show, frat party, suburban mothers’ cocktail night and retiree soiree (based solely upon unfounded stereotypes derived from appearances, of course.) But despite the blaring differences, all viewers shared one common theme: a love for derby. Necklaces displaying laminated season tickets hung proudly and congratulatory high fives were dispensed throughout the bleachers; the camaraderie shared among teammates extended far beyond the track. Or maybe it was the abundance of PBR.

Which brings me to the next sense, taste. Unfortunately, I did not indulge in any alcoholic beverages, unless you consider vicariously a feasible means of consumption; the people to my left, right, diagonal, rear and front drank more than enough for two of me. Not that I can complain, their frequent trips to the bar left unparalleled viewing of girls using cans of ice cold brew to assuage the pain caused by recent face-dives to the pavement. A diehard fan enlightened me of the fact that back in the day, half-priced beer was sold during halftime. Since binge drinking seemed to be the secondary sport of Hangar 30, I could understand why the promotion was quickly brought to an end. 

The third issue was sound. I can’t imagine that a structure used to house airplanes has optimal acoustics, which is why I’m chalking up the announcer’s slightly indiscernible narration to a non-conducive audio atmosphere and not my own premature hearing loss. Of course, maybe it was difficult to make out his words because the cheers and gasps of the empathetic spectators were so enthusiastic. Or, maybe it was the rockin’ background music that was too good to ignore (the girls were initially escorted onto the track by “Sheena is a Punk Rocker.”) But then, there were the whistles of the referees, the noises produced by bodies slamming into one another, the incongruously soothing sound of wheels repeatedly circling the track, and so on.

Of all the scents wafting through the building, the most potent was that of sweat. The fact that the day’s soaring temperature was record-breaking paired with the fact that derby fans are numerous and incredibly loyal (and thus in full attendance) yielded a wonderful aroma. It also created yet another factor linking devoted fans to their be-skated goddesses: perspiration. Heat wave aside, roller derby is very physically demanding; it requires strength, agility, power, endurance, hours upon hours of practice and an endless supply of Secret. Therefore, it should only take a few minutes of bout watching to quell any of those ridiculous misconceptions that roller derby isn’t a ‘real’ sport.

The last sense to be bombarded with stimuli was that of touch, but more so in a theoretical manner. Despite my inability to fully understand why certain players were sitting out or how total scores were calculated, I could not deny the intense feelings that came when a girl crashed into the flimsy track barrier or withstood a tough sideswipe. I was not alone; the excitement was very much lingering in the air. It was hanging upon the applause and whoops and gasps of the audience members, a cult-like following that seemed to be cheering for no one person in particular, so much as rooting for everyone present, for the sport as a whole and for the overwhelming sense of solidarity.