An adventure in fishnet and rhinestones
By Katie Van Sickle of Rochester
“Honey, how do you feel about watching women with creative threats of violence printed on their shirts try to kill each other on roller skates?” I asked my husband one morning, brandishing the local newspaper like a winning lottery ticket.
He looked up from his coffee with the expression of a man who had just been asked to juggle chainsaws. “I’m listening...”
And that’s how we found ourselves, two decidedly overdressed individuals, standing in line among a crowd that looked like a punk rock family reunion. While everyone else sported well-worn jeans and team shirts, we stood out in our day clothes like Fortune 500 executives who had accidentally wandered into a mosh pit. I had thought applying lipstick would help me fit in. Rookie mistake.
The woman in front of us, sporting a team logo t-shirt and a distinctive gap where her front tooth should have been, grinned at us knowingly. I silently dubbed her “Derby Mom” and wondered if she had lost the tooth in battle or was just getting into character.
The venue itself was a masterpiece of minimalism. The “track” consisted of two ovals outlined in yellow and red duct tape on the floor – proof that anything can be a sports venue if you’re brave enough with adhesives. My husband, determined to get his money’s worth, secured us front-row seats in the balcony. Perfect for witnessing either athletic excellence or spectacular wipeouts, whichever came first.
The evening’s matchup: our hometown “Big-City Mafia” versus the “Mississippi Valley Mayhem” from Wisconsin. The names alone were worth the price of admission.
But the real entertainment began with the MCs. Picture, if you will, a tall guy in business casual and his partner – a short, strutting peacock in a white suit who spun around to reveal “THE DUKE” spelled out in rhinestones across his back. If Elvis had gone into sports announcing instead of music, this would have been his style.
The players’ names were works of art in Ash,” “Poysenberry Pie,” “Blazing Betty,” “Ellen Degenerate” – these women clearly spent as much time crafting their derby personas as they did practice their hip checks. Their uniforms were a rebellion against both fashion and physics: fishnet stockings that had seen better days, tank tops stretched to their limits, and arm numbers that looked permanent enough to confuse future archaeologists.
The referees weren’t about to let the players have all the fun. One male ref wore what appeared to be a formal black kilt, proving that even in roller derby, you can still dress for the opera. A female ref sported a uniform that seemed to be having an identity crisis between a shirt and a dress, while the coaches looked like they had raided a Halloween store after an earthquake.
Standing on the sidelines, like a punk rock tennis line judge, was a woman sporting a four-inch mohawk and lime green glasses frames. She wasn’t part of the game; she just came dressed for the apocalypse.
The actual gameplay was a blur of striped socks, tattoos, and strategic butt-crack exposure. One player’s mouth guard gave her an unfortunate Hitler mustache, which I’m sure was not the intimidation factor she was going for. The final score was 203-73 in favor of the visitors, but nobody seemed to care. This wasn’t about winning or losing – it was about looking fabulous while attempting to separate your opponents from their wheels.
The evening ended with an announcement about an after-party at Dickey’s Irish Saloon, where fans could get autographs from their favorite players. I imagined Derby Mom collecting signatures on her dental x-rays.
We left before the second match, our proper outfits slightly rumpled but our minds thoroughly blown. As we drove home, I realized we had witnessed something special: a sport where the uniforms are optional, the names are ridiculous, and the spirit is unbreakable – much like those fishnet stockings.
Moral of the story? Sometimes the best nights out are the ones where you feel completely out of place. And if you ever get the chance to watch roller derby, go. Just leave the lipstick at home.
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