On Saturday night, a friend took us to see our first Roller Derby match. It was out at the George Bell Arena, and it featured The Death Track Dolls against The Smoke City Betties. I was expecting a counter-culture fantasia, an ironic descent into 70’s kitsch and hipster irony fueled by some post-feminist rocket fuel.
The skaters, some in zombie makeup, boasted names like Sista Fista, Audrey Hellborn, Kung Fu Kitty and Bonky Kong. Arrayed on the track in their retro roller skates, they stretched suggestively before the match. The crowd of about 300 or 400 was a curious mixture of dykes, counter-culture hipsters, tattoo enthusiasts and people who wouldn’t have looked out of place at a bingo hall.
On the interior, just beyond the track, was an area for the family of the skaters. The gate for the Zamboni was open, allowing shafts of sunlight to pass into the arena. From the parking lot, husbands passed through the gate with their kids, bringing a country fair feeling to the event. They would shake out a blanket and lay it out on the concrete for the kids, and together they’d cheer on their mother as she skated around and around in vicious circles. It was actually entirely wholesome, like a modern reinterpretation of a Norman Rockwell painting.
I was shocked by how serious minded the match actually was. I mean, it really looked like everybody was trying, and after a little bit of time passed, I began to enjoy watching the strategy and athleticism of the spectacle more than the camp. It seemed clear that the participants, who were pretty good, wanted to do well and get better. They took it seriously.
A row in front of us sat an older woman of maybe 70, who sat beside a wiry heavy rock God who kept chugging down bottle after bottle of Gatorade. This woman lost herself to the match, and would stand shouting, punching her fists out and cheering on her favourite team. Above us, in the “bar” area, people sipped beer and waited for the draw at intermission.
When the match was over I went downstairs to the washroom, passing by the locker room of the Smoke City Betties. There stood Memphis Kitty, who had started off slow but ended up playing a great game. My friend had told me that last season, after drinking too much beer, Memphis Kitty had gained weight and had a bad season, but on this night, on her roller blades and in her tight spandex uniform, she looked like an Amazon warrior. Her cheeks flushed from exertion, she smiled, enthusiastically talking to an older couple that looked like her parents. 25 years ago they probably went to watch every one of their daughters T-Ball games, and now, just like then, they were still attending her passions, telling her after each game, just how proud they were of her.