I lied straight to her face and said, "oh yeah. Probably."
No. No, was my real answer. "Good, cause we'd really like you to scrimmage this month."
I took a deep breath in and said, "oh great!" I knew damn well that passing minimum skills and scrimmaging meant they wanted me to play in the July B-level bout. Because they thought I'd be good. Or they know it's my one chance to play this season. Or, hell, they were just desperate to pass people and fill out the roster.
I spent most June talking myself into and out of skipping practice. They can't pass me if I don't go! Amazingly, I've never had better attendance than I did this June.
That's how, last Tuesday, I found myself skating on poured concrete in Tri-Cities, practicing with my teammates and getting ready for tomorrow's bout. They passed me. I mean, barely, but roller derby is among "horse shoes and hand grenades" with "close enough." Everything about practicing on the Kennewick track terrifies me. It's concrete instead of a gym floor. It's outside in the Tri-Cities heat instead of inside in the Walla Walla heat, pretending to be air conditioned. There are people there who can see you. Everyone on that team is better at existing in the world than I am.
I volunteered to drive as extra protection against backing out.
So here it was with everything psychologically stacked against me that they announced a toe-stop drill. In theory, I can use my toe stops. In theory, I can also follow a perfect diet and lose 50 pounds. Neither of these works well in practice.
That's the point in which my left foot slipped, kicking myself in the ankle, and all not-50-pounds-lighter of me came down on top of my own skate. I scooted on my bum to the edge of the tracking trying to decide if I was breathing. The evening's coach skated up, "Are you OK? Do you need an ice pack?" And I think I said, "Yes."
"I don't have one." she told me.
It's funny except for how much it hurt. Somehow I stood up and skated to the side and sat on the bench. I took off my helmet and wrist and mouth guards and sat there willing myself not to throw up. I could already feel the angry welt on my upper thigh. "You OK, Pinkie?" teammates hollered from the center.
"I'm fine! Just gonna sit here for a minute!" I hollered back. "hurt my bum!"
The thing about your upper thigh is there isn't much fragile in there. The leg bones are among the strongest in our bodies. Mine has the added protection of a lot of fat and muscle around it. It was really angry, but it was also really gonna be OK.
But I still sat on that bench and cried. This is bout practice night! I fell down during the warm-up like an idiot! I knew I had to get my gear on and get back out there.
My toe stops scare me. They make me feel tall, out of control. I feel like a giant. I feel like everything about my weight is precariously balanced over two balls of rubber and everyone can tell.
But the thing is - I fought like hell to be in this bout. Not just at practice (let's be real - not even always at practice). This battle for me is less athletic than it is emotional. I have never been in an athletic competition even remotely close to this. Ever. For one solid hour, every three jams, my teammates need me to get out there and be stable and put my bruised ass in front of people and not be afraid of my own feet.
 |
| That's what a size 11 does to your thigh. |
Tonight, I rolled up the rug in the downstairs room and practiced my toe stops on the wood floor. I watched videos. I read articles. I tried making them lower, then higher. I turned on Imagine Dragons and I tapped across the wood.
There's a floor-length mirror in here and you can perfectly see my feet and my bruise. It's basically stopped hurting just by me existing, but still does when my kid bumps it.
But it's also a giant physical victory symbol. This is what derby is for me. This is one solid year of me kicking my own ass. To get to practice. To keep trying. TO TURN AROUND, DAMMIT. To prove to myself that I can do this, that I'm worth it. That the investment in me is OK. That the critics are wrong. That I can do hard things. That I can not quit. That I can take a hit. Get knocked down. Get back up again.
And tomorrow's the night. I mildly want to throw up. My body is handling the stress by giving me a cold sore in the middle of my chin. But I don't care. We may win. We may lose. I may spend the entire game in the penalty box and not understand why. I may trip my own jammer. I may fall down. I may get hurt.
But no matter what, I'm carting my body on a victory lap around the gym when it's over. And when practice resumes, I'll drag my tired, sore, bruised ass to that gym and keep practicing my toe stops.
That's the biggest lesson I've learned in roller derby. No one is going to keep you down except yourself. No one will stop you but you. You can do this, if you want it. You can make it if you fight for it.
Don't quit. Take the hit. Get back up. Get knocked down. Get back up again.
You're never gonna keep me down.
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