The Derby Dichotomy

(This story was written as an assignment for JO527: Narrative Journalism at Boston University in 2019.)

By Alyssa Meyers

Fishnets. Throwing punches. Dramatic, dark eye makeup. Black eyes. Tight shirts cropped to show midriffs. Mouth guards. Plaid skirts. Bloody lips.

Most people have experienced these things vicariously through Whip It and a few other films.

The film, directed by Drew Barrymore, tells the story of a girl, Bliss (Ellen Page), who grows up in Texas at odds with her mother obsessed with beauty pageants. She meets the girls on a roller derby team and everything changes.

Bliss learns to skate, joins the team, and discovers herself. Meanwhile, Smashley Simpson (Drew Barrymore) gets into frequent fistfights on the track.

Apparently roller derby was really like that in the 70s. But no more, says Melissa Martin, a skater and coach in the Boston Roller Derby League. She’s given herself a derby name, “Crueliette Lewis,” or Crue, a nod to Juliette Lewis (Who is in Whip It).

Crue works nine to five at biotech company in Kendall Square. She calls herself “competitive by nature and athletic by upbringing.” With broad shoulders and tattoos up her arms, her demeanor screams “don’t mess with me.” Her friendly smile and sparkly, gold helmet tell an opposite story. She says she’s “a jock.” She leads a double life, Melissa by day and Crue by night.

She screams swears at her trainees to get their attention during practice. She often drives from Somerville to upstate New York and visits her long-distance boyfriend. She says they’re in love. She is both sides of the Michelle/Crue dichotomy.

“If there was a jock in the family it would be me, but I did girly sports growing up,” she says in the cold, echoing warehouse in Lynn. The smells of sweat and rubber fill the air. Her trainees wobble around the track practicing falling and getting back up, skating backwards and smoothly turning back around.

Jock. Girly. Crue. Michelle. Most young girls in 21st century combine the two. Crue and most of her teammates do.

Crue and three other derby coaches skate counterclockwise. Their wheels, five on each skate, blur into a cacophony of colors from red to green to yellow to purple to orange to blue. They screech across the hardwood track, nails on a chalkboard. Rubber on wood.

They skate in unison like they’re executing the steps in a choreographed dance, flying around and around the track. They’re linked at the arms, attached at the hips. Until one of them slingshots away from the group.

Roller derby has kept changing since ‘30s, when it emphasized costumes and collisions. These days, two teams of five skaters, in athletic jerseys, obey the ref’s whistle. Rule-breakers obediently spend 30 seconds in a penalty box. The Women’s Flat Track Derby Association, the sport’s international governing body, offers medical insurance to member leagues.

“We’re not trying to break each other,” Crue says. “We’re trying to win.”

The coaches conduct this training camp — a yearly program offered by the Boston Roller Derby League for those hoping to try out for the league’s four house teams. On this night, about 30 of the 50 trainees show up, a typical turnout, Crue says. They practice falling for 45 minutes, the vast majority of practice.

Crue demonstrates. She smacks her elbow to indicate where the young skaters should look. Her left hand supports her weight while she lowers herself slowly to the floor. The girls continue to watch her right arm. Her elbow makes contact with the floor. Her forearm and hand connect with the ground last.

“It’s very controlled, very tight,” Crue says. “We’re really locking shit down now.

“The whole vibe behind the game has changed.”

Coaches and trainees wear mouth guards and helmets, elbow pads and knee pads. Some even wear butt pads. Not one of the 30 pushes another. No one throws a punch. No one even looks at a fellow trainee with anything less than a smile. All stretch their hands down, helping every fallen skater up. They dole out advice on skating backwards.

“This is the path your skates should follow,” one coach says, indicating three curved lines she’s drawn in chalk on the floor of the warehouse to the side of the track. The lines run parallel but never intersect. The trainee skates backward next to them, eyes trained on the ground, feet never fully crossing. She does not fall.

After practice, the coach skating with Crue skids ahead of the pack. She picks up speed, folding at the waist. Her body becomes aerodynamic. She crosses one skate over the other, rear foot shooting out behind her. She pushes hard off the track. She skates smoothly, head still and level despite the movement of her lower body. She approaches a small waste bin placed on the track as an obstacle.

This move, a skater flying ahead of the rest, is common in roller derby. That person, called the jammer, scores by breaking away from her pack and lapping the other team. The jammer scores a point for every opposing team member she passes.

Crue is a blocker, not a jammer. She moves in front of the other team’s jammer, preventing scoring. She also impedes opponents looking to known down her jammer.

She grew up doing gymnastics and cheerleading. She calls those sports “girly,” but says they prepared her for the demanding sport of roller derby. “Standing on a balance beam isn’t that different from standing on eight wheels,” she says.

The jammer coach approaches the wastebasket, a car with no breaks heading toward a tree. She bends even lower and starts her jump. Her arms hover slightly extended, behind her body. She pulls them to her sides. Her thigh muscles tense. Her feet leave the floor.

“Take a fucking knee if you’re out of control,” Crue says, voice carrying around the warehouse although she’s not shouting. Trainees whiz around her.

Halfway through practice, she sees one fall too many. She blows her whistle and calls the girls off the track. She again demonstrates properly slamming into the floor — padded elbow, not fragile wrist first.

Falling on skates is not like tripping over your own feet. Beginners go down hard, arms flailing and wheels digging into thighs. Skate-clad feet get trapped beneath bodies, bending heels to hips. New skaters learn falling before everything else.

The coach reaches the trashcan and jumps high. Higher than your average, non-athletic, regular person (know as a NARP to many college students) could dream of jumping. Especially on skates.

It’s not high enough. She falls. Her skate catches the lip of the garbage bin. Her hands, not her elbows, come in front of her body. Her helmet still hits the wooden track with a crack. For a second or two, she lays in a heap. Crue skates over and rights the bin. Before she offers a hand to her fallen jammer, the woman pops upright and skates off full speed toward the obstacle again.