Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Wild West Showdown Part Four: Every day is like Sunday

Resting on Chad.
After the previous night's derring-do, one could have finished the book on the Wild West Showdown and said, "that was a satisfying ending. Let's get back home with tales of derby wonder." But no, the Pants Off Dance Off was merely a howled prayer to the deities residing on Mount Skatelympus to give us more quad-wheeled combat the next day. And lo, that prayer was answered.

In the morning, Val Capone and I called a scrimmage that featured the very same ladies who threw the party the night before. This scrimmage was being recorded for WFTDA as it was a play-test of a "no minors" ruleset. If you're unfamiliar with roller derby, there are minor penalties and major ones. For efficiency's sake, just consider this equation: 4 minors = 1 major. Majors send one to the penalty box immediately. Removing the minors affected game-play and strategy (any track cut was a penalty, some forearms were just ignored) but the game was still roller derby. However, with only thirty minutes of play and the fact nothing was really at stake makes me wish they had gone a full two periods to simulate a real bout.

Denver continued their winning streak against Sacred City, and I called Jet City v. Philly with Miz Spydr. Philly was rested and battle-ready, and they took it to Jet with a fury seen only on nature shows, winning 185-68. This power animal thing is working. I think I need one. As Teflon Donna already has the one I'd choose, I guess I better go for a gibbon:

The gibbon is the loudest land mammal. I know you come here to learn.

Calling that game had taken a lot out of me and my voice so Randy Pan, Lady O and I went up into the beer garden to watch Santa Cruz take on Dockyard. Dockyard took an early lead, but Santa Cruz quickly recovered and blew Dockyard out of the water. The bout was better than coffee, as I repeatedly stood and screamed for Santa Cruz, especially for the jammer Lu Lu Lockaw, a regular reader of this blog.  Seriously, I love watching up-and-coming teams. Sure it murdered my throat, but damn the West is exciting.

Look, I write and talk a lot of mess. The skaters are very much the reason we watch.
And if you're out West... Santa Cruz, suckas.
After the game, I sought out sustenance. The food truck was gone, but my hopes for eating well were unbroken. Juanito's Tacos set up shop by Track Two. If you're ever in the Bremerton area, eat there. Not only did they make a superior Carne Asada taco, they brought them over to announcers at the emcee tables. In turn, we praised them as masters of Mexican cuisine. Deciding to give them money for a change I waited my turn in line to buy their food. The owner's son, a boy of about twelve was taking my order when a meth-addled copy of Fred Durst cut the line and said, "Yo, Coke. Yo," while pointing both index fingers at the soda cooler.

Maybe it was him...
Before I could even say anything the kid looks at Meth Bizkit and says, "there's a line. Wait." The guy stared at him, likely in disbelief that his only option was Coca-Cola and not Faygo, and then walked away. After the young cashier's display of no-nonsense control, I would order tacos from Juanito's and request them to be delivered via mail just to give money to the family that raised such a fearless little man.

The final official game of the night, Rat City v. Philly was just tops. Philly seems to be the experts on two person walls and saving their points even with a full penalty box. Rat City, on the other hand, hit their stride in their last game. Playing offensively and penalty-killing worked in their favor and they came out ahead. Calling once more for the internet with Randy Pan, our joking died out before period two because of the sheer power of the bout.

Once it was done, the venue was closed to the public. Another coed scrimmage, featuring the finest skaters from OLY, Rat,  and the best of the West fought long and hard in one of the most obscenity-laden bouts I have ever witnessed. If John Waters had directed Whip It, this game would have been the model for the final game in the movie.

While watching the event, Junction City donated a Four Loko to Lady O's "Gettin' Tore Up" fund.

Taste testing...

Our final treat of the evening was the NSO bout. The NSHobos are the primary group of Non-Skating Officials in the Pacific Northwest. Many of them cannot skate worth a damn. While this was entertaining enough on its own, things took a turn for the weird:

The streakers returned, their dress-code was quickly adopted by the penalty box and those announcing the bout. The laws of physics, nature, and Bremerton quickly turning into soup of primordial chaos, I felt immediately foolish for believing the previous night's dancing would be the pinnacle of fun I'd experience.

Then came the last after party.

Tomorrow: Thriller! Philly! Thieving Sea Gulls! Yoga! And Goodbyes to the state.

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