I know a lot of Chicagoans who like watching girls on roller skates beat the living shit out of each other. Perhaps they thought the oft-recognized Windy City Rollers were the only outlet for their insatiable blood lust. If so, they were dead wrong. Now in their second full season, the Chi-Town Sirens have been jamming through the Chicago area, leaving blood on the tracks and nary a drunken soul unsatisfied.
Recently I attended the “I Pity the Fool!” match, pitting the Ultraviolent against the Wheelers, and featuring a promotional poster with none other than Mr. T himself, a truly suitable image for the decadent hedonism inherent in a sport involving both body checks and mini-skirts. I could imagine no better lead-in to the event than “The Party Bus” hosted by former Siren Diva Copperfield (all the derby girls’ names were plays on words: Robin Zombie, Jane Reaction and, probably the best, Shoka Conduit) bouncing up and down the aisle with green apple flavored vodka, offering bus shots to any and everyone who wanted them. It was every rebellious impulse I’d had as a youngster lived out with no nagging adults to be seen.
“Can I smoke in here?” asked one timid party-busser.
“You can smoke,” Diva replied, “but if it’s green, I want some.”
Diva moved to the sidelines after her first season because she “broke too many bones.” Watching her charge through the bus aisle, sucking down clouds of smoke and shots of vodka, I imagined there were quite a few girls thankful she was no longer charging at them.
Entering the arena with a decent buzz going, the plastic cheese nachos lingering under the heating lamp in the sorry excuse for a concession stand seemed a lot more appetizing than perhaps they ought to have. I snagged them up and took my seat, joining the other fans in yelling and pumping my fist as the girls skated by. What was I cheering for? How did the scoring work? I didn’t know or care. I had a can of Sparks and people were falling down. During intermission some other people played with fire. There was a fight at the end. The whole affair started with an awful version of the national anthem. Where is my trucker hat? I pondered. Can a full on carnival or demolition derby be far off, in this monument to ironic white trashery? My queries were answered with loud cheers, as one of the hated Wheelers took a nasty spill.
The Wheelers were certainly lacking a crowd, or else their fans were the quiet, contemplative sort. In the beginning, it seemed the Ultraviolent and their loyal legions had much to cheer about. They went out to an impressively dominant lead, one they maintained throughout, until the third period when a tie (64-64) was reached.
I had this much figured out: One girl on each team wore a star on their helmet. At the beginning of each jam, the roller derby equivalent of a play, the starred player, the jammer, started from the back of the pack and needed to lap the rest of the crowd. Any subsequent members of the opposing team passed gained their team a point. It seemed easy. But it happened fast. All these skates spinning around a spinning room: It was enough to give me a headache. By the second period I stopped pretending. I watched the action and glanced periodically at the scoreboard, holding my Sparks in the air and yelling like a damn fool.
But still, during the sixty four point tie the tension was tangible. Who would emerge victorious? Would the Ultraviolent maintain their lead? Or would the Wheelers capitalize on their momentum and pull ahead? It was the eternal suspense of sport that transcended, that was applicable in everything from kickboxing to tiddlywinks.
I cheered for the Wheelers because I decided everyone in Ultraviolent was probably really mean. Why else would they be known as Ultraviolent? Nice people do not call themselves such unseemly things.
And the Wheelers, indeed, emerged victorious. Shoka Conduit, it turned out, not only had the cleverest name but was a pretty bad ass jammer to boot and rallied the Wheelers to substantial victory. By the last few minutes the end was a done deal, punches of frustration were thrown and the rink erupted into a full on fight. Everyone cheered.
Through my drunken haze, I found some truth in this, some meaning. Something integral to the very essence of roller derby, something Mr. T might as well have said, and something most of the Chi-Town Sirens’ fans can surely get behind: It’s not whether you win or lose; it’s whether or not you see a fight.
