The Eighth Page

Roller Derby

You know spring has arrived when every guy who has ever held a lacrosse stick grows his hair down to his shoulders. While they start looking like chicks, I’m wheeling actual babes like crazy. How you may ask? Three words, amigo: Roller Derby Champion. Every spring term the school holds a ruthless roller derby around campus. We are talking high speed rollerblading at its finest. Me, I’ve been training for years, I am the son of the great Blades Stingleson so I have a reputation to live up to, and no hot blonde can resist the defending champ, yours truly. The course starts at the bell tower and bombs down Main Street. Guys are tossing bows left in right; it’s a bloodbath. I was lucky to just come out alive last year and as I made that final turn and strolled in front of Paresky Commons, with the breeze in my hair and gliding up my spandex suit, I felt like a goddess. Some say rollerblading isn’t a real man’s sport; tell that to my Victoria’s Convent model girlfriend.