The Followers Get Killed First June 28, 2009

You ever notice the followers get hurt first?

Take 300. Leonidis gets all these half-naked men to follow him into battle and who gets killed first? Captain Six-Pack? Nope, it’s the poor schlub who thought ‘Hmmm. Going on a trek to fight mythical creatures, sleep on the ground, and get a sword impaled in my chest cavity? Well, I guess it’s better than sitting at home watching Tori & Dean marathon!’

Yeah, I’m that guy. The constant follower. I’m not sure if I’m creativity intolerant or if I was born with some kind of innovation deficiency, but I’ve never been that gal. The life of the party. The center of the social circle. The Beth Cooper. The Caroline Mulford. The What Will Jenn Do? who shows up at your house with a full tank of gas and a desire to see what happens if you drive west. The one that has you waking up in strange hotel rooms with no way to explain how cheeseburgers ended up in the toilet. Luckily, I’ve surrounded myself with people who are. I’ve followed my way onto my high school swim team, into a granola-crunching college, inside an unfortunate nether region conditioning scheme, and at a roller derby audition.

Yes, I said Roller derby.

I met Cat Woman via My Singles and was drawn to her in a weird Desperately Seeking Susan way. She’s a transplant from Cold Ass Place USA and made her way to Austin to find the life her home wasn’t equipped to provide. She was funk, flair, and rhinestones in the land of meat, potatoes, and wranglin’. She’s one of those people who makes you feel like boarding school roommates from the minute you meet her. She’s got a calming presence that screens her daring soul and she delivers praise that’s genuine and comfy. And when she said she was auditioning for roller derby, I thought I’d get a piece of it for myself. How hard could it be? Cute outfits and roller skating. Sure we’d tap each other here and there, but it’d be the kind of choreographed bouncing off each other that caused a stir in men’s pants but left all your teeth in tact. Cat Woman and I even picked out my name–Jenny Jammerson– and my sweet but devious housewife persona. We hadn’t quite worked out the outfit but something pink with an obnoxiously oversized logo on my chest, a huge pair of (fake) diamond studs, and rimless glasses. Picture Charlotte York on skates.

If only I knew then what I know now…

I interned for an amateur sports team and was familiar with how auditions run. Auditions were hotel conference rooms, downloaded PDF applications with glossy photos, adhesive taped contestant numbers, bottled water covered with sponsor stickers, pinched faced judges in knockoff pinstripe suit, and spray tan auditioners with alot of makeup and a little spandex. The audition locale should have been my first clue that the derby is a little less Nordies and bit more Goodwill. We were in a blank part of town on the backside of a warehouse with no air conditioning. Sure there were a couple of industrial size fans, but a 104 degree heat wave rendered those fans were as useless as Plaxico Burress in a shooting range. It’s the kind of instant burst into sweat that reminds you of body parts you didn’t know you had (and also made me walk out of the audition). The warehouse was huge with a bank track in the center, recycled couches on the side, and lockers vandalized with stuff that would make Sam Kennison blush.

We walk in and they tell us to borrow gear from current team members. That have just practiced. And sweated in their helmets; and wrist, elbow and knee pads. If I were a germophobe, I would have passed out. Lice and ringworm be damned, I was already gross and had nothing to lose. We padded up and filled out forms that promised we wouldn’t sue if we lost a finger or a spleen on the track while our hand-written contestant numbers were masking taped to our backs. They set up cones and had us run drills to test our skating prowess. That’s when Cat Woman turned to me and said “I’ve never skated before.”

WHAT?!??

I applaud her, though. It’s brave to go out and try something that you don’t have the fundamental skills for. She wasn’t technically prepared to audition but it take a big hairy pair to put yourself out there and try. Not only did she try, she drew #1 so she was first for every part of the audition. First to do drills, first to demonstrate skills, first to interview. She was also first to smile, to talk to the other contestants, and to cheer complete strangers on. So I followed her lead and did the best that I could to smile for her, cheer her on, and to clap during her audition. And I think she loved it. I, on the other hand, managed to pull a ligament in my knee during the “fall like a porn star” drill and have been hobbling around the house since then.

Roller derby is a culture. A tattooed culture full of brassy, badass women with pony tails and Miller tall boys. The girl with her arm in a sling yelled at us to get up quickly after the falling and the one with the busted tailbone asked us what we could bring to the team. My knee is telling me this is a path I should avoid following, but the desire to don a pink tutu and skate around in circles sounds fun, too.