“But these are special peanuts, from Baltimore.”
Only a few hundred feet away from roller-skating, black-eyed women tackling each other, I was stuck behind Jimmy Carter’s long-lost cousin in the entrance line, waiting for him to ditch his stash of illegal legumes. I guess you can’t bring your own food into the D.C. Armory. When you’re hopped up on adrenaline, eager to sit down and witness some female-on-female violence, you learn these kinds of things quickly.
What kind of person watches roller derby? I wasn’t sure how long these matches lasted, and I didn’t want to sit next to a confrontational foodie. As I took my seat, I was worried.
But that unease lasted only until the announcer started introducing the players. They had names like Condoleezza Slice, Velocity Raptor, or—be still, my beating heart—Lady Burn Johnson. I cheered up. After all, it’s hard to be unhappy when the referee is named Rank Sinatra.
I was surprised at the number of older fans present, considering one team was named the Heavy Metal Hookers. Some, like the elderly couple wearing matching pink Rocawear shirts with “Nubian Nemesis” spelled out on the back, were obviously relatives of the players. But I like to think that they were grizzled roller derby fans, too, giddy to see the sport reemerging.
In the first bout, Philadelphia’s own Heavy Metal Hookers went up against Scare Force One, the two-time champions of the D.C. Rollergirls Derby League. As I got a feel for the rules—a team scores a point when a designated player, called the jammer, laps the opposing team’s skaters—I began to enjoy the match.
The skaters were talented, dodging and blocking with impressive speed, and only occasionally losing control and flying into the crowd. Unfortunately, and in typical D.C. fashion, Scare Force One got blown out, 71-14.
The second bout between the Cherry Blossom Bombshells and the D.C. Demoncats was rife with tension, as the Demoncats barely beat the Bombshells, 76-70. Players were sent to the penalty box left and right—there’s no love lost in derby, apparently.
By then, I’d totally bought in to roller derby. The whole event had an endearing small-town quality to it. The bout was even sponsored by PBR—America’s beer! The announcer reminded us, as if we could forget, that if we weren’t drinking PBR, the terrorists had already won.
Later, the announcer declared that the after-party was being held at his brother’s place. It doesn’t get much more small-town than that.
When I got home, I read the flyer I had picked up on my way out. It read: “Come to the after-party at My Brother’s Place: Restaurant, Bar, and Grill.” But by then, it didn’t matter. If I changed my opinions now, then I’d be letting the terrorists win. U-S-A! U-S-A!
