Knockin’ bitches down.
I went to my first roller derby bout last night and it was awesome. Except that Henry was there. And Janna. And I learned within five minutes to never ever again take my son with us and expect to get any watching done. He can come back when he’s eleven, and not determined to run the length of the bleachers, tripping over purses and camera bags, and bucking in anguish during the National Anthem. Henry’s son Blake came too and I was happy because with him there, I wasn’t cheering alone. He is welcome to come back with me, because he knows how to get excited.
I have the uncanny ability to always choose the worst seats: In the movie theaters, at concerts, in classes. So I was not unamused to find that I had guided my group straight to the Cleveland side of the bleachers. It was fantastic. I jeered and booed every time the Ohioans around me waved their ugly poster board signs that looked like three-year-old blind kids designed them with half-dried out markers from 1996.
“Go, Full Throttle! Go, Stroker!” the husky-voiced broad behind me bellowed the entire time. I would boo and Henry would toss me disapproving looks.
Has he never been to a sporting event before?
And Janna was oblivious. “Hehe, what? Hehe, huh?” All she cared about was her friend’s girlfriend, Stephi.
“Matt said that Stephi and her friend are really into roller derby,” Janna said as we walked into Bladerunners. Oh really? That’s cool.
“I wonder if Stephi is here tonight, actually,” Janna said two seconds after we got situated on the bleachers. Yeah, I wonder, Janna.
“I saw Stephi! She’s here!” Janna said breathlessly, returning from the snack bar with pizza for me and fries for herself. Hooray for Stephi.
“There goes Stephi! She’s on the other side of the bleachers. Did you see her?!” Janna yelled, pointing across my chest. Sorry to have missed her. Perhaps security can put out an APB?
My friend Rhonda is a derby girl and she was there working the entertainment. She stopped by to chat with me briefly and also to break the horrible news that my favorite roller girl with the hot pink hair was going to be benched that night due to an injury. I was really sad. Janna wanted me to go talk to her, but I was like, “Uh, that’s not going to happen.” Erin doesn’t talk to crushes. Erin stutters and spits on crushes. (Just the girl ones.) So instead, I stayed on my side of the smeared plexiglass and took stalkery pictures of her all night long, and when our girls formed a line and circled the rink while having their names announced, I let out an obnoxious cat call for my pink-haired girl Mel Practice. I asked Rhonda if I could expect lots of blood, maybe an occasional protruding bone, but she assured me that they promote safety. I was kind of sad. Only because I wanted to see some orange bitches get broke.
The snack bar pizza brought back a wave of nostalgia from the adult skate nights Henry, Janna and I used to go to. (And by ‘used to,’ I mean that we went about four times in the span of two months.) Admittedly, it was the snack bar pizza that kept me going back and strapping wheels to my feet. This is the life, I thought as I wiped sauce from my chin. Who ever would have thought that I could pig out on delicious snack bar pizza without any pretenses?
Our Pittsburgh team was outstanding. I didn’t think I would really give a shit, but I quickly found myself gesticulating wildly with black and gold pride and spewing venomous insults at those Cleveland broads. The one I particularly wished to engage in a downright alley cat brawl was a slutty hoe in white shorts by the name of CoCo Sparx. She was one of the jammers and never failed to excite the gay Ohio fans behind me. They’d stomp on the bleachers and holler her name every time she would skate past and I wanted to knock her down so bad. I might try to get on our team for that sole purpose. Janna kept saying, “I can totally see you out there, too” which I think is implying that I have a foul temper and like to be a bully. Which is the truth, but I was kind of sad because she never says that when we go to the ballet.
Henry put out five dollars for something called a 50/50 raffle (and then he belittled me for having little knowledge of raffles; sorry but I’m not a senior citizen at a church fair) and also tossed in one of my Moo cards and one of his (lame) business cards in a fish bowl for some other raffle (after I put them in the slit of this three-foot-tall coffin, because I can’t follow directions; I don’t know what that coffin was for, but it has two out-of-place business cards in it now). The drawings took place right before the third period and Henry couldn’t wait any longer because Chooch was like, “Oh my shit, I want to go to bed, you assholes.” So Henry reluctantly handed over his wand of raffle tickets and begged me not to fuck it up.
He didn’t win, but I won the business card raffle (because my moo cards are the shit) for two free tickets to the next bout. As I made my way down to collect them, Rhonda yelled out, “You remembered your business cards!” because I’m notorious for never having them on my person. This is my paltry excuse for inconsistent art sales.
Janna and I left after I claimed my prize. We stopped at Denny’s, the entrance of which Janna passed up three times, and Janna ordered a french toast special.
“How do you want your eggs?”
I’m coming for you, CoCo Sparx.