Heavy bass guitar pounds our eardrums. We skate around the rink in the semi-dark. I can’t see my mom, who drove six hours to help run the bar. My dad stands guard by the bench, directing the increasingly inebriated crowd upstairs to the mezzanine. My sister stands on a chair while manning the coat check to watch over the crowd. Every skater has called upon boyfriends, family, friends and coworkers. Twenty-six of our most trusted accomplices are controlling the crowd, running the bar, tweaking the sound system and selling our merchandise. The fire marshal, meanwhile, has come to inspect access to the exits, and a CTV crew is shooting from the sidelines.
The whistle blows. I step to the line, star-emblazoned panty over my gold helmet designating me as the jammer, the point scorer who will try to pass the other team’s four blockers while my blockers try to help me and stop the other team’s jammer. In the first period, Calgary’s blockers dominate and we lose our strongest player to a shoulder separation. At halftime, the floor manager yells that we’ve run out of beer. I find Dee Vicious, the injured brawler. She has 17 more flats in her trunk and leaves the bench to replenish the bar.
Calgary takes a 12-point lead but midway through the second half our endurance begins to shine. Hexx Luther blows Crimson Shivers off the rink. Iron Jaiden denies portal to Angie Septic. Dee Dee Monroe squeezes Chrissy Cruizzer out of bounds. It’s the last jam. Two minutes remain on the clock. Berretta Lynch – me – steps to the line. My legs are silk. My wheels slide smoothly over the floor. I squat to avoid a check, squeeze my body tight to slip past a blocker. I rack up 10 points before getting called for a penalty.
The game ends. The crowd hushes as the points are tallied.
E-Ville: 103. Calgary: 105. They’re taking home the first, hopefully annual Wild Rose Challenge Cup. Within minutes, we begin ripping tuck tape from the floor. Fans ask us for autographs, pictures and offer to help. “You shouldn’t be doing that, you just played!” We’re all on our hands and knees, picking, pulling and struggling. Someone hands me a beer. I find three more. My sobriety dissipates with the crowd.
EIGHT OF US are sitting in a white, windowless boardroom. Bored room. People fidget, sigh, shuffle papers. “What do you want to see included in the teen program?” the clinic director asks. “I don’t feel safe offering my opinion in this environment,” a colleague responds.
We are meeting to discuss, yet again, the direction this clinic will take. This conversation happens almost monthly, but our opinions usually wind up mired in bureaucratic nets, our professional judgments ignored. I remain silent, staring at a Beretta Lynch decal on my water bottle. Legs crossed under the table, arms crossed over my chest, I do not answer. I know that I can only make token recommendations, solicited in an effort to make us feel we’re being heard, despite evidence to the contrary.
When we started E-Ville Roller Derby, I struggled against policies, rules, codes of conduct and meeting structure. The parallels between making decisions for a research clinic and a recreational sports league are remarkable. The biggest difference is that for some decisions, I’m wearing skates – and I’m a lot happier.
My lack of satisfaction at work is an impetus at derby meetings. I don’t want people who are investing their free time to feel their efforts are futile. With a paycheck, there’s a reason to keep going to work. If you’re a volunteer, your incentive is fulfillment.
I consider fulfillment. We cling to certain beliefs when choosing careers. I entered the nutritional field because I believed it would help me understand why I was fat and how to change. Once I reconciled how I felt about being overweight, the job lost its relevance to me. But I still wanted to empower others, and derby became my conduit.
Is it realistic to think that my career choice at 20 should still suit my needs at 30? Arlene Hirsch says soul-searching in your late 20s is common as one makes career decisions based on greater self-awareness and experience. And so I left my job to chase down that which I have always run away from: me.
I’M STANDING ON THE PEAK of the Marmot ski hill in Jasper National Park. I left my helmet at the base and put on my derby toque instead. I needed some inspiration. Leaving your job because you’re unfulfilled is only the first step. There are many stumbles before me and, perhaps most frightening, it’s not finances I’m concerned about – it’s my freedom
of choice.
In June, I will play roller derby for Team Canada against Scotland and England. Later this summer there’s an international derby convention in Las Vegas. For now, though, I’m standing on my latest career-boosting investment, a snowboard, searching for my perfect line.
It’s a weekday and there is nobody near me. On the brim of this massive white bowl, I ponder where I will be next winter. Next derby season will be our solidifying year. In the meantime, I’ll be building my dream job as a writer and may have to step away from E-Ville to make room for my future. Maybe I’ll move to a small B.C. ski town. Maybe I’ll sling coffee to support myself until my career is grounded. And then, maybe, I’ll start a roller derby league. U
