Girls with various combinations of dyed hair, tats, fishnet tights, short skirts and attitudes forcibly copped from Joan Jett. On roller skates. How could I pass up a chance to see a Gotham Girls Roller Derby match?
It was the Bronx Gridlock versus the Brooklyn Bombshells at Long Island University’s Brooklyn campus, so I took a nearly two-hour subway trek out there, spending most of my time held up by construction-related slowness and lounging around the bowels of the West Fourth Street station waiting for a train that never arrived. (Note to self: the B train doesn’t run on weekends.)
The venue, Schwartz Athletic Center, was the most architecturally sexy college basketball arena I’ve ever sat in. It used to be a grand 4,000-seat movie theater called the Paramount and the high, domed ceiling and parts of the upper walls still drip with golden rococo scrollwork and reliefs. During basketball games, an organist plays the giant four-keyboard Wurlitzer that was built to accompany silent films. The theater’s plush chairs have given way to bleachers that flank the court and seat 1,000, which they did tonight for the sellout crowd. Most of the fans rooted for Brooklyn, although there was a guy down in front hoisting a yellow posterboard that read “Bombshells’ Mom Smells” on one side and on the other, “We’ve got Bronxitis!,” apparently a loud, obnoxious affliction.
The announcer warmed up the crowd and introduced her color commentator, a confused-looking sportscaster from a local Fox affiliate. Each team member was called forth individually by name and catchphrase onto the rink, a rubbery blue covering placed over the basketball court with an oval track marked in theater-style pathway lights. All the derby girls choose their own numbers and names, half of which are puns; I was partial to Anne Phetamean and Penny Larceny. Although it seems to be a semiprofessional affair, I overheard a fan mention that the teams have to pay for the venue, don’t get a cut of ticket sales, and must foot their own insurance and equipment fees when they join the league. So it’s kinda like A League of Their Own, but with more piercings.
Before calling the start of the bout, the announcer offered a prediction in earnest that “both teams have a similar skating style, so it’s really going to come down to a mental game.” That was funny to me but I was in no position to agree or disagree, as I’m unfamiliar with the sport. Gameplay and strategy were lost on me despite a full explanation in the program, illustrated with diagrams of team positions and referee penalty signals. I learned that both hands over the ears, for example, is the refs’ call for “whining.” The basics of the game resemble NASCAR racing: round and round an oval track with most excitement inspired by crafty maneuvering and spectacular wipeouts. There’s elbowing and checking aplenty, girls tumbling down and hitting the ground with a sweaty slap or bowling over some poor photographer on the sideline. Shoving plays an expected defensive role and doubles as an offensive maneuver to advance a teammate into a better pack position.
The halftime show was performed by a tall, skinny, frizzy-haired blonde, clad in aqua-sequined hotpants, a pink bikini top and abdominals visible from the cheap seats, who hula-hooped to the club remix of Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” Then both team’s cheerleaders preformed a dance routine, one group in Bettie Paige hairdos and black Lacoste-ish shirt-dresses, the other in red kerchief do-rags and tan Dickies coveralls.
By the time the two 30-minute halves concluded, Brooklyn had lost a heartbreaker to the Bronx, 69 to 87, but most everyone in the stands had a rowdy good time reveling in the badass splendor.