This Might Hurt A Little

by Merchant of Vengeance

When I was a child, one of my biggest physical struggles was learning to ride a bike. My dad and I fought epic battles wherein he pleaded, cajoled, yelled, sighed, pushed, and pulled me to just hop on and go, damn it. But I was AFRAID. I could FALL. I could HURT MYSELF.

While I eventually learned to ride my bike, with the aid of a gentle neighbor and a gentle hill and an odd little hoppity double leg push on either side, glide, and pedal, my fear of being hurt persisted: no, dad, you may NOT pull out that splinter with your pocket knife; it will HURT; are you absolutely sure, Doctor, that I need a shot? Because needles HURT. Please don’t pass me the soccer ball, or the volleyball, or the basketball, because if it hits me it will HURT. And absolutely no on dodgeball. Obviously.

I refused to let anyone pull my loose teeth, waiting until they were literally hanging from a tiny string of gum by a tiny corner of tooth. I never picked a scab (which, in retrospect, is absolutely freakish, because who doesn’t pick scabs?). My cautious and timid in regards to the physical realm plagued my soccer experience, my gymnastics experience (the high bars? You’re kidding, right?), and all of high school PE. Physically speaking, I was not a risk taker. Because THINGS HURT.

I grew out of some of my physical reluctance. But, by age 33, I’d never really played a team sport, and pretty much settled into myself: I was reasonably fit; I enjoyed the out of doors; I was bookish, I liked to write and read and do puzzles; I played the guitar and the piano and the violin and I sang and I ate mostly vegetarian and also gluten free, and yeah, okay, you could probably have beaten me up.
Enter roller derby.

Actually, enter Whip It. That’s right. I owe my bewildering love of roller derby to Drew Barrymore and Ellen Page.

See, because, if you watch the movie, you know that roller derby names are really pretty great (Babe Ruthless: you are my roller derby name hero). So is roller derby fashion. So my friend and I, in our pajamas during a Colorado spring blizzard, watched Whip It and dished in a girlish sort of way about great roller derby names and leg warmers. Which made us think about being derby girls for Halloween—great costume, right? Which made me think, eventually, that if I was going to be a derby girl for Halloween, I’d need skates, because, if nothing else, I’m a stickler for accuracy. Which made me wonder if I’d be any good on skates.

To do research on the fashion, meanwhile, we went to a bout. Which was pretty fun. So we went to another. Sometime during the second half, watching a roller girl skate by, I thought, “I think I might be able to do that.”

Besides, I thought, if I want a real roller derby name, I am going to have to play it.

See? I owe it all to Drew and Ellen. Or maybe Babe Ruthless.

Regardless, almost one year ago, I somehow found the courage to drop in on a practice with one of Denver’s recreational leagues, the Wreckin Roller Rebels. Despite the fact that they advertised a welcoming environment for skaters of all levels, I was terrified beyond belief. Literally shaking. I had to listen to “A Kiss with a Fist” to get hyped up enough to walk in the door.

“Dear god,” I thought: “this could HURT.”

I only vaguely remember my first practice. I do remember that I put my skates on while sitting on the floor and then struggled clumsily to my feet, feeling like a tool. I remember falling and stopping drills where everyone seemed so in control, and I was utilizing the wall, or occasionally unsuspecting girls on skates, as a helpful stopping aid.

I still remember the sort of rise that occurred in my throat right before I knew I was going to fall. I was AFRAID. And the truth is, sometimes it really did HURT. Like the time that, because I wasn’t bending my knees the way everyone incessantly and annoyingly told me to, I fell crack on my tailbone. That HURT.

But I got up anyway.

That’s the thing I didn’t see coming: I could fall, and get up anyway.

The knee pads help. And the elbow pads. And the helmet, wrist guards, and mouth guard. It’s like putting on a costume. In the car, before derby, I am mild-mannered bookish English teacher. But pull those wrist guards on, and I am DERBY GIRL, READY TO FALL.

Because in all honestly, it does hurt sometimes, but I’ve learned something very important: I can take it. Somewhere I stopped being afraid of falling. I even sort of like it: I like falling drills when I’m in control of falling, and I also like falling on accident, and getting up. Sometimes I’m still afraid of getting hit. But I like knowing I can get back up.

As it turns out, and what no one really saw coming, is this: I can take a licking…and keep on ticking. In fact, I’ve got Timex beat in that regard. Derby has become an outer, physical manifestation of the inner strength I always knew I had. Derby has allowed me to take physical risks, to throw unnecessary caution to the wind. Derby, in fact, has given me more than I could have ever asked for, in only one year:

Sore muscles. Really, really sore muscles. A pulled butt muscle. And then, after a time, much stronger muscles. And frankly, a nicer derrier.

Teammates. 5 months in, one of our captains pulled us in for a pre-bout pep talk. “Look into each other’s eyes,” she told us. “These are the women you protect. These are the women you take care of. These are the women someone else is going to try to hit, or knock out of bounds, and we are not going to let them. Because we love one another.” I was overwhelmed: these women, 5 months ago, were strangers I was skating into because I had no brakes, and now, they loved me enough to protect me on a track? I’d never played a team sport, never felt that camaraderie. Best. Pep talk. Ever. Also, it must be said that my teammates are the most extraordinary women on the planet: strong, beautiful, and amazing, every last one of them. Our team is diverse and wonderful and if anyone ever questions the power, audacity, and capability of a group of women, individually and together, then I defy you to come to just one practice and not feel that they’ve changed your life.

A really cool collection of derby clothes. Derby skins, long: shiny, metallic, charcoal wonders. Derby skins, short: red and shiny and fabulous. Socks: tie-dyed and striped and delightful. Fishnets: fishnets as an athletic uniform? Yes please. Tank tops with the hottie-bo-bottie Rebel mascot skater chick and MY DERBY NAME on the back.

A derby name. Hell yeah! I’m the Merchant of Vengeance, MOV, or Merch. If you need it explained because you’re not naturally nerdy like certain bookish English teachers, it’s because my real name comes from the Shakespearian play The Merchant of Venice. Get it? Huh? Huh? Also, my number is the year roundabouts when the play was published: 1597. I’ve found that derby unites nerds: Battlehips, for example, whose number is that of a battleship from her home state, or Daze X Machina. Derby naming, for the record, is all that I once dreamed it would be.

Friends. Like my first derby friend, my sweet and goofy Impact Wench, who saved my helmet when I deserted it in the warehouse (she knew it was mine because it’s got a sticker on the back that says “Reading is Sexy.” Just sayin.) and brought it to me over coffee, then went late night skating with me and trained me up on how to hit, so I was less afraid. Beastie, whose very being is a reassurance, and whose mean face matches mine in ferocity (seriously, if you saw the two of us making our mean faces at you, you would tremble in fear). McSqueeZe, my friend and mentor, who hits like a heat seeking missile and rarely lets me past her, and who also makes me laugh, and who makes me work harder on the track than I thought I could. Damage, who never apologizes for anything, because why should she, and if you want to do that, Merchant, just get on the track and fucking do it! Lady McMassacre and CruTaun, whose dance parties make the nerves bearable. Bitches, who brought me a shot before my first ever bout, without which I might have imploded. Vex, whose laugh gets me through practices and advice gets me through an opposing wall of skaters. Mis-Hell, who relentlessly tells me to “get lower, baby, bet low, dammit, that’s where all your power comes from!” The list goes on and on.

Confidence. One of my students told me she’s seen a difference in me since derby, and it’s true. I was so afraid to try derby. I was so afraid that I might get HURT. But I tried it, and I did it, and I’m doing it…so what is there, anywhere in the world, that I can’t do now?

Over the summer, I was spending some time with family, and my stepdad and I were playing guitar and singing, and my sweet, darling, and perfect in every way step-nieces were singing along. I finished off a sort of love song/lullaby, all sweetness and light, my nieces at my feet, and my step-brother turned to his friend and said, “and she plays roller-derby.”

I used to shrug that sort of comment off by saying, yeah, but only on a rec league…or yeah, but I’m not that good; I’m a total newbie, or, yeah, but, you know…I still sort of suck at it. But recently I decided to knock that off.

Fuck yeah, I play roller derby, bitches! I put on pads. And sometimes I fall. And sometimes I get hit. And sometimes, it hurts.

But I’m not afraid anymore.