Springtime: First robin, daffodils blooming and roller derby mayhem!

Another interesting weekend in Chicago (motto: "One toll booth is plenty to handle the driving population of China!). Our reason for returning to the scene of the great "Greektown Easter Bread Caper" (see my last blog) as it has come to be known in Greektown, was to witness another first for our daughter. The first roller derby bout for YOUR Windy City Rollers!! While normally her mother and I would not go out of our way to see our precious little girl get the snot kicked out of her, our other pride and joy, Dustin (I never met a Mimosa I didn't like) Coyote flew in for the inaugural bout from Mexico City. I guess we could hardly bow out. How often do you have the opportunity to be ridiculed by both your children at the same time? By the way, it is evidently the law in Illinois that if you are related to a roller derby girl, you lose birth surname and take on the name given your daughter. So now Sandy, Dustin, Dave and myself are known as the Coyote family. It could be an improvement. You never know. OK, sometimes you do.

Anyway, we decided to surprise our daughter by showing up for the bout even though she insisted for weeks that she didn't want anyone closer than a fifth cousin showing up as she didn't think she would be very good. She needn't have worried, becase at one point, my sweet, charming PhD of a little girl took out a skater on the other team with roughly the same physique as a municipal stadium. Now let me see. She didn't think she would be very good, even though she has the capability of knocking someone into Milwaukee. Makes sense to me. I wasn't surprised as I had seen her use similar techniques when confronting her mother and I for money (I think maybe Dave has seen this side as well. By the way Dave odds are good you'll heal by summer.).

We got to the derby bout via something called a "party bus" which was organized by one of the retired roller derby girls, I believe her name was "Sledge Hammer". You greet her by saying "hello, Ms. Hammer, how's Mr. Hammer and all the little Hammers?" She kindly took our $8 per person to put us on one of those "rides smooth as silk" yellow school buses. I think they use the term "party bus" a tad loosely as your ability to drink beer from a plastic cup while riding in a school bus through the town of Cicero, Illinois (motto: "Anyone could drive if there were no potholes!") is a feat that ranks up there with trying to win a Nobel prize for having invented a more efficient apertoire. Just ask Donald Rumsfeld, George Bush and the rest of good folks that brought you the Iraq war. We finally arrived at the half built, Aztec ruin called the "Cicero Stadium for an evening of entertainment watching fit, pretty girls skating in a circle, trying to kick the bejeesus out of some other poor defenseless skater. Ah, the fun of youth. Parents this is what you get for telling your kids "Stop playing those damn violent video games and get out there and get some physical exercise for God's sake!".

A word, if you will, about a crowd of roller derby fans. To the untrained eye, and mine is as untrained as they come, you might first get the impression that only massively pierced, tattooed, drunken wierdos attend roller derby games. Nothing could be further from the truth, as I left out the adjective "homicidal". I swear this is true, I saw two little girls roughly 5 or 6 years old, made up, by their proud parents I presume, to look like a cross between Marilyn Manson and Alice Cooper. The Cicero "stadium" was packed to the rafters with these folks and I felt extremely under dressed in my jeans, and "Manic Attacker" t-shirt. One saving grace, I was wearing a baseball cap which said "Fish the Smokies" so at least I had an image of a hook on me, if not in actual fact through my nipple or some other random appendage. At least Sandy had the good sense to wear earrings. They weren't straight pins or anything, but I suspect they gave her a pass.

Oddly enough, (or not) they start a roller derby bout with the national anthem. This probably could have been dispensed with as the crowd seemed to have the patriotic fervor that God gave gravel. One mental defective, who shall remain nameless, although his real name is Doug Manley, sang the anthem in roughly the same register as Phoebe Snow on helium. I told his wife Charity that she should dump his sorry ass in favor of a more distinguished, 50'ish man with an abundance of scalp, unburdened by height and the physique of a Greek god's bowling ball. (OK, maybe it was begged, rather than told). There was also a crowd of about 30 "goths" who ignored the anthem altogether and sat through it with their hats on. I think they were all cranky ex-Bush supporters.

After all the pregame hoopla, the bouts got underway. The main event, I think was between the "Hells Belles" and the "Double Crossers". During the bouts the arena announcers, a couple of guys in Liberace Reject wardrobes, whipped the spectators into a frenzy with colorful "play by play" and clever anecdotes. The main event was very exciting as the Belles stormed from behind to overtake and defeat the hated Crossers on the final jam. I was thrilled beyond repair.
Then there was Mel's er, sorry, I mean Riley's bout. It was a close one, but The Fury squeeked by Riley's Manic Attackers by a final score of about 83 to 12. As they say in other sports, it wasn't as close as the score would indicate. However, in a credit to the popularity of the sport, the arena stayed fairly packed to the bitter end of the bout. Riley played blocker and jammer to get her feet wet as she is technically a rookie. She played with a kind of reckless abandon that brought tears to Sandy's and my eyes. Primarily because we could see the wasted investment on her braces going right down the drain. Just kidding, Sandy and I were not the least bit concerned when she was blocked into a cement wall by a Fury player the size of a Buick, which was the case of all the Fury, or when she took one of several spills.

Following the merciful conclusion of the Manic Attackers bout we all boarded the party bus for the return trip to our point of departure for some post bout libation. Our host emporium was a little tavern called "The Cobra" (motto: One barmaid can serve approximately 3,000 customers. We're not only proud of that, we're smug about it). Many fans, and a little later the players showed up for post game festivities and stitches. Sandy and I proudly looked on as our precious little roller derby queen signed actual autographs for adoring fans. Several of these fans were clearly blowing about .40 BAC. We sat at a table near the bar which meant we were able to order and get our drinks in a little under 2 hours. I felt bad for those seated in more distant booths, several of whom had skeletonized by the time we left. During the course of the evening, several of the other Windy City Rollers girls stopped by to chat and tell us how much they loved our daughter. We frequently had to make sure we were all talking about the same person. Some girls seemed genuinely surprised that we would make the trip from Cleveland and I heard many express their admiration for parents foolish..., I mean dedicated enough to come all that way. Several players said they wished their parents showed so much spirit. This was coming from girls whose sole purpose in this activity was to split lips, break bones and cause mayhem in general. These same girls then had the nerve to act surprised when their parents had a little trouble showing up to witness the carnage. Anyway girls, don't be too hard on your parents for lacking the capacity to watch their offspring beating or being beaten to a pulp.

I guess that's enough of a rant for now, I'm still recovering, as usual, from the trip and tremendous change of sleep habits.

By the way Dustin, if the Manley's ask for my address or phone number, tell them I'm deceased.

Love Dad