What's in a name? Everything. At the conclusion of the Civil War African Americans were freed from their White owners and were allowed to take last names for the first time in the American South becoming true Americans. Having a last name meant having an identity to call their own. When you think of the name you were given, it is hard to imagine yourself being called by any other name. Growing up I thought my name, Carol, seemed too "old," but that is who I was and who I became. I am Carol. Often times names stir emotion or memories of days gone by; you here the name of the first boy you had a crush on and you smile; the name of the first boy who broke your heart brings back a slight sadness; the name of a bully in school can make your blood boil; names fit people and people fit names.
The time came in my life that I would actually get to pick a name as my alter-ego for the purpose of playing roller derby. It was not an easy choice. I wanted something that defined me and had meaning. I thought of the things that define me as a person; swimmer, brave, risk-taker, dare devil, etc. My friends also thought of the things they knew me as to come up with my name, and out came "Cannonball-Z." Several things go into this name that means so much to me. I spent nearly five years in Japan where I fell in love with the Japanese people and culture which brings in reference number one, "Dragonball-Z" a Japanese Anime character. Swimming also had to be a part of the name because I have swam my entire life and practically have gills, enter reference number 2-Cannonball (you know the thing you do when you jump off the diving board trying to make a huge splash). The Cannonball reference is not only a water reference, but also has to do with the huge splash that I hope to make in the derby world one day. Finally there is the part of me that is daring enough to do things like move to Japan, play roller derby, sky dive in Australia, climb Mt. Fuji twice, snowboard in the Japanese Mountains, fling myself over the 18 meter waterfall in an icy cold river…I am "Ball-Z" as they call me for short. There you have it so many aspects of who I am rolled into "Cannonball-Z" and now someone is threatening to take it away from me.
Today I received an email from Miss Cannon Doll X from a bank tracked derby team in California who is pretty much demanding that I change my name saying it made it through the registry by accident. Well I'm not sure what the exact protocol for these things is being new to the sport, but I do know my name is legal and registered. I have asked the advice of my league to determine whether or not they want me to change my name to prevent any problems with other leagues/derby girls. It is no disrespect to Cannon Doll X as she is no doubt a tremendous derby player and a good person, but my name is my name and it is who I am now. I will change my name if my league feels it is in the best interest of everyone involved-the new name will be "Stripp'd er Name." BUT if I do end up keeping my name I apologize to Cannon Doll X as I mean her no disrespect...I just don't think our names are similar in sound or meaning. I have no idea what her name means to her, but I'm 99% sure it has nothing to do with Japanese Anime, swimming or being "Ball-Z." I also doubt we will ever be on the same track being that she plays banked track and I play flat track. I hope that if I do ever meet the famed Cannon Doll X we will have a beer and a good laugh.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Three Weeks Without Derby
It has been nearly 3 weeks without roller derby, and I’m starting to feel the itch that is eating away at my insides. No wheels have graced my feet in weeks, my body is turning too mush and my right foot dons a sexy - but open toed in the middle of winter - surgical shoe. The least they could have done is made the thing in a fashionable color with closed toes and a matching one for the right foot…not sooooo much to ask. At least I still have the Derbylegs socks peaking out nicely from the Velcro shoe.
Returning to the drudgery of “the job” today offered a glimmer of hope that I will skate again. As much as I enjoyed spending my days doing Pilates to soothing music, instructing my boyfriend in the fine art of baking pie for Thanksgiving and napping with my cats the return to work symbolizes that I am in fact recovering from the procedure on the “Tired Diver Toe.” With each hobble step I take I feel slightly less pain and tingling and a little stronger.
Thursday is the day the doc will snip the strings out of the wound that have been binding it together for the past 3 and a half weeks. What this means to me is first and foremost-a real shower without a plastic bag taped to my leg with a lot of athletic tape. I might stand in the shower rather than using the hose type shower thing while sitting like a crotchety (funny word eh?) old lady in the bottom of my tub. I may exit the shower without using the safety bar that was undoubtedly installed by the elderly man who owned my home before me-handy that I bought the house with the safety bar. It made me chuckle when I first saw it, now I see it is no laughing matter as that thing saved me from a tragic fall that would have led to certain death numerous times. How embarrassing would it be to be found dead in the bottom of your tub naked except for the plastic grocery bag taped to your leg…ahem somewhat hairy leg I might ad since shaving has become problematic under the circumstances. At any rate that is not how I intended to die so thanks to the safety bar and my keen ability to balance on one leg, (thank goodness for roller derby balancing drills) I am two days from surviving the one legged showering act.
Other challenges of the “Tired Diver Toe” surgery presented themselves daily. There is the day I insisted I could walk to the back of the store only to find myself back there and unable to walk up to the front. That dilemma was solved with a piggy-back ride to the front of the store…ever tried to hop up onto someone’s back when you can’t hop? It turns out it is more of a flop and a struggle to get into position for a piggy-back ride when you can’t hop. Or how bout the day I wanted to get to the store, but walking seemed such a challenge that I climbed atop of the little car that is on the front of the cart for children and was pushed to the electric buggy thing that I proceeded to drive quite dangerously throughout the grocery store. They need to issue driver’s licenses and conduct training before allowing people like me to use them. The first week or so I attempted the crutches, but my sore underarms and hands were rebellious to the idea so I thought hopping on one foot could serve a dual purpose-strengthen my left leg while getting me to my destination. I was wrong. I ended up with a twisted ankle and crawling back to the couch where I was often told I belonged during recovery.
All told I’m glad I had the surgery, but even more glad that my situation is temporary. I know I would learn to adapt and thrive it weren’t, but I thank my lucky stars I don’t have to this time.
I plan to stuff my foot into a skate this weekend and see if I can manage a few laps without too much pain…but what the heck that is what pain killers are for right?
Til Next Time.
Returning to the drudgery of “the job” today offered a glimmer of hope that I will skate again. As much as I enjoyed spending my days doing Pilates to soothing music, instructing my boyfriend in the fine art of baking pie for Thanksgiving and napping with my cats the return to work symbolizes that I am in fact recovering from the procedure on the “Tired Diver Toe.” With each hobble step I take I feel slightly less pain and tingling and a little stronger.
Thursday is the day the doc will snip the strings out of the wound that have been binding it together for the past 3 and a half weeks. What this means to me is first and foremost-a real shower without a plastic bag taped to my leg with a lot of athletic tape. I might stand in the shower rather than using the hose type shower thing while sitting like a crotchety (funny word eh?) old lady in the bottom of my tub. I may exit the shower without using the safety bar that was undoubtedly installed by the elderly man who owned my home before me-handy that I bought the house with the safety bar. It made me chuckle when I first saw it, now I see it is no laughing matter as that thing saved me from a tragic fall that would have led to certain death numerous times. How embarrassing would it be to be found dead in the bottom of your tub naked except for the plastic grocery bag taped to your leg…ahem somewhat hairy leg I might ad since shaving has become problematic under the circumstances. At any rate that is not how I intended to die so thanks to the safety bar and my keen ability to balance on one leg, (thank goodness for roller derby balancing drills) I am two days from surviving the one legged showering act.
Other challenges of the “Tired Diver Toe” surgery presented themselves daily. There is the day I insisted I could walk to the back of the store only to find myself back there and unable to walk up to the front. That dilemma was solved with a piggy-back ride to the front of the store…ever tried to hop up onto someone’s back when you can’t hop? It turns out it is more of a flop and a struggle to get into position for a piggy-back ride when you can’t hop. Or how bout the day I wanted to get to the store, but walking seemed such a challenge that I climbed atop of the little car that is on the front of the cart for children and was pushed to the electric buggy thing that I proceeded to drive quite dangerously throughout the grocery store. They need to issue driver’s licenses and conduct training before allowing people like me to use them. The first week or so I attempted the crutches, but my sore underarms and hands were rebellious to the idea so I thought hopping on one foot could serve a dual purpose-strengthen my left leg while getting me to my destination. I was wrong. I ended up with a twisted ankle and crawling back to the couch where I was often told I belonged during recovery.
All told I’m glad I had the surgery, but even more glad that my situation is temporary. I know I would learn to adapt and thrive it weren’t, but I thank my lucky stars I don’t have to this time.
I plan to stuff my foot into a skate this weekend and see if I can manage a few laps without too much pain…but what the heck that is what pain killers are for right?
Til Next Time.
Friday, November 14, 2008
How the "Tired Diver Toe" Got it's Name
This blog does not have a lot to do with Roller Derby other than that I can't play for about 3 weeks due to the "Tired Diver Toe."
Enjoy the story of the Tired Diver Toe...
How the “Tired Diver Toe” Got its Name
I’ve spent my entire life in, on and around the water in some fashion or another. Something some may find odd since I was raised in Northwestern Pennsylvania far from the coast. The first memories I have of immersing myself in the wet stuff outside of the bath tub is one sunny afternoon when I followed my older sister and her friend through the tall grass that grew on our acre of land to a body of water where they swam and I followed. I must have been about 3 years old and was “swimming” in what seemed like a large river to me just a few yards from the neighbor’s cattle who were drinking from the same water with their large pink tongues. My love affair with water began on that day.
In the years that followed I would find myself swimming anywhere I could; Edinboro Lake, Lake Erie, bacteria infested rivers that landed me in the hospital, friend’s swimming pools, the community pool, the university pool, McDowell High School
on the M.I.S.T. swim team or the YMCA. That was just the first 18 years of life. After that I would become a member of the Indiana University of Pennsylvania Water Polo Team, move to Ocean City, Maryland to live at “the beach,” move to Japan where I was surrounded by water and learned to sail and surf then to my current residence of Madison, Wisconsin…a city built around two lakes.
I did everything with water and swimming pools; swam on swim teams, played water polo, taught swim lessons, lifeguarded, trained lifeguards, managed pools, did aqua aerobics…there was no limit-except one- SCUBA diving. I’m not sure if my irrational fear of SCUBA stemmed from my first session of lifeguard training with a guy named Leo who trained us in depth on the possible fatal encounters we may have with SCUBA divers or from some other experience, but all I knew is breathing under water was not natural. It was a fear that I knew I had to conquer, because I was headed to the Great Barrier Reef and my need to see what was down there was far greater than my fear of breathing under water.
Off to the marina I went to enroll myself in the base’s SCUBA program, which I would complete just weeks before heading Down Under. As I embarked on this journey I showed no fear. I studied hard, read the book, and immersed myself in all aspects of the class. No one knew I was scared to death, and I was actually enjoying myself most of the time. The 1-foot visibility in the bay was scary, but I had learned to navigate with my compass and really I knew I couldn’t get that lost. I was fighting an awful pain in my right foot that felt like I’d broken something, yet I persevered and said nothing until we got to one portion of the training out there in the cold water of the Green Bay. My instructor said, “Now we must practice the tired diver tow.” I looked at him with relief and blurted, “Oh thank goodness it has a name. My tired diver toe hurts so badly…what are we going to do to relieve it.” He looked at me puzzled, and I was confused as well. Why wouldn’t he tell me the magical cure to make my foot stop throbbing with pain? He paused and I told him again about my “tired diver toe.” He chuckled and explained that the tow he was referring to is actually the other kind and we were going to drag our “tired diver” buddies 50 meters to prove we can help out in an emergency…hence the name, “tired diver tow.” As my foot throbs I thought, “well that is just great…my problem is unique.”
In the following months I enjoyed the most spectacular trip to Australia where I dove deep into the sea to find Nemo, giant clams, sea turtles, sharks and millions of beautiful tropical fish. I battled a pain in my foot that I fondly referred to as the “tired diver toe” off and on throughout many activities. I discovered that running was no longer a viable activity for me so I headed to the Yokosuka Naval Hospital where I was told the real name for my ailment is “Metataralgia” or an inflammation of the joints. The Doc gave me a metatarsal pad and said it will make everything better…it didn’t. I waited until I moved to Wisconsin where I saw a podiatrist who with one feel of my foot gave the “tired diver toe” a real name again: Morton’s Neuroma. I didn’t know who Morton was, but I was glad to finally have a name for my ailment. We tried inserts in my shoes, cortisone shots to the infected nerve and nothing worked. I was sick of it. I wanted it out. I scheduled the surgery for Veteran’s Day, 2008, which brings me to today. Three days after the surgery and the damn Morton’s Neuroma is no longer a part of me…it sits on my coffee table in a small vial of phermeldahide so I can keep a close eye on that nemesis.
That, my friends, concludes the tale of the “Tired Diver Toe."
Enjoy the story of the Tired Diver Toe...
How the “Tired Diver Toe” Got its Name
I’ve spent my entire life in, on and around the water in some fashion or another. Something some may find odd since I was raised in Northwestern Pennsylvania far from the coast. The first memories I have of immersing myself in the wet stuff outside of the bath tub is one sunny afternoon when I followed my older sister and her friend through the tall grass that grew on our acre of land to a body of water where they swam and I followed. I must have been about 3 years old and was “swimming” in what seemed like a large river to me just a few yards from the neighbor’s cattle who were drinking from the same water with their large pink tongues. My love affair with water began on that day.
In the years that followed I would find myself swimming anywhere I could; Edinboro Lake, Lake Erie, bacteria infested rivers that landed me in the hospital, friend’s swimming pools, the community pool, the university pool, McDowell High School
on the M.I.S.T. swim team or the YMCA. That was just the first 18 years of life. After that I would become a member of the Indiana University of Pennsylvania Water Polo Team, move to Ocean City, Maryland to live at “the beach,” move to Japan where I was surrounded by water and learned to sail and surf then to my current residence of Madison, Wisconsin…a city built around two lakes.
I did everything with water and swimming pools; swam on swim teams, played water polo, taught swim lessons, lifeguarded, trained lifeguards, managed pools, did aqua aerobics…there was no limit-except one- SCUBA diving. I’m not sure if my irrational fear of SCUBA stemmed from my first session of lifeguard training with a guy named Leo who trained us in depth on the possible fatal encounters we may have with SCUBA divers or from some other experience, but all I knew is breathing under water was not natural. It was a fear that I knew I had to conquer, because I was headed to the Great Barrier Reef and my need to see what was down there was far greater than my fear of breathing under water.
Off to the marina I went to enroll myself in the base’s SCUBA program, which I would complete just weeks before heading Down Under. As I embarked on this journey I showed no fear. I studied hard, read the book, and immersed myself in all aspects of the class. No one knew I was scared to death, and I was actually enjoying myself most of the time. The 1-foot visibility in the bay was scary, but I had learned to navigate with my compass and really I knew I couldn’t get that lost. I was fighting an awful pain in my right foot that felt like I’d broken something, yet I persevered and said nothing until we got to one portion of the training out there in the cold water of the Green Bay. My instructor said, “Now we must practice the tired diver tow.” I looked at him with relief and blurted, “Oh thank goodness it has a name. My tired diver toe hurts so badly…what are we going to do to relieve it.” He looked at me puzzled, and I was confused as well. Why wouldn’t he tell me the magical cure to make my foot stop throbbing with pain? He paused and I told him again about my “tired diver toe.” He chuckled and explained that the tow he was referring to is actually the other kind and we were going to drag our “tired diver” buddies 50 meters to prove we can help out in an emergency…hence the name, “tired diver tow.” As my foot throbs I thought, “well that is just great…my problem is unique.”
In the following months I enjoyed the most spectacular trip to Australia where I dove deep into the sea to find Nemo, giant clams, sea turtles, sharks and millions of beautiful tropical fish. I battled a pain in my foot that I fondly referred to as the “tired diver toe” off and on throughout many activities. I discovered that running was no longer a viable activity for me so I headed to the Yokosuka Naval Hospital where I was told the real name for my ailment is “Metataralgia” or an inflammation of the joints. The Doc gave me a metatarsal pad and said it will make everything better…it didn’t. I waited until I moved to Wisconsin where I saw a podiatrist who with one feel of my foot gave the “tired diver toe” a real name again: Morton’s Neuroma. I didn’t know who Morton was, but I was glad to finally have a name for my ailment. We tried inserts in my shoes, cortisone shots to the infected nerve and nothing worked. I was sick of it. I wanted it out. I scheduled the surgery for Veteran’s Day, 2008, which brings me to today. Three days after the surgery and the damn Morton’s Neuroma is no longer a part of me…it sits on my coffee table in a small vial of phermeldahide so I can keep a close eye on that nemesis.
That, my friends, concludes the tale of the “Tired Diver Toe."
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Random Ramblings Part One
The following article will be published in the Roller Derby Magazine: Five on Five in the next issue. Purchase at www.fiveonfivemag.com for more great roller derby related articles!
Random Ramblings of an Aspiring Derby Girl
Part One: The Transformation from “Regular Girl” to “Derby Girl”
By: Cannonball-Z
Becoming a derby girl is something most do not dream of as a child, but it is a desire that burns inside of you as a void until it is fulfilled. The huge gaping hole in your soul remains unnoticed until it is consumed by roller derby. An overwhelming sense of belonging hit me like a veteran derby girl the second I laced up my wobbly-wheeled rental skates for try outs.
The idea of playing Roller Derby occurred to me while working for the U.S. Navy in Yokosuka, Japan. In this unlikely scenario I met my dear friend, Allison, who convinced me to start skating again at the small rink on the base. Allison’s sister happens to be Shutter Speed of the Grand Raggidy Roller Girls, and many tales of derby would be told during our sessions. During one of our “jam sessions” we concluded there was no reason we could not bring derby to Yokosuka knowing plenty of women in the Navy who would make excellent derby girls. We approached, or shall I say pestered, the athletic director with the idea. We just about had him convinced, at least in our minds, when the base decided they were closing the rink in order to build a power plant in its place. Dreams of roller derby crushed; tears shed.
Fast Forward (pun intended) several months to my unpredictable move to Madison, WI which is home to the famed Mad Rollin Dolls. Hopes of becoming a derby girl revived I marked the date of try outs on my calendar.
Two enormous events in my life would collide in June of 2008. My big chance to become a derby girl had arrived; Saturday, June 28th, 2008. It just so happened to be the exact same weekend that my boyfriend’s family was there to help us move into our newly purchased home in Madison. It is our first home, my lease was up on Monday, I had to work a special event and roller derby try-outs were that day. Thoughts that raced through my mind, “Ok I can do this; being in several places at once is my specialty. I can do this. No I can’t; it is just too much. I have to help them pack my things, load the truck, paint the house, unpack the things; after all it is my stuff.” Dreams of Roller Derby crushed; tears shed.
Enter my dear boyfriend, Kris. He volunteered to continue packing and cleaning without me enabling me to try out provided I could weasel my way out of work early. Not surprisingly in this state the weather was awful and I was released from the slow special event early. I high tailed it to the rink and made it just in time for day one. After being called back for day two, I was again faced with a struggle. The family was there, the Ryder truck was ready to go, the stuff was not packed, the lease was up at noon the next day, and there was DERBY. Once again all moving efforts on my part were abandoned for several hours to venture out on eight wheels in hopes of making it. Later that day in the midst of moving I got THE phone call. The family was visibly frustrated by my noticeable absence, but I had made it to the next phase: 12-14 weeks of Baby Doll Boot Camp.
Practice Wednesdays, Saturdays and Sundays for the next 12 weeks was to include conditioning, endurance, technique, learning to play roller derby and much bonding with my fellow “Baby Dolls.”
At the time of writing this article I am down to four remaining Baby Doll practices before the draft. As we head into the draft I am filled with many mixed emotions; sadness knowing some of my fellow Baby Dolls will not make a team, fear of rejection, excitement, nervousness, but most of all I am filled with self pride. Having been through boot camp for the U.S. Army I can honestly say Baby Doll Boot Camp is just as challenging mentally, physically and emotionally; just not as many hours. Whether I become a bonafide derby girl or not this experience has forever transformed me and my feet.
Coming Next Issue: Diary of a Derby Girl-Part Two: The Draft
Random Ramblings of an Aspiring Derby Girl
Part One: The Transformation from “Regular Girl” to “Derby Girl”
By: Cannonball-Z
Becoming a derby girl is something most do not dream of as a child, but it is a desire that burns inside of you as a void until it is fulfilled. The huge gaping hole in your soul remains unnoticed until it is consumed by roller derby. An overwhelming sense of belonging hit me like a veteran derby girl the second I laced up my wobbly-wheeled rental skates for try outs.
The idea of playing Roller Derby occurred to me while working for the U.S. Navy in Yokosuka, Japan. In this unlikely scenario I met my dear friend, Allison, who convinced me to start skating again at the small rink on the base. Allison’s sister happens to be Shutter Speed of the Grand Raggidy Roller Girls, and many tales of derby would be told during our sessions. During one of our “jam sessions” we concluded there was no reason we could not bring derby to Yokosuka knowing plenty of women in the Navy who would make excellent derby girls. We approached, or shall I say pestered, the athletic director with the idea. We just about had him convinced, at least in our minds, when the base decided they were closing the rink in order to build a power plant in its place. Dreams of roller derby crushed; tears shed.
Fast Forward (pun intended) several months to my unpredictable move to Madison, WI which is home to the famed Mad Rollin Dolls. Hopes of becoming a derby girl revived I marked the date of try outs on my calendar.
Two enormous events in my life would collide in June of 2008. My big chance to become a derby girl had arrived; Saturday, June 28th, 2008. It just so happened to be the exact same weekend that my boyfriend’s family was there to help us move into our newly purchased home in Madison. It is our first home, my lease was up on Monday, I had to work a special event and roller derby try-outs were that day. Thoughts that raced through my mind, “Ok I can do this; being in several places at once is my specialty. I can do this. No I can’t; it is just too much. I have to help them pack my things, load the truck, paint the house, unpack the things; after all it is my stuff.” Dreams of Roller Derby crushed; tears shed.
Enter my dear boyfriend, Kris. He volunteered to continue packing and cleaning without me enabling me to try out provided I could weasel my way out of work early. Not surprisingly in this state the weather was awful and I was released from the slow special event early. I high tailed it to the rink and made it just in time for day one. After being called back for day two, I was again faced with a struggle. The family was there, the Ryder truck was ready to go, the stuff was not packed, the lease was up at noon the next day, and there was DERBY. Once again all moving efforts on my part were abandoned for several hours to venture out on eight wheels in hopes of making it. Later that day in the midst of moving I got THE phone call. The family was visibly frustrated by my noticeable absence, but I had made it to the next phase: 12-14 weeks of Baby Doll Boot Camp.
Practice Wednesdays, Saturdays and Sundays for the next 12 weeks was to include conditioning, endurance, technique, learning to play roller derby and much bonding with my fellow “Baby Dolls.”
At the time of writing this article I am down to four remaining Baby Doll practices before the draft. As we head into the draft I am filled with many mixed emotions; sadness knowing some of my fellow Baby Dolls will not make a team, fear of rejection, excitement, nervousness, but most of all I am filled with self pride. Having been through boot camp for the U.S. Army I can honestly say Baby Doll Boot Camp is just as challenging mentally, physically and emotionally; just not as many hours. Whether I become a bonafide derby girl or not this experience has forever transformed me and my feet.
Coming Next Issue: Diary of a Derby Girl-Part Two: The Draft
Random Ramblings Part 2
The following article will be published in issue 3 of Five on Five Magazine...the best magazine all about Roller Derby. Order your subscription at www.fiveonfivemag.com
Random Ramblings of a Rookie Derby Girl
Part Two: The Draft
By: Cannonball-Z, Member of Mad Rollin Dolls
The fateful day arrived -- Thursday, September 25th. I awoke, realizing that in less than 24 hours I would either be a derby girl or not. Nagging feelings interrupted my usual positive attitude. What if they did not like me? What if I was not fast enough? Was I tough enough? What if…I make it? Wait; I am good enough, tough enough and dammit, people like me!
That was my mantra to get me through the day. Swimming laps that evening with my phone in the locker room I was calm, I was cool; I was not going to wait one more second to find out! I dried off quickly, fumbled with my lock and retrieved the trusty iPhone; only to find reception was non-existent within the facility. Alas, a pocket of reception hanging my head out the back door into the cold night. The message said something about calling someone back regarding the ROLLER DERBY DRAFT. I listened again to make sure. Yup, that was it. Quickly returning the call, I heard a voice on the other end saying something about me being drafted. Somewhere between my screams of excitement I heard about the draft party the next evening! Ok, 24 more hours to find out WHICH fabulous Mad Rollin Doll team would be lucky enough to have chosen me. Silent smile warms my heart and soul. Back to the pool I go. Dreams of roller derby, now a reality.
In the next 24 hours the question was asked and answered more times than I care to recall, “Do you want a particular team?” “No, I like them all.” Preparing for the draft party I imagined myself as a green and silver super hero (Quad Squad), a pink and brown sexy vagabond (Vaudeville Vixens) or a member of the black and white crime syndicate (Reservoir Dolls) and still the same answer…don’t care. Dressed in yellow (as to not show any favorites) I embarked on my evening to solve the mystery.
Arriving at the Inferno early I nervously made small talk with several “old girls” who, by the end of the night, may or may not be my teammates. Fellow “Baby Dolls” – Madison’s name for recruits -- started arriving, all of us wondering who would be together at the end of the evening. Some visibly showed which team they preferred by wearing the colors of the team; I thought that must be bad luck somehow…turns out it was for some. Drinks flowed, old girls mixed with new girls, non-drafted girls shed tears; it began.
Team captains took the stage and, one by one, they called out our names to join their teams. My name was called fourth. As I embraced my new team, the Quad Squad, I felt excited and somewhat disappointed…what?! I did not understand. I thought I did not care which team I was on, but maybe I did. Quick self analysis revealed that the disappointment stemmed from the fact that I was on the BEST team in the league…huh? That means they picked last… oh yeah, that’s why I was not picked FIRST. In my overly competitive mind, not being first is equal to losing. I will never know which round of the draft I was selected in or if other teams were disappointed not to have me…as they should be. All I know is I am a very proud member of the Quad Squad and my name is now Cannonball-Z, Ball-Z for short (thank you Hewitt, Allison and Shutter Speed). My number is 421-the fateful night that too much tequila led me to Kris, now fondly referred to as “Mr. Z,” who brought me to Wisconsin to become a derby girl.
Next Issue:
Random Ramblings of a Rookie Derby Girl-Part Three: Bout Time
Random Ramblings of a Rookie Derby Girl
Part Two: The Draft
By: Cannonball-Z, Member of Mad Rollin Dolls
The fateful day arrived -- Thursday, September 25th. I awoke, realizing that in less than 24 hours I would either be a derby girl or not. Nagging feelings interrupted my usual positive attitude. What if they did not like me? What if I was not fast enough? Was I tough enough? What if…I make it? Wait; I am good enough, tough enough and dammit, people like me!
That was my mantra to get me through the day. Swimming laps that evening with my phone in the locker room I was calm, I was cool; I was not going to wait one more second to find out! I dried off quickly, fumbled with my lock and retrieved the trusty iPhone; only to find reception was non-existent within the facility. Alas, a pocket of reception hanging my head out the back door into the cold night. The message said something about calling someone back regarding the ROLLER DERBY DRAFT. I listened again to make sure. Yup, that was it. Quickly returning the call, I heard a voice on the other end saying something about me being drafted. Somewhere between my screams of excitement I heard about the draft party the next evening! Ok, 24 more hours to find out WHICH fabulous Mad Rollin Doll team would be lucky enough to have chosen me. Silent smile warms my heart and soul. Back to the pool I go. Dreams of roller derby, now a reality.
In the next 24 hours the question was asked and answered more times than I care to recall, “Do you want a particular team?” “No, I like them all.” Preparing for the draft party I imagined myself as a green and silver super hero (Quad Squad), a pink and brown sexy vagabond (Vaudeville Vixens) or a member of the black and white crime syndicate (Reservoir Dolls) and still the same answer…don’t care. Dressed in yellow (as to not show any favorites) I embarked on my evening to solve the mystery.
Arriving at the Inferno early I nervously made small talk with several “old girls” who, by the end of the night, may or may not be my teammates. Fellow “Baby Dolls” – Madison’s name for recruits -- started arriving, all of us wondering who would be together at the end of the evening. Some visibly showed which team they preferred by wearing the colors of the team; I thought that must be bad luck somehow…turns out it was for some. Drinks flowed, old girls mixed with new girls, non-drafted girls shed tears; it began.
Team captains took the stage and, one by one, they called out our names to join their teams. My name was called fourth. As I embraced my new team, the Quad Squad, I felt excited and somewhat disappointed…what?! I did not understand. I thought I did not care which team I was on, but maybe I did. Quick self analysis revealed that the disappointment stemmed from the fact that I was on the BEST team in the league…huh? That means they picked last… oh yeah, that’s why I was not picked FIRST. In my overly competitive mind, not being first is equal to losing. I will never know which round of the draft I was selected in or if other teams were disappointed not to have me…as they should be. All I know is I am a very proud member of the Quad Squad and my name is now Cannonball-Z, Ball-Z for short (thank you Hewitt, Allison and Shutter Speed). My number is 421-the fateful night that too much tequila led me to Kris, now fondly referred to as “Mr. Z,” who brought me to Wisconsin to become a derby girl.
Next Issue:
Random Ramblings of a Rookie Derby Girl-Part Three: Bout Time
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