So, this weekend, a friend invited me to go to the roller derby at the Tennessee State Fairgrounds. Now, when I was a kid, you could often find me sitting Indian-style in my parents bedroom, my head upturned to their television watching the roller derby every Saturday night. Nothing could tear my eyes away from those taut and tawny purveyors of pain. Those beautiful women on roller skates and in tight shorts were even tantalizing to a ten year old boy who was probably supposed to think girls were disgusting. But no. That roller derby fanaticism was in my blood. But as the years went by, the games faded and soon disappeared from cable television and I had all but forgotten those dangerous, thrill-seeking vixens who had intrigued me so.

I went last night, eager to see if the thrill I once got from watching the roller derby would return. And return it did.

Let me start by mentioning the only con of the evening, and that was the venue. The derby took place on the fairgrounds in what would be the equivalent of a stuffy, claustrophobic high school gym. I am one of those people who goes to an event and immediately looks for the nearest exit in case any shit goes down. Unfortunately for me, the nearest exit was several feet away and I would have to crawl over several people to get there. But that was a minor negative in my book, especially after the game begun.

I am not totally aware of all the rules to roller derby, and to tell you the truth, I really don’t care. I know that the woman with a star on her helmet has to get ahead of all the other women on the other team to score points. The women on the other team try to keep the woman with the star on her helmet from passing them by bumping, elbowing or steering her into a crowd of onlookers. And all this is done while speeding dangerously around an oval on roller skates.

The women who raced in this derby were not your typical lipstick and high-heels type of chicks. Instead, there were tattoos a plenty, face and body piercings and a few scars and bruises to complete the set. And I hate to admit it, but I found these women mighty hot. I think this is partly due to the fact that I am completely against having any part of my body pierced or painted and to the fact that I am on blood thinners, so bumps and bruises of any kind could make me an instant DOA. In the hood, I believe fellows like myself are called marks, pussies. I prefer to call myself indescribably gifted and ambiguously gifted.

I think that the one thing that really got me hot under the collar was the way these women, jumped and dashed, pulled and pummeled each other and seemed to do it with a certain relish. There were no crybabies, no, “Oh, I broke a nail” types skating around that circle. Nope. Just a bunch of tatted chicks with gruff exteriors, holey fish net stockings, crazy names like LeeAnn Crimes and Bootsy Brawlins, and a taste for blood. How hot is that? And the cheerleaders?? Knee high converse, with mini-skirts, the aforementioned fish nets, loud, brash voices and many that showed enough cleavage crack to make any straight man or gay woman want to dive right in.

My favorite roller girl was a short-haired firecracker with the unfortunate moniker of Rambo Sambo. Short skirts, garters and fishnets and a definite spunk shot Rambo Sambo right to the number one spot in my heart. In between racing with ferocity around the track, Ms. Rambo could be seen on the sidelines dancing, gyrating her hips and thrusting her head quickly to and fro. I was instantly smitten. Especially when I watched her dismiss her rivals with a quick hip thrust that would send them flying across the floor and into the sideline seats. If only she could change that name! Rambo I’m cool with. But Sambo? My one hope is that she is referring to the martial art of Sambo which has been used by the Soviets/Russians since the early part of the 20th century and she is not in someway embracing the negative, racist image that has existed in this country since the late 1890’s. Seems to me the image of an ex-Vietnam vet and a Russian martial art makes a much more logical combination, so we will go with that.

Apparently, the roller derby matches last from now until the end of summer. My hope is that sometime between now and then, I can catch Rambo Sambo’s (perhaps blackened) eye and drop to a knee and propose. I’m quite sure the marriage would be a short one, as I can only imagine that within the first week or so of wedded bliss, I will find myself being admitted to the emergency room with a knife wound and an anal abrasion due to a roller skate wheel being jammed up my…those girls are so touchy. But that’s all a part of the appeal. Sex and violence, my friends. Definitely worth the price of admission.

I imagine Rambo’s man probably wrestles manic depressive pitbulls and can only pleasure himself if he has sandpaper attached to his hand. I could never measure up to that! But I am willing to try!

Rambo! I love you, girl…..don’t hurt me.

Nashville Rollergirls