My first (and probably only) remotely James-Bond-sounding conversation:
While waiting in line at my favorite coffee joint, I noticed the bored-looking barista behind the counter was wearing a necklace with the letters "ARRG" studded in rhinestones.  When I reached the register to order my latte, I asked, "What's your name?"
   "Emily," she answered as she eyed me suspiciously.
   "No.  Your real name," I replied as I made a point to eyeball her necklace.  
   As if she understood a secret handshake, her eyes lit up and she said, "Princess Slaya."
   I told her my sister was Holy Schlitz.

It turns out Princess Slaya is also Holy Schlitz's big sister. 

In Roller Derby, that is.  Despite sounding like Charlie Brown's sigh of resignation when Lucy pulls the football away from him as he yet again unceremoniously misses his field goal, ARRG stands for Arch Rival Roller Girls, the St. Louis chapter of the Women's Flat Track Derby Association.  If you haven't gone to a bout, you really should.  Contrary to what images "roller derby" may bring to mind, it's not full of a bunch of goth chicks who will give you the hairy eyeball and crack their knuckles if you look at them wrong.  (Sorry to disappoint some of the guys out there.)  As my mother learned this past weekend when we drug her along kicking and screaming, Roller Derby enjoys a diverse audience including moms, dads, siblings and even the spouses and wee children of roller girls.  From my informal poll of cuffed Levis, vintage Ramones t-shirts, Converse All-Stars, tasteful tattoos and unapologetically black hair, you could even say the crowd was more thirtysomething hipster than anything else.

Xanadu notwithstanding, Derby is an actual sport.   The Jammer is the only person on your team who can score, and she does so by charging through the pack of Pivots and Blockers.  The Jammer, who earns a point for each player on the other team she passes, is designated by an elastic-edged fabric cover on her helmet with a star on it (lovingly referred to as the "panty" on the bench).  Because of the nature of the game, there is a pack of girls duking it out to either keep the other team's Jammer from scoring, or they're trying to clear the way for their own Jammer to get through, so there is a lot of falling, tripping and hip checking.  Jammers are usually teeny agile things who can skate quick as hell while maneuvering through a herd of opponents.  It's a fast, exciting game: there are two 40-minute periods and there isn't much lollygagging between each two-minute jam, so for somebody like me who has the attention of a gnat, I find that I'm pretty well occupied for two hours.   

My sister decided to take up Roller Derby as part of her new year's resolution to get in shape and make new friends.  Unlike the rest of us who are lazily eating bon bons and drinking gallons of beer in front of the idiot box instead of going to the gym, she actually did the research, bought all the obscure equipment and started attending biweekly practices.  And she did so more than once.  My sister, the only other person I know who hates gym class as much as I do.  My sister, the woman who would rather get a root canal than take a half-hearted jog around the block.       

Because of my relationship with Holy Schlitz, I get the inside scoop on the game.  Like most sports, it is deceptively easy from the stands.  Derby takes a lot of stamina, balance and enough gumption to heartlessly check the innocent little jammer or competing blocker, but it is a sport that doesn't take itself too ridiculously seriously.  It takes even more stamina and planning to employ one of the lesser-known defenses: the gas blast.  Since the typical defensive stance is one in which the skater is hunched over, ass up and ready to bump an unsuspecting player, it is common to blast players in your downdraft with the gaseous remnants of last night's snack of White Castle or Taco Bell.  My doubts surrounding this defensive tactic were quelled when I saw the player who had "TOXIC" written across the back of her shorts.  

I'm fascinated by the sport because it seems legit while maintaining the subversive, under-the-radar vibe.  Unlike some major cities, St. Louis doesn't have a men's league.  It's just the girls here in St. Louis and they seriously kick some ass.  I derive so much pleasure from watching the scores of women of all shapes and sizes gracefully round the track while just as many young, impressionable girls watch from the sidelines as their spongelike minds soak up the sights and sounds of women whole-heartedly competing in a full-contact game.  They are strong, hard-core competitors, but they usually present the perfect image of sports(wo)manship that many other sports could learn from. 

And it's not just complacent fans sitting on their hands watching.  A few rows ahead of me, a woman who looked like she had just left a St. Louis Art Museum fundraiser -- complete with the perfectly-coiffed hair, Waverly-print skirt, kitten heels and pastel jacket -- stood up and yelled, "Kick her ass, Overland Offender [#63114]!"........which brings up the ritual of names for the players.  Before a woman gets drafted by one of the teams, she has to have a name that is unique to the national league of WFTDA  as well as a number that is unique to her league.  These gals are creative.  The Arch Rivals have Mayor Francis Slayor, Punches Pileup and Faith Kill.  Many a night Schlitz and I have spent hours making lists of names for her to use, including Harry Slaughter and Hawkeye Pierced (#4077).  

Roller Derby bouts harken back to my days in high school and college when I frequented the Rocky Horror Picture Show:  low budget, subversively sexy, and open to all.  Nobody is judged by sex, race or sexual preference.  Come as you are, keep an open mind, and you are sure to have a good time.  Like Rocky Horror, there is a homemade theatricality that embraces anybody brave enough to enter the ring.  Each bout has a clever theme; for last week's matchup for the Smashinistas versus the M-80s, the program was "Pulp Friction," complete with professionally photographed and designed cover to lampoon the original.

Derby girls typically wear fishnets, dramatic makeup and short shorts to complement their team t-shirt.  Just like a football game, the players are introduced with team music and dramatic lighting, so the women wear props that reinforce her character's persona during the pre-bout introduction: Davey Blockit wears a coonskin hat, Shillelagh Spillblood circles the ring with an Irish flag cape.  Under the ever-present watchful eye of  Zombie Squad security, The Jeerleaders cheer their entry with black pom-poms as the announcer introduces each player and she proceeds to round the track and join her other teammates in the center of the ring.  Like football, only better. 

The next local bout pairs the Stunt Devils against the Smashinistas on June 13th at the All-American Sports Mall.  Kick back with your two-by-four of PBR and enjoy the show.  I'll see you there.