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Past articles that have become old news.

The Rock Pile Crumbles

     It was a season that will live long in the hearts and memories of baseball fans in the Rocky Mountains, and for one who has come to loathe everything about the game, it even caught my interest. Who can resist a team that played well all season, always remaining just out of reach of that coveted playoff spot, then turning on the jets at the end, taking it down to the last out of the last game of the regular season, and winning it? Nobody can resist a story like that. Not even your’s truly, the perennial hater of ‘Roidball. It was a story that sports writers dream of covering.

     Even though I don’t give a rat’s ass about baseball, I find myself watching the standings every year. You never know when "that story" will rear it’s head. No writer likes to get scooped. I merely keep my finger on the pulse, waiting for the "Big One" to appear on the horizon. I could smell this one when there were about ten games left in the season. I had written the Colorado Rockies off at this point. They were too far back to even dream of making a run at the Wildcard spot. It was over. Go shower. Yet, I had this odd rumbling in the pit of my stomach. Believe me, when "The Gut" gets a gut feeling, you’d better pay attention.

     The Rockies were chasing the San Diego Padres for that coveted final playoff spot. Suddenly the team that had been merely average all season started winning. Not just winning, but winning every game. People started to get excited. Could the Rockies do it? Some felt they could, but I had my doubts. I knew that if they were going to, they’d have to win every game, and the Padres would have to start losing. Not gonna happen. Then the unthinkable happened. The Padres actually started losing. The Rockies started gaining by full games. It looked like they were going to sweep the end of the season. The dominating Rockies would stumble only once on their run the end of the regular season. It was up to the Padres. If they could win the final game, they were in. If they lost, they tied the Rocks and would be forced to play an extra game to decide who would move to the post-season, and who would go home. I don’t have to continue with this part of the story. We know what happened. The Padres lost, and the extra game was on.

     This was definitely turning into a story. I called up my buddy Colin who had some corporate connections and told him it was imperative that I attend this rare season extending game. He came through, as usual, and scored some box seats. Too late to book a flight, I made a late night run down Highway 287 and arrived in downtown Denver just before 2 am.

     I spend a lot of time in Denver, it being the nearest large city to the humble McGurt Ranch. Whenever I need to kick up my heels and hob-nob with the big-wigs, that’s where I go. The air was electric, you could feel it. The Rockies were super-charged as well. In a Monday night slug-fest, the Rockies edged out the Padres 9-8 and were moving on to the NLCS for the first time since they were a young upstart expansion team. I packed and headed back to Wyoming.

     Colin asked me why I was leaving now, just when the excitement was starting. "I can get you tickets through the whole series."

     "Nah." I shrugged. "It’s all setting up too nicely for a big letdown. Besides, you know how I feel about baseball. I’m only here for the story. It’s over for now, until they win the pennant, which I really doubt will happen. This is the Rockies we’re talking about after all. If they go to The Big One I’ll call ya."

     As I’ve mentioned before, Denver is a sports town. They love their sports here. You will be hard pressed to find a city that supports all of it’s major sports teams like the folks in Denver do. It really amazes me. The place was going crazy with elation, and that kind of thing makes me sweat. I had to get out. Rocktober was in full swing,

     I began getting nervous when the Rockies swept the Phillies in the first round. There was something wrong. This was the Rockies we were talking about, right? Build up the hopes, then crush them like a Gummi Bear on the sidewalk. Splat. That’s what the Rockies were famous for up to this point. Jeff Francis was on fire, Matt Holiday and Brad Hawpe were on a ball crushing tear, and it didn’t seem that anyone could stop them.

     Next up, the D-Backs. Surely this is where the streak would end. My gut was still telling me different though. The Rockies were going to the World Series. I couldn’t believe it until the final pitch of game 4 made it reality. Another mind blowing sweep, of the D-Backs no less. I found myself starting to watch the sky for in-coming asteroids, or falling space debris, or something. This just wasn’t natural, and something seriously bad had to happen to balance things out. The other shoe just refused to drop however. Things in the natural world were amazingly quiet. The alpacas were behaving, the coyotes had stopped trying to dig into mother’s henhouse, and Elsa had finally given in to dusting that top shelf of my bookcase that I had been on her about for so long. She even did it while I was in the room, and gave me a flirting wink when she finished. I could only shake my head in disbelief.

     When I called Colin to inquire about tickets to the series he informed he was already way ahead of me. Tickets wouldn’t go on sale for over a week, but he assured me that he would provide prime seats for me. It was at this point that it came to me. I knew what the Achilles’ Heel of the Rockies was. If Cleveland and Boston could stretch out their series to seven games, that would give the Rockies an 11 day lay-off before the Series.

     I felt the best thing to do at this point was to get to Denver as quickly as possible and start taking the temperature of the public. This is where the story was going to be. It now didn’t matter if the Rockies won or lost the World Series. The real story here was how the fans would build it up, and how big the letdown would be.

     When I got to Denver, I was really impressed. The media was doing their best to hype the whole thing out of proportion, and there were the obligatory street corner stands selling caps, shirts, pennants, flags, and every other trinket and bauble they could dream up to make a buck, but the people were keeping things under control. Apparently they had learned their lesson before, with that long streak of Superbowl appearances before The Broncos actually won two in a row. They understood this was the Rockies. Not even the NHL Avalanche winning the Stanley Cup in their first year in Colorado had spoiled them. People were happy, excited that the Rockies were going to the World Series, but there was an underlying current of calm and reason. As the week went along though, you could feel it building. As Game 1 approached the excitement level was growing. The hype was taking effect, and I started to really feel sorry for them. I remember I even had a few moments where I actually started to believe it myself. The Rockies had already accomplished so much that nobody expected them to, it was actually becoming feasible.

     And then, the Rock Pile crumbled. It was not easy to watch. I was at a bar downtown watching Game 1 on the tv. By the 5th inning I had to turn away. It was like watching a speeding train hit a car stuck on the tracks. You know it’s coming, and it’s going to be bad. I called Colin the next day and told him to keep the tickets. I couldn’t watch the train wreck on tv, let alone live and in person.

     "But they can come back from this!" he yelled.

     "No, they can’t Colin. It’s over. 13-1 Colin. Nobody can come back from a drubbing like that. It’s over, go home. They have put on a valiant show, but we all know it’s over. Give the tickets to some underprivileged kids. I’m not going"

     As far as I can see looking back, the Rocks only showed up for one game. In Game 2 they were able to hold the Red Sox to only 2 runs, but they couldn’t put on the hitting show that had brought them to their first World Series.

     I tell you what though, I was right. The story lies in the fans. It was a crushing defeat, possibly one of the worst in MLB history, but the fans still love their Rockies. I have seen other writers complain about Colorado, and Denver in particular, being full of fair weather fans, but don’t you believe it. The Rockies still hold the record for consecutive sell-outs. The stands are always full for the Broncos, Avalanche, Nuggets, and five other major league sports, win or lose. Any city that wants to boast about being a sports town had better compare themselves to Denver first.

     So it’s over. The Rock Pile is just rubble, but it will be back next year. Now, can I please go back to hating fucking baseball?

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Summer Summary

Holy cow! I can’t believe it’s been since March that I’ve written a feature story here. Summer is a busy time for me. The alpacas keep me busy, and I just like to be outside in the summer. A man has to have his priorities. There have been some major sports stories over the summer that piqued my interest, but I just never got around to writing them. So, considering that, I decided the best thing to do would be to write an article covering the earth-shaking goings on in the world of sports that have happened since I last sat down at the keyboard for any length of time. No particular order here. As with most things I do this will be done my way, which usually means no logic whatsoever will be employed. So let’s get on with it, shall we?

The Stanley Cup In The Wacky World Of Disney

I know, Disney doesn’t own The Ducks anymore, but it’s still Anaheim. It still irritates the hell out of me that hockey is being played in parts of the country that have no natural ice. This is equal to basketball being played in Europe, and baseball being played in Japan. I know it’s good for the game and all that. Whatever. I don’t see them playing Pro Beach Volleyball in Edmonton. Some things in sports are sacred and should stay that way.

The Ducks are physically a huge team, and how they still remain so fast has me stumped. This year though, the Stanley Cup better move back north or I’m gonna have to unleash the Ozzy Nation on some sun worshipers. Candy-asses!

Barry Bonds Breaks Hank Aaron’s Home Run Record

Who the fuck cares? I mean really. Barry Bonds is the epitome of everything I hate about baseball. Not only is he a steroid enhanced freak, he’s just simply an asshole. I won’t even waste my time on this subject. Baseball players are all candy-asses. End of story.

Tour De France Once Again Tainted By Drugs

The world of bicycle racing is one that could truly be called an endurance sport. I could really like this sport. Unfortunately it too is a sport that is rotting from the inside. Apparently substance abuse is running rampant. Even the hero of the sport, Lance Armstrong, leaves me shaking my head. He was never actually caught using performance enhancing drugs, but I’ll always wonder just what was the catalyst for that testicular cancer? Seems an odd coincidence to me. Another sport overrun with whiners and candy-asses.

Michael Vick Indicted On Allegations Of Dog Fighting

Where do I even begin on this one? This whole story boils my blood more than anything ever has. I don’t care if Vick never personally bet on dog fights. I don’t give a rats ass if he never personally participated in the torture and murder of those dogs. The fact that Vick was involved in even the minutest of ways with dog fighting makes him a candy-assed piece of shit in my eyes. I hope the man never touches a football again in his life. He is one of the few people in this world that I would take great joy in seeing destitute, homeless, hungry and spat upon by the general public. He is unclean, untouchable, and so is any low-life waste of sperm that has the balls to support or defend him. I say wrap his testicles with fresh bacon and throw him to the very dogs that he took such great pleasure in subjecting to such atrocities.

Chris Benoit Kills his Wife and Family and Hangs Himself

I was deeply saddened by this story for, as many of you know, the world of pro wrestling was my world for a number of years. It is becoming a rather shocking yet well known fact that HGH and steroids are becoming the norm in sports rather than the exception.

Can anything illustrate more the risks, dangers, and absolute stupidity of substance abuse than the story of Chris Benoit? How can you possibly justify the advantage in strength and/or speed when the price paid becomes the life of your loved ones, your own children? Christ Almighty! What a sick, sick world we live in when the lives of four people are outweighed by the drive to be number one.

There were many more big stories over the summer, but these were the top five in my book. There are many more lurking on the horizon. Some have even reared their ugly heads already. Stories that will make you angry. Stories that will make you curse the proliferation of candy-asses in the sporting world. Patriot-gate springs to mind. I’ll more than likely be writing more concerning that story down the road. There are also stories out there that will make you proud to be a sports fan. Stories that make you believe that for every candy-ass there is the counterpart. Stories like Kevin Everett of the Buffalo Bills who, in a matter days, went from "may not live" to "may walk again" after a devastating spinal cord injury in the season opener against the Denver Broncos.

Stay tuned, sports fans. I will bring you the stories that make you laugh, make you cry, make you angry, and want to kick some candy-ass!

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March Madness

March Madness. I feel obligated, as a sports writer, to write something about the NCAA basketball tournament. I must admit, however, that I am not at all a basketball fan. I’ve been a brief fan of the game two times in my life. The first time was when I had the pleasure of seeing the Harlem Globetrotters play at the local high school gymnasium when a was still young and easily star-struck by things like that. The second time was when my high school team made it to the state championships. I of course didn’t play, but had a great time supporting the team and harassing the opposing teams cheerleaders until we were knocked out in the second round. I definitely wasn’t there because I enjoyed the game though.

So I’ve been trying to figure out, if I have to write something about this, just what angle should I take? Surely there’s enough writers out there that are covering the teams themselves, the matchups, the Cinderella stories, the coaches, and everything else that actively involves the teams. Those don’t need to be covered any more, thank you very much. So what’s left to write about? The Fans? Yes, the fans. I’m not talking about the college students, who get caught up in it simply for the fact that they go to the college that is playing in a particular game. That’s merely the "flock of sheep" set of fans. They’re fans because it’s cool and, like myself in high school, you have to support your team. I’m talking about the real fans, the ones that are twenty years out of college, or never went to college, and still have a passion for watching the NCAA Tournament. Why do they love the game? What is it about college basketball that gets them so fired up?

I knew I would need some outside help on this one, so I looked up a buddy of mine who is the most maniacal March Madness nut I have ever met. He insists that we call him Bruiser, but anyone who knows him usually refers to him as Loser. I had to bribe him with the offer of beer to get him to sit down and talk with me, so we met at a local bar one afternoon.

I walked into the nearly empty bar and picked out Bruiser immediately, seated at a table with his back to me. I walked up quietly behind him and then slapped him violently on the back.

"Hey Lose.........Bruiser! How ya doin’?

He let out a scream that would have impressed a Banshee and shot straight up in the air with his arms and legs flailing out of control in some sort of primitive dance that gave the impression that he was trying to fight and flee all at the same time.

"Motherfucker!" was all that he could manage to blurt out once he landed and regained control of his limbs. He blurted it out a few more times as he clung to the table and tried to catch his breath. He was shaking so badly that I thought I may have actually dome some real damage to him. If I hadn’t been laughing so hard I may have been genuinely concerned. He finally gained control to where he could speak again.

"Laugh it up, funny boy! You’re a real comedian, ain’t ya? Fucking hilarious! You should have your own show! Sonofabitch!"

I pulled up a chair and sat down, still chuckling. "Good to see you, Bruiser. How’s life?"

"About ten years shorter, thanks to you!"

"Aw, c’mon. You need some excitement in your life."

Fuck you, Ozzy! I got an ex-wife that hates me and two daughters that think they know everything. I got all the excitement I need."

"Ok, ok. Sorry. I came to talk basketball anyhow."

"Fuck you! I ain’t sayin’ shit til I got a brewski in front of me!"

Fair enough, I thought to myself. I motioned to the waitress and when she arrived I ordered my current favorite, a Five Barrel Pale Ale.

"And whatever he wants." I motioned to Bruiser. I won’t mention what he ordered because it nauseates me just thinking about it. American commercial beer is some of the most horrendous crap beer produced in the world, and just in case that isn’t bad enough they all insist on making "light" beers. Bruiser ordered one of these.

Once he had a drink in front of him his mood mellowed significantly, so that I felt that we could now get down to business. What makes a March Madness fan?

Ozzy: Ok Bruiser, why do you like March Madness?

Bruiser: Are you fucking kidding me? What’s not to like about it? You’d have to be stupid not to like it.

Ozzy: Ok, but suppose I was from say, Europe, and I wanted you to explain to me what it is about the NCAA Tournament that makes it so exciting.

Bruiser: Well, then I’d have to call you a commie bastard and tell ya to get the fuck outta my country. Them commie European shitheads don’t know what good sports is!

Ozzy: Look, Bruiser, I think your missing my point here. Pretend I don’t know anything about basketball. I want you to explain why you love it so much.

Bruiser: Hah! You don’t know shit about basketball Ozzy! You should go to Europe with them commie bastards that are there already. Basketball is an awesome game.

Ozzy: But why, Bruiser? Why is it an awesome game? Tell me!

Bruiser: Oh! Because it’s all action man! It’s non-stop up and down the court, physical action.

Ozzy: But is it as physical as football, or hockey, or rugby?

Bruiser: Hell yeah! Watch a game sometime. They’re bangin’ all over the place out there.

Ozzy: I have watched, and I just don’t see the physical hitting in basketball that you see in hockey or other sports. I just don’t see it.

Bruiser: Must be ‘cause you’re blind, or drunk.

Ozzy: Watch it Loser! I’ll show you some physicality. You ever been in a sleeper hold?

Bruiser: Alright, alright! Take it easy! Don’t go gettin’ all "Wrestlemania" on me. I’m just sayin’ that you really need to sit and watch a game. Watch it close and see what goes on out there.

Ozzy: Ok, so you say the physical game is there. What about skills? Is there as much skill involved in basketball as other sports?

Bruiser: Oh come on! You’re fucking killing me here man! Yeah there’s skill! Lemme see you dribble a ball, right here, right now.

Ozzy: I’ve never dribbled a ball in my life.

Bruiser: See? That right there should tell ya something.

Ozzy: What’s that supposed to mean? You saying I don’t have any physical skill? Come here, candy-ass. I’ll show you physical skill. You ever had your arms tied into a pretzel?

Bruiser: Easy! Take it easy! I’m just sayin’ that there’s some definite skill involved because not everybody can even dribble a ball, let alone pass, shoot, slam-dunk. Man, I wish I could slam-dunk. That would be so awesome. I tried it once and almost broke my fuckin’ neck. Skill man, lots of skill.

Ozzy: Ok, but how would that compare to say, throwing a long bomb to a receiver with pinpoint accuracy? Or to controlling a puck with a stick, while ice skating, and scoring a goal through the five-hole?

Bruiser: Compare? Compare? It doesn’t compare, ‘cuz you’re comparing totally different things. Bananas and grapefruit, or however that saying goes. Different sports take different skills. You can’t compare them. Are you stupid or what?

Ozzy: That’s it Loser! You’re going down, now! C’mere. Have you ever massaged your spine with the back of your knee? You’re about to!

Bruiser: Hey! Hey! Lemme go! Ow! Ow! You’re fucking breaking my arm! Ow!

The interview more or less ended there. At least Bruiser didn’t say anything more. Nothing intelligible anyhow.

I still don’t care for basketball, but I’ll say this: Bruiser may have opened my eyes a bit. I’ve made a deal with myself that I will watch one entire game during March Madness. I’ll give it one chance. Don’t expect a miracle however.

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The Daytona 500 is candy-ass free

     There are many sports in which it is fairly easy for candy-asses to infiltrate. Soccer comes to mind rather quickly. Baseball has had it’s fair share. Ice skating? Almost a given. Then there are the sports that are nearly, if not completely, impossible for candy-asses to get a grip on. One of these is auto racing. If there is one sport in this world that just plain takes guts of steel and ice water in the veins, it’s the world of motor sports. The mere thought of strapping into, or onto, a piece of machinery designed to slap your brain against the back of your cranium gets my testosterone flowing.

     This brings us to NASCAR’s big season opener, The Daytona 500. If you only watch two races out of them all, this had better be one of them. This year it lived up to it’s reputation and then some. I was afraid it would be marred beyond recovery when a bizarrely large number of violations were found and a handful of crew chiefs were banned from the race. One of the things I like about NASCAR. You screw up, you’re out. No candy-ass crap. Fortunately the suspensions appeared to have no detrimental effect on the race itself.

     As far as races go, this one was relatively mild for 99 percent of the way. There were a few crack-ups. Kurt Busch and Tony Stewart took each other out on lap 153. Tony Stewart has done some growing up. He was probably the closest thing NASCAR had to a candy-ass since he first entered the stock car scene. I have never seen such a cry-baby in racing before. Nothing was ever his fault. It was always the other guy that caused the problem. This time, Tony kept his yap shut and was almost diplomatic in his handling of the incident.

     Things were relatively normal from then on until a big pile up brought out the red flag, setting up a green-white-checker finish. My adrenaline was pumping like a steam locomotive. When the green flag flew, Mark Martin led the pack, but Kevin Harvick was a determined man. On the last lap, Martin and Harvick were side by side and swapping the lead back and forth. Harvick won it by a foot, .02 seconds. It was a phenomenal ending.

     But first and second place were not what makes this story great. The big story is what happened behind them. Not a single driver gave up on that race. With balls of steel and monster machines screaming in the night, these modern day gladiators were battling for that one spot at 180 mph, whether it was third, or tenth, or twentieth. One more rung up the ladder could lead to another, and another, and as long as the battle was on, the horses were pushed as hard as they could go. Then, the inevitable happened. Someone pushed too hard. As Harvick and Martin flew towards the finish line, all hell broke out behind them. Smoke billowed. Fiberglass and chunks of rubber exploded into the air. It was ugly, and it was one of those visions that leaves no doubt in my mind that these guys are the epitome of what it is to not be a candy-ass.

     Among this carnage, out of the smoke and steam and sparks of metal beasts being torn apart, there appeared a scene I will not soon forget. Clint Bowyer’s car had been turned sideways and in a moment that gave me chills, got t-boned, which sent him into a stomach turning lurch that continued until he was flipped over on his top. Yet it seemed he still would not give up that will to reach the finish line. In flaming glory, Bowyer’s car slid, in my own estimate, what must have been 300 yards down the asphalt, being struck yet again by another car. If Clint Bowyer had at that point given up, his mount did not. Smoking, sparking and in flames, Old No. 7 would not be denied as it slid, upside-down, past the checkered flag to finish the race in 18th place. 18th place! Upside-down! Then, in a final death throw, as it skidded off the track and onto the infield grass, it almost gently flipped back onto it’s wheels to give Bowyer an easy escape. If I were a candy-ass I could have cried.

One car and driver received a trophy on this day, but there were many others who should have, and this has planted a seed in my brain. I’m going to establish an award, to be given at year’s end, for the sportsman who best symbolizes the spirit of ‘no candy-asses’. I’ve yet to figure out what to call it, but one thing is for sure, Clint Bowyer and No. 7 are the top contenders at the moment.

So, here’s what I want from you, my loyal readers. If you see or hear of a sporting moment that you think should be considered for this aw Only ard, whatever it may be called, drop me a line and let me know. Also, if you come up with a decent name for an award celebrating everything ‘anti-candy-ass’, send it to me and I will consider it. I’ll probably consider it a load of crap and call you a candy-ass, but you never know.

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Wild Wheeled Women

Back in the days when I was just knee-high to a grasshopper, they were worse than the prostitutes walking the streets at night. Many a young boy had his mouth washed out with soap for even bringing up the subject. They were tramps, unclean, immoral, violent, foul-mouthed, and promiscuous. The wet dream of every boy my age. Names like Loretta "Little Iodine" Behrens, Baby Rocko, Jo-Jo Stafford, Froggy Fratellie, Jean Porter, and on and on. For a young lad like me, who always had a great fascination with anything related to sport, speed and a dash of violence, these women were goddesses. They were the Queens of Roller Derby.

     Roller Derby came to prominence in the ‘40's. While the boys were off battling the Germans and the Japs, many ladies were found in their own battles. Back then, there was very little acting and a whole lot of bashing. The name of the game was to do as much damage to your opponent as possible. It was like boxing on wheels. The sport gained in popularity through the ‘50's, and by 1965 arenas were selling out, packed with fans screaming for their favorite teams, and cursing at the opponents.

     This was about the time I first discovered Roller Derby. I heard some school friends talking about it and became curious. Big, bosomy ladies, on roller skates, speeding around a banked track, beating each other up, wrestling around on the floor, trash talking. This was something I must witness. I went home and asked my mother if we could go see a Roller Derby match. I was promptly sent to my room without supper. If you know my eating habits, you know this was a serious punishment.

     About a year later I finally lied and sneaked my way to witness a match in person. I instantly fell in love. I fell in love with the sport, and with every derby girl on the track. These were my kind of ladies. Tough gals, with big bosoms stuffed into bullet brassieres. I became a dedicated fan. Yeah, there were men on the teams also, but it was the ladies that everyone wanted to watch. Those who were not fans said it was a passing fad. It would be gone quicker than the hoola-hoop. But it only got bigger. It kept rolling like a steamroller across the United States. At one point, in 1968 I believe, there were more people tuning in to Roller Derby on tv than there were tuning in to watch the NFL. It had become a social phenomenon.

     It was not without controversy. There was the night in October of 1967. The Los Angeles Thunderbirds were skating against the Detroit Devils. Remember, this was on live tv. At one point Thunderbird Cindy ‘Bonebreaker’ Brubaker clotheslined the Devils’ Connie ‘Storm’ Sturm. Connie took offense, tackled Cindy, and the brawl was on. It was all standard fare, until something went awry. Some small, probably ordinarily unimportant piece of fabric chose that moment to become very important. It sacrificed itself for the sport, and gave way. Cindy Brubaker’s enormous set of boobs exploded from her blue satin blouse and were laid bare for all to wonder at. The two skaters either didn’t notice what had happened, or didn’t care. They continued their scrum on the track, with Connie in serious danger of being knocked out cold by Cindy’s mammoth mammaries. Everyone was so shocked, including the television crew, that nobody thought to cut away from the shot, and for a full 20 seconds the world marveled at Cindy’s blessed chest.

     You might think that an incident like that would put the sport in jeopardy, but like many other such ‘wardrobe malfunctions’, it only boosted the sports’ popularity. Unfortunately, with the popularity came the detrimental effects of the same. In order to become more entertaining, Roller Derby started taking after it’s cousin, professional wrestling. The characters became more and more cartoonish, and the whole event became a stage production, rather than a sporting event. Roller Derby rode the crest of the wave it had created for quite a few more years, but by the mid seventies it’s wave had hit the rocky shore, and it seemed it had nothing left to do but to wash back into the sea that it had come from.

     You might think that this is where the story ends, but you’d be wrong. Roller Derby didn’t slink back into the slime that had spawned it. It merely hunkered down and licked it’s wounds. It fell into the dark underworld, the shadowland where those things go that should die, but somehow hang on.

     Now, Roller Derby has chosen this time to make a comeback. Look around, check your local skating rinks, and you’ll see signs of it. Local leagues are popping up all over the country. Be forewarned though. This is not the Roller Derby of times past. It’s time in the underworld has changed it, transformed it, until it has become a macabre caricature of itself.

     First off, you’ll notice that nearly all the leagues are women-only leagues. I guess they figured out what we were really there to watch. No men in the way to mess up the view. Also, most leagues race on flat tracks, as opposed to the banked tracks of days gone by. These new leagues are operating on shoestring budgets, and the cost of a banked track is out of the picture.

     On top of all this, the girls you see on the track look like they’d be more comfortable in a porn or slasher movie, and their names follow suit. Names like Babe Ruthless, Messy Missy, Leggs Luthor, Sugar Smacks, and Donna Matrix. The name of the game is sleaze, and they dress the part. Leather mini-skirts, fishnet stockings, lacy lingerie, school-girl uniforms, and lots of latex. Along with this, and as a sign of our more relaxed times, many of the girls are outspokenly lesbian. Back in the glory days of the sport, we all knew that at least a few of the ladies were obvious bull-dykes, but these girls are loud, proud, and not a bit shy.

     I sat down with a few of the girls after practice one morning to learn more about these Derby Queens. Over a light mid-morning snack I enjoyed the company of Jayne Manslaughter, Missy Demeanor, Iron Maiven, and Thora Zeen.

Ozzy McGurt: So tell me, how did you get into Roller Derby?

Jayne: Well, I actually helped start the league here locally. I was working at the Snack Shack at the rink. I kept thinking there had to be something else besides selling popcorn, nachos, and soda to punk-ass teenagers. I looked into joining an in-line hockey league, but they’re all no-check leagues. I wanted something more physical, something where I could take out some of my aggressions towards all these little whiney kids I have to deal with all the time. Then it just, kinda popped into my head. Roller Derby. Yeah! So I started checking into it, talking to other girls, and here we are.

Missy: I got into it to meet chicks. (All the girls laugh at this remark). No, really. I figured it’d be an easy way to meet some wild babes.

Ozzy: So, you’re openly lesbian?

Missy: No, I’m openly a slut. Being lesbian just kinda comes along with that.

Ozzy: Have you hooked up with any other Derby girls?

Missy: Well, yeah!

Ozzy: Can you name names?

(Missy casts a quick glance at Iron Maiven)

Missy: Maybe.

Iron: Oh, come on, Missy! You’re such a tease!

(Iron gets up and walks over to Missy, sits on her lap, and plants a lip-lock on Missy that would make Ron Jeremy blush.)

Ozzy: Do you hook up with girls on other teams?

Missy: Oh yeah! Every chance I get!

Ozzy: Doesn’t it bother your teammates that you’re getting intimate with the enemy?

Missy: No! They know I’m playing for one team and one team only. It’s part of my strategy actually. I like to go into their locker room before a match, grab one, and go find a private place to fuck her brains out. Sometimes I do it right in front of her team. The stupid bitches think they have an ally now. Then when the match comes, I play all nice at first, letting them think I’m going easy on ‘em. Then I pounce. An hour earlier she had her face between my legs. Now I’m smashing her face into the floor. They fall for it every time.

Ozzy: Wow! I think I get the picture. So, Thora, you seem to be the quiet, shy type. How did you get into the sport?

(Thora Zeen has spent the whole time thus far staring absently at the floor, twisting a lock of her coal black hair in her fingers.)

Jayne: You’ll have to excuse her. It takes a while for her medication to level out.

Ozzy: Her medication?

Iron: Oh yeah. We have to keep her medicated between matches.

Jayne: Otherwise we’d have a real bad scene. Serial killer type bad.

Thora: I like the blood.

Ozzy: You like what? Did she say she likes the blood?

Jayne: Yeah. She has a weird fascination with blood. It’s her thing, I guess.

Thora: Blood is pretty. I like to put my fingers in the blood and paint pretty pictures.

Ozzy: Ugh! Where did you find her?

Jayne: She was living in the dumpster behind the rink. I felt sorry for her and brought her in for some hot food. We had a practice scheduled, so I left her to eat while we skated. Next thing I know, she’s laced up a pair of skates and she’s on the track with us. She was a natural. She has this primal survival instinct going, and she seems to really enjoy inflicting pain on others. It took a while to teach her that she shouldn’t hurt us, just the other team, but she does great now.

Thora: Can I see your blood?

Jayne: Not now Thora. Later. Blood is later.

( I had to shake off a gigantic chill running up my back at this point)

Ozzy: Back in the day, Roller Derby was made up of teams of both men and women. The new leagues seem to be mostly women-only leagues. Is this something the sport had to do to achieve popularity again?

Iron: I don’t know if the sport needed it, but we needed it as women. Back then, the old ideas were still there, that women needed men to protect them. Now, we’re saying ‘Fuck that!’, we don’t need men to protect us. We can take care of ourselves.

Missy: That, and the fact that we’re all lesbians.

Jayne: We’re not all lesbians, bitch! As much as you want us to be.

Missy: You know you want it. She’s the only one on the team I haven’t had yet. One of these days, though.

Jayne: In your dreams, little girl.

Ozzy: Girls! Girls! We’re getting off track here. Although it is an interesting track. Anyhow, do you think that Roller Derby will ever achieve the popularity it had back in the fifties, sixties and seventies?

Jayne: I don’t think so. It’s so underground now. Kinda like a secret society, you know?

Iron: Who cares if it does or doesn’t? We’re having fun, busting some ass, and spilling blood. I think if it got that popular again it would take the fun out of it.

Thora: Blood?

Missy: As long as I’m gettin’ laid, I don’t give a shit!

Thora: Blood? Can I see blood?

Jayne: Uh-oh. I think Thora’s medicine is wearing off. You may not want to hang around here too much longer.

Thora: (Staring at me with wide, crazy eyes.) Can I see your blood now? I like blood. I won’t hurt you. I just want some blood. Please?

Jayne: Blood is later, Thora.

Ozzy: Well, gosh, look at the time. I really need to go. Thank you girls for sharing your thoughts with me.Good luck, and............Goodbye!

Rocky Mountain Rollergirls

=====================================================

The Candy-Assification Of The Superbowl

     When did the game become secondary? I remember a time when the Superbowl was about two teams battling it out to decide who was the best in the league. It was about tough men, brutal athletes, pouring out their sweat and blood, leaving it all on the field, to prove to everyone that they were the toughest. Real men, with real balls. They didn’t take steroids to puff up like some mutant freak out of a Sci-Fi movie. They drank whisky and got cranked up on speed for a game, but they didn’t look like some cartoon caricature of Charles Atlas in the back of some old comic book. Legendary names like Bart Starr, Larry Czonka, Roger Staubach, ‘Mean’ Joe Green. They knew what the Superbowl was about. They knew why they were there. It was all about The Game.

     Back then, it didn’t matter if your team didn’t make it to the Superbowl, you still got excited about The Game. It was The Game that you tuned in to see. Friends would gather together, eat artery-clogging crap for food, drink beer, and the talk was all about who would win. Even if you didn’t like the teams that were playing, you knew these were the best and it was going to be fun to watch. It was all about The Game.

     After The Game, the talk was all about the amazing plays that had been witnessed. Around the water cooler at work the next day, talk was about that incredible bulls-eye bomb the quarterback threw. For weeks you could hear various commentaries on that mind-boggling leap for a reception in the end zone, or the bone crushing run up the middle that took out two guards, a tackle and a linebacker. It was all about The Game.

     Nowadays, unless you actually live in one of the cities producing one of the teams playing in the Superbowl, nobody gives a dingo’s kidney about The Game. Most people don’t even know which teams are in the Superbowl. Go out on the street, right now, and ask ten people if they can name the two quarterbacks playing in the Superbowl. Go on, I dare ya. You’d be lucky to get two right answers. Nobody cares. Now, go out and ask the same ten people who’s performing during the half-time show, and I bet the correct answers go up exponentially. Or better yet, ask them who they think will have the best commercial. That’s what it has come to. The commercials are the main attraction, the half-time show is the hot second bill, and The Game has become some limp-dicked, candy-assed warm-up act. Does anybody even watch the game anymore? Not many, if any, but everyone can recite, word for word, every cheesy, lame-ass, cute-animal infested commercial that plays during the entire tortuous, all-day hackfest that is Superbowl Sunday. These are commercials, you candy-asses! These are 30 second hypnosis sessions that some marketing pimps and ad execs payed 2.5 million dollars–yes, 2.5 million dollars, American–to try to make you go out and spend your hard earned cash.

     Then, after your brains have been turned to mush, comes the half-time show. Lots of pretty lights, colorful streamers, laser shows, and the performers. Acts like Britney Spears, Ashlee Simpson, Michael FREAK-ing Jackson! With dancers all around doing the bump-and-grind Hoe-down Boogie! My God! It makes me want to put a bullet in my head. Last year’s big attraction was Sir Paul McCartney. Now I love Paul, don’t get me wrong, and that was probably one of the most enjoyable half-time shows I’ve seen, but I still wanted to walk out on that stage with, say, a large halibut, and smack the stupid Brit on the melon. This is the Superbowl, Paul! The Fucking Superbowl!! What the fuck are you doing here? Get off the stage, go home and play your candy-ass cricket on the green, and let’s get on with THE FUCKING GAME!!!!!!!!!