15:07 - Sunday, May. 04, 2003
Roller Skating
Skate Ranch was on the outskirts of the forest-shaded streets of Woodglen West, my suburban neighborhood just east of Fort Worth, Texas (where "The West" begins). It was across from the grocery store in a building that looked like it used to be a hangar for a small airplane. Inside, the Skate Ranch was covered with wall-to-wall, brick red, cola-soaked carpeting and the standard oil-soaped wooden rink floor. The lights: total disco freak out. And big-haired Debbie lived in the back.

She sometimes had to work the skate counter which separated the staff from the eager sock-footed girls and guys. Behind her were numbered racks of taupe-colored skates with traffic-cone orange toe-stops and wheels.

I wanted to skate more than anything — to have this controlled, and somewhat confined sense of freedom on 8 wheels was liberating. It was me against the world. I knew the special stomp dance to “We Will Rock You” and had the special knowledge, that YMCA was about more than getting a good work out.

There were two types of skating that I practiced: speed skating and dance. Yes, for one brief, less than shining moment, I was some sort of amateur rollerboy.

Speed skating was my occasional semi-revenge against all the boys who seemed to fit in better than I did. I lived at the skating rink and they were busy being Indian Guides (not Indians) again, at the YMCA Yes, I played soccer, but that was the extent of my athleticism. My mom loves to tell the story of me coming home from a game and being excited about my new position on the team.

“It’s called ‘bench!’” I told her as I took off my sweaty but not dirty shin guards. “You go, and sit and watch the game, and then at half-time you still get Gatorade or a Coke!” It was a dream come true.

Oh yeah, I did do the occasional gymnastics routine after learning it in summer camp. Once, on vacation at a state park in Arkansas, I showed my beam routine to some kid named Kevin down by the pond. I’m sure Kevin was thrilled! – Hmmm. Maybe he was thrilled? That would rock.

Anyway, the grade school I went to had a skating party down at the Skate Ranch each year. This was the only opportunity I had to kick some ass. The boys were so competitive -- especially at the games where you throw a whizzing ball at someone for one reason or another. No thanks!

I could bore you with a long story about triumph over mean and nasty elementary school pre-jerks, but I don’t want to get all Hoosiers (the movie) on you. You know the story.

It might be sufficient to say that at these parties it was like people noticed I was competent. No longer the distracted smart kid who played too much four-square with the Jennifer’s, Holly’s and Melanie's. I was borderline acknowledgeable.

I wanted friends badly. Not really these friends, I knew they were not my people. I remember being very clear that popularity seemed to be reserved for those with special genetic gifts. The boys especially were able to stand the Texas heat and play sports. They actually seemed to choose to be outside. In fact, they waited until it was the hottest part of the year to start some of the sports. Nope. These were not my people.

But I could skate. And I could dance—as evidenced by my gold-star winning coursework in Disco at the Woodglen West recreation center. Here I learned the freeze and all the other disco craze dances. I was Prince of the Bus Stop and everyone in my disco class knew it. And yes, this was my first taste of many of being the OB in the room. OB= Only Boy.

Skating became a bigger deal when somehow I ended up in lessons and big-haired Debbie paired me off with a Blonde Puff of a child from some other elementary school. Me and my bowl-cutted self had a skating dance partner and she was determined to be the best. Maybe someday she would beat those local skating favorites Craig and Becky who could do strange lifts and perfect figures.

We skated the waltz and the tango and weren’t to shabby. But there was one problem: she was too short for me. She stood with her back to me, just in front and off to the side. I had to hold her left hand in mine and then put my right hand in her armpit. This was oddly close to her pre-boob and really really sweaty.

Was I grossed out? Not too much. It was just that something felt not right. Looking back, I’m sure she was like, “Hmmm. He almost has a rad Dorothy Hamil haircut, and I kind of like that, butwhy is his goddamn hand in my armpit?

I like to think about Blonde Puff years, later . . .picturing her as the grown-up version of Margaret from Punky Brewster. She sits at Starbucks and reminisces with some slightly bitter woman from her yoga class about the first time she saw Scott Hamilton in Stars on Ice.

Why couldn’t she have had the roller skating equivalent of Scott Hamilton? Where was her shorter, capable counterpart? He certainly would not have had to hold her in the ARMPIT so dangerously close to her pre-boob! He could have held her gently on the hipbone where she should have been held. With NotScott Hamilton, she could have beaten Craig and Becky's’asses any day.

Aside from a short, anti-rollerblading stint in college, I haven’t roller-skated in years. I can’t say I miss it too much either. But there was something adventurous about it. Whizzing by those boys who I just didn’t get who didn’t get me.

Me, the noncompetitive guy winning the speed races, skating with BondePuff with a sweaty hand in her armpit. Damn.

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