The Roar of the Crowd

Yesterday was the bout.

I was one of the referrees.

I wore hotpants, and everybody saw them. EVERYBODY. Everybody at the bout. Everybody at the afterparty. They are pretty kick-ass hotpants. I wanted to show them off.

And the tequila at the afterparty didn't hurt, either.

Here's the weird thing about referreeing - something I hadn't thought about until I was in the ring. I had to be impartial. When one of my girls did something fucking awesome, I had to just grit my teeth and keep skating. When one of them fucked up, I had to call it. And I was so afraid I was playing favorites, it was like I was watching them more, holding them to a higher standard, so I wouldn't be accused of favoritism.

Of course, it would have helped if I had memorized all of the rules. And the hand signals. And could read the numbers. And if anyone had heard a fucking thing I said. Or actually went to the penalty box when I sent them.

I would blow my whistle and no one would blink, they were so engaged in the game. I would shout, and they would keep skating. I would stop and point and yell and then skate after them, pointing and yelling and blowing and trying to keep the spit in my whistle from running down my face (which was one of my biggest challenges). And it was as though I was a cheerleader - they would skate faster and harder, and I would follow, around and around the track.

It was ridiculous. I felt like a rodeo clown.

So next time, I'm breaking out the airhorn, you assholes. You had best be listening. I'll blow your hotpants right off your ass.