Queen of the Roller Derby

After supper, the men left but the girls all stuck around, drinking and nibbling on leftovers. Most of the talk around the table was about husbands and boyfriends. A few other girls kept quiet, and I figured I knew why. They were probably thinking the same about me. But all I was thinking about was the next day's game. After a while I got up and went downstairs.

Couch Doyle was still in his office.

"Do you want something, Kitty?" he asked.

"I had some thoughts about tomorrow. I figured I would run them by you."

"So come in and take a load off." He took a bottle of Johnnie Walker out of his desk drawer, and half filled two Dixie cups.

I took a drink, then told him my idea. He scowled at first, but slowly raised one eyebrow.

"Honestly, Kitty," he said, "Even with you on the team we're going to have a hell of a time beating the Gals, so we might as well try something different. We'll give it a try."

I finished my drink and stood. "One thing, though," he said as I was leaving, "If it don't work, you're gonna answer to Leo, not me."

Normally, the sports pages didn't give a lot of coverage to roller derby, especially not the women's teams, but this match was a good storyline for them and they really built it up. They kept calling me Betsy's former protégé. I didn't care for that, but it probably got under her skin more than mine. The Daily News ran a story with the headline Who is the Real Queen of the Roller Derby, and I knew that would really would get her goat.

In any case, the publicity had brought out the crowds, and the Garden was packed to the rafters. Someone said they anticipated the biggest television audience to ever watch a women's game.

Naturally, we were all nervous. I was usually pretty calm and collected before a bout, but even I had butterflies in my stomach.

The volume of the crowd rose as we rolled into the rink and took our places on the bench. A few minutes later, the Gotham Gals came out. The cheers were louder for them, but not by much. We had plenty of fans there as well.

As soon as I saw the Gals, my nerves disappeared. I wasn't afraid of them. I remembered what Coach Joe said before the last time I skated against these women. But, this time, I had no intention of losing with my pride intact. I thought about Budz and Angie and the other girls, and most of all I thought about Myra. I was going to beat Betsy and her crew, and when I did, it wouldn't be just me beating them, it would be all of them as well.

The head referee signaled and we moved into our positions. Betsy stood with her hands on her hips and a smirk on her face. "Boy," she said, "Have I been looking forward to kicking your scrawny ass."

I just smiled at her and said, "You can't kick what you can't catch."

The opening whistle blew, and I took off like a shot. She was right beside me. A gap opened up between the blockers on the first turn, and I squeezed into the pack. I was trapped there, but was better off than Betsy. She was stuck behind it. We were into the second lap before enough space opened for me to break out in front, but Betsy found those same openings and was right on my heels.

We stayed like that, neck and neck, until, with the clock winding down, she hooked her skate in front of mine. It was an illegal move, but either nobody saw it or she got away with it because her kind of stardom had it privileges. I wobbled and struggled not to fall. She shot ahead of me, managed to blow by our blockers and the first jam ended in a tie.

I looked over to Coach Doyle. He nodded and gave me the thumbs up. He was still willing to try my plan. The shift changed and Betsy sat down. I stayed on the track and rolled back to the starting spot.

Heidi Havoc was the second squad New York jammer. Holtzman was sticking to his rotation plan, but apparently, my exit didn't get Tilly her position back.

"What the hell, Kitty," Heidi asked, "You're staying in?"

"Yeah," I said, "I ain't going anywhere, except to the front of the pack."

It was considered common knowledge that nobody could skate a whole bout, they would be too exhausted and beat up to make it to the end. My plan was to prove that the common knowledge was bullshit.

The crowd was buzzing. Over on the New York bench, Betsy was shouting at Coach Holtzman and jabbing her finger in my direction. I knew exactly what she was saying. If I was staying in, she was insisting that she should too. Exactly as I knew she would.

But it was too late. The whistle blew.

Even with Betsy on the bench, the Gotham Gals were a terrific team. I had no trouble outskating Heidi, but the blockers were as tough as ever. I had hoped to build up a big lead, but I only managed to get us three points ahead. On the bright side, I did get the chance to knock Tilly hard into the rails on one of the turns.

Betsy's face was red when we lined up for the third jam.

"Do you think you're going to skate the whole bout?" she asked, practically spitting it out.

"Sure," I said with a grin,'"Why not?"

She shook her head. "You're not gonna get around me like that. Any jam you skate, I'm skating too. You think I can't match you jam by jam?"

"I think you could if you weren't fifteen years older than me."

I was sure that as soon as the whistle blew, she'd try to give me an elbow for that, and I was right. I ducked it and took off.

We battled to a draw in that third jam, and when it ended she stayed in.

That was the roughest bout I ever skated. The blocking by both teams was brutal. Everybody was battered and bruised by the tenth jam. Still, we were deadlocked.

As we lined up, I could see that Betsy was breathing harder than before, and her jersey was soaked through with sweat.

I shouted to Maggie. She turned and I gave her a nod. She smiled and nodded back.

When the pack approached the first turn, our blockers moved into single file, and forced the Gals to the inside. This was generally a bad move, because, even though it let your jammer fly through, you couldn't regroup in time to cut off the opponent from following her.

But that was part of my plan. Betsy was getting tired, and there was nothing in front of us but open track. She had to catch my ass if she wanted to kick it, and I took off as fast as I could. Now that I had tired her, I would make her skate like she had never skated before.

My strategy worked. She couldn't keep up, and I managed to get by the New York blockers. By the end of the jam, we had a four point lead and Betsy was panting like a dog on a hot day. I wondered what Coach Holtzman was thinking. He had wanted the derby to be about speed and skill, and that's what I was using to beat his team.

As we started the next jam, I signaled Maggie that we would try the same strategy again. I figured that either our blockers would succeed in clearing the rail again, or they wouldn't. We had nothing to lose by trying.

But Betsy Bomber didn't get to be the world's most famous derby skater by being stupid. At the whistle, she shot straight for the outside, guessing that it would be open. She beat me through the opening created by my own teammates.

I was right on her heels, and as soon as we were well clear of the pack, she turned her skates in, which caused her to break to a sudden stop. I slammed into her back hard enough to knock her down. The whistle blew, she jumped to her feet and I got sent to the penalty bench. By the time I got back in the game, she had put the Gotham Gals back in front.

She had to hustle for those points though, and she was gasping for air when we lined up for the next jam

"You really ought to hand it off," I said, "It looks like you're about out of gas."

She took a couple of deep breaths and got into position.

"I don't quit," she said.

She didn't quit. One thing I'll say for Betsy Brautigan, she put everything she had into the game and she never, ever quit.

Coach Holtzman was no dummy either. He knew the only way they could hold their lead was to slow things to a crawl.

The New York blockers formed a wall in front of me that I could not get through. So I went around it. I hadn't made a corner jump yet in this bout. I had saved that move for when I really needed it, because I knew that once I did it, the Gals blockers would adjust to prevent me from doing it again. Now was the time to use it.

Vicky was the trailing blocker. I dove toward her and jumped. I landed in front her, then weaved between Doris and Tilly, and cut their lead down to one.

But time was getting short.

One more jam would decide the championship. As bad as Betsy looked, I don't know how much more I could have done myself. My knees and hips were aching. My arms were black and blue.

The two of us stood side-by-side at the jammer line. I imagine we looked like a couple of palooka prizefighters duking it out for beer money in the back of some Bowery dive.

Just before the whistle, Betsy Brautigam spoke to me for the last time ever. She said, "Why the fuck didn't you just go back to Detroit?"

Once again, the blockers formed a solid wall, but just like I knew they would, when it got to the corners, three of them shifted into single file along the inside curve, while the forth covered the gap that opened on the rail side.

There was less than a minute left to play. We were still trailing by a single point, and I hadn't been able to break through. Betsy made a move, trying to get through along the rail, but Arlene dropped back and blocked her.

I moved over next to Arlene and shouted, "You have to break up that line on the next turn."

She nodded and sped up. As we approached the turn, she darted between the first and second blockers. When she made her move, I did too, jumping the corner, without knowing whether or not I had a place to land.

I don't know if anyone else has ever tried to corner jump two players at once, before or since. Some of the New York fans claimed that I landed out of bounds. I practically landed on Arlene's back, and almost fell, but she grabbed my arm, steadying me, and shoved me forward.

I didn't have a lot left in me, but I had enough to get past the lead blocker and score the grand slam.

With less than 10 seconds left in the bout, I spun around and looked behind me. It was my blockers who formed the wall now. Betsy, with no possible chance of scoring, was still looking for her opening.

The final whistle blew. I turned around, and raised my fists in the air. The noise in the arena was deafening. Within seconds, I was completely surrounded. Given all that had happened, I thought it was pretty funny how many girls kissed me in those few minutes.

One of them was Vicky, the only New York player who congratulated us. She hugged me and kissed my cheek. She started to say something, but just grinned, shook her head, and skated away.

Some ushers came on to the track and herded us to the middle of the arena for the trophy ceremony.

They dropped a microphone from the ceiling, like they do at boxing matches. An announcer grabbed it.

"Congratulations to the 1958 World Champion New Jersey Devil Dolls!" he boomed out.

There were mostly cheers in response. I think a lot of the New York fans were already heading to the exits. A guy in a suit was holding the trophy. Lou and Coach Doyle stepped forward. The suit guy shook their hands, then gave the trophy to Lou. He kissed it and handed it to Doyle, who held it up over his head. Boy, did he look happy. I think he was afraid that Lou might have put out a hit on him if we lost.

Doyle handed the trophy to me. It was heavier than I expected and I almost dropped it.

Maggie was standing beside me, and I gave it to her. She was the captain, not me. She leaned close to me and said, "Thank you, Kitty." I think she meant it for more than just handing her the trophy.

As each of the Devil Dolls took their turn with their prize, I looked over to the Gotham Gals bench. A few of the players were still there, Betsy among them. Our eyes met. She made a odd gesture, like she was tipping her cap to me, but with both hands. Only after she and the rest of her team turned and rolled away did I realize what her gesture meant. She was handing me her crown.

A few minutes later, we were nudged into heading for our dressing room as well. Holtzman, showing some good sportsmanship, stood by the exit and congratulated each of us as we went by.

"That was a hell of a bout, Kitty," he told me.

"I bet you're sorry that you ever gave me your business card now."

He shook his head. "Nope," he said, "Not at all."

It was raucous in the locker room. I got more hugs and kisses and I had champagne poured on my head. When we finally got changed and headed out of Madison Square Garden, Lou and Coach Doyle were waiting for us. Lou handed each girl a hundred dollar bill as we boarded the bus. That wasn't bad money in those days. I took mine and thanked him. He grabbed my arm and said, "Come in on Monday, we will talk about your contract for next year."

I didn't say anything, I just got on the bus. Everyone else was still celebrating, but I sat in silence, looking out the window as the bright lights of Manhattan disappeared into the darkness of the Lincoln Tunnel, and feeling a deep and painful loneliness.

All I wanted to do when we got back to Hoboken was sleep, but the party kept going. The rest of the team had rotated their positions throughout the game. Except for that penalty, I had skated every minute of the bout. I wasn't just tired, I was completely drained. After a while, I flopped on my bunk and pulled the covers up over my head and went to sleep.

It was early morning when I woke up. Rosie and Maria were still asleep. I thought about waking them up, but I did not want to explain what I was doing to anyone.

I was still wearing my clothes from the day before. I showered and put on clean clothes, stuffing the worn things in my suitcase. I threw my few other belongings in as well, closed it up and went downstairs. I got my skate case from the locker room. The laundry bag, still stuffed with our sweaty uniforms, was sitting next to the door. I dug through it and found my Devil Dolls jersey. I rolled it up and stuffed it in the skate case.

The door to Leo's office was open but there was no one there. I found a notepad and a pen, and wrote a note.

"You owe me my paycheck. Mail to 4535 Elmore Street, Redford, Michigan"

I signed it, then added under my name, I told you that you didn't have anybody like me

It had rained in the night. The morning sunlight was glittering off the pavement. I had planned to skate to the Newark train station, but there were puddles everywhere and I didn't want to get splashed and have to sit on a train all day with wet clothes. Besides, my legs were still aching.

The Columbus Park Luncheonette was only a couple of blocks away. There was a pay phone just inside the door. I went in and called for a taxi, then sat at the counter and ordered a fried egg sandwich and a cup of coffee. Sitting there made me think of the counter at Harriman's Drugstore, and I remembered telling Peggy that I was going to try out for the Comets. That decision changed my whole life.

My cab arrived just as I finished eating. When I got to the train station, I found out I was going to have a two hour wait. I bought a bag of potato chips and a couple of Hershey bars for the trip. I also bought the Daily News and the Star-Ledger, wondering if there was anything in them about our game.

The News story was about two column inches long. There wasn't much detail in it, and they called me Katie Boyd. The Star-Ledger article was better. It had a picture of me and Betsy taking a corner, side by side. And they got my name right.

I checked the front pages. The Russians had tested a huge bomb, and there was some kind of trouble in the Middle East. Nothing new, I thought.

By the time my train arrived, my back was as sore from the wooden benches as my legs were from the game. The seats on the train were a lot more comfortable and as soon as we started to move, I dozed off and slept most of the way through Pennsylvania.

I was trying to not spend any money if I could help it. I had that hundred dollar bill from Leo, but I was skeptical that I'd ever see my last check. And I didn't have a job. So for supper, I bought a Coke from the club car and ate my chips and one of the chocolate bars.

As the day faded, I looked out the window and watched the country go by, farms and forests and factory towns. It was dark when we pulled into the Cleveland station.

Another two hour wait. I was wide awake now and starting to get anxious. I was more nervous about going home that I had been about moving to New York.

As I sat in the waiting area, a group of young colored men came in. They looked like they were all around my age or just a few years older, but they all wore very trim dark suits. They seemed to be in an odd mood, laughing and smiling, but at the same time, shifting restlessly from one foot to another, as if they were more nervous than I was.

I was curious, so I eavesdropped on their conversation. They kept their voices low, but I kept hearing one word. Mississippi.

One of the men noticed me. He stepped in my direction and said, "You look hungry, Ma'am. Would you like something to eat?"

He reached into a bag that hung from his shoulder and handed me a baloney sandwich, wrapped in wax paper.

"Thank you," I said, "I heard you talking about Mississippi. Is that where you're going?"

"Yes, Ma'am." He was probably older than me, but he kept calling me Ma'am.

"What's in Mississippi?"

"It's more about what's not in Mississippi."

"What's that?"

"Freedom."

I remembered watching the news about the lady on the bus in Alabama. Everybody should be treated equally, Myra had said, no matter what kind of person they are. Maybe that would come true some day, for the colored people, and for people like me and her.

"Well, good luck," I told him.

"Same to you," he replied. "Where are you headed?"

"Detroit."

"You have people there?"

I sighed. "I guess I'm going to find out."

The station intercom announced that the train to Memphis was now boarding.

"That's us," he said, "I hope you find what you're looking for."

"I hope you do, too."

He waved goodbye as he and his friends headed to the platform.

I ate the sandwich and waited another half hour until they finally announced my train.

It was only two hours to Detroit, but that last leg seemed like the longest of the trip. The late night train was almost empty. When we stopped in Toledo, not a single passenger got on.

I still was not sure what I would do when I got off the train. I could go home. I could go to Myra's, although that thought scared the hell out of me. Maybe the Budzynski's would take me back in. Or I could bite the bullet and find a hotel room for the night. Hell, I could just buy a ticket for Los Angeles and sign on with one of the teams out there.

I felt a tingle up my spine when the train passed the bright lights and billowing smokestacks of the Ford Rouge plant. I got my bags down from the overhead rack and sat on the edge of my seat. In a few minutes we slowed to a crawl and entered Michigan Central.

Only a handful of people got off the train, and I did not see anyone get on. A porter greeted me on the platform.

"Welcome to Detroit," he said, "Do you have any other bags?"

"No, this is all I have."

"Do you need assistance?"

"No, but where can I find a cab?"

He directed me down a long, empty corridor. "Taxi stand is down that way, but I don't know if there are any there at this time of night."

I looked up at the big clock on the wall. It was almost two in the morning. As I trudged through the station, my footsteps echoed off the high ceiling.