Where I'm At

I knew that as soon as I posted the bout information, the emails would start pouring in. “Are you playing?” everyone wants to know.

No, I’m not playing.

I had really hoped that I would be back to face the PrissKilla Prezleys last month. I was suited up and ready to go should the Zs need me, but luckily they didn’t. From the first whistle, the Z-Girls played fast and hard—faster and harder than I ever played—and didn’t quit until we beat the PKPs forty minutes later.

I had tears in my eyes when the final whistle blew. The Zs had come from behind to pull out a 15 point win in the last five minutes of the game. I grabbed our flag from Z-Boy, our cheerleader, and skated several victory laps around the track with a big ol’ grin on my face. I even pounded my fists in the air. I gave every Z-Girl a big kiss and basked in their glory. I had been avenged!

The victory was bittersweet. We won, but I wasn’t really a part of that “we.” I started wondering if the Z-girls really needed me anymore. I like to think that at the time that I got injured, I was a pretty good player. In the seven months that I’ve been out, a lot has happened. The girls have had lots and lots of practice and have really stepped it up. That’s great for them, but not for me. When I get back on the track I have to be twice as good as I was before.

Which is proving to be difficult.

My left calf muscle still isn’t as big as my right one. I avoid doing crossovers. When I do blocking drills, I have to focus 100% so that I don’t lose my balance. When I scrimmage—which I also seem to avoid—I get a little freaked. The first time I ended up hiding in the bathroom so I could cry. My speed isn’t what it used to be thanks to my fear of crossovers. I used to always finish the pyramid of pain first or second. Now I’m last. Or next to last. When practice is over I am pretty much spent and my leg aches. A lot. Sometimes I even limp. I often picture myself on a stretcher. It sucks.

While I’m not ready to get back on the track, I’m not ready to quit either. I just need a lot more time than I originally planned on. I let a knee injury (torn ACL) end my fifteen year soccer career. I’m not going to let a metal rod in my tibia end my derby days. I'm just not.

But I have to be smart. I have to wait until I am strong and I have my head in the game. I can get there. I just don’t know how soon.

Pretend like I’m due to give birth any day and you really want to call and ask, “Did you have that baby yet?” but you know it would be obnoxious so you don’t. That’s where I’m at.

I’m in labor.

Only this time I’m not squatting on my bedroom floor, letting out primal screams, or demanding that someone blow up the birthing tub. I’m in quads and a silver skirt.