Strong community keeps Centre County roller derby alive, despite challenges
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- State College Area Roller Derby became a nonprofit in 2015 and fields 40-plus players.
- Practices are three hours twice a week; players pay $45 monthly.
- SCAR hosts A- and B- competitive teams, intraleague play, and traveling game mixers.
Dozens lined up on bleachers Saturday in C3 Sports to see people race, glide and knock each other down on skates. From kids on iPads to at least one woman in a wheelchair, all were welcome to watch State College Area Roller Derby’s first game of the summer.
Parents, graduate students and professionals formed the teams on skates. Some worked for the university, others for the state. No matter their backgrounds, skaters left their government names behind for game day, assuming nicknames like “Lil’ Hammer” and “Destruc-Tiff.”
Since 2010, SCAR Derby has brought complete beginners and longtime skaters together to sweat, compete and find community. The league, which became a nonprofit in 2015, offers more than just sport to its 40-plus rostered players.
“I don’t think anybody would be here if we didn’t like each other,” said League Secretary Linsie Adams, also known as “Grateful Shred.”
Roller derby has a reputation for inclusivity, and SCAR is no exception. For Penn State student Addy Kerenick, SCAR helped her leave the “bubble” of graduate school. Another member, Michaela Sallese, said she “absolutely would’ve quit” if the community weren’t so welcoming. This strong sense of support has sustained SCAR for over two decades, despite the time and money requires keep a league intact.
Sallese noted that derby is especially open to diverse sexualities and genders. Though SCAR is part of the international Women’s Flat Track Derby Association, the league is open to everyone.
“It’s a very notoriously queer sport,” she said.
From fresh cuts to scars
SCAR represents as many levels as it does identities. Each season, beginner “fresh cuts” join the league, and spend their first practice learning to fall. Then, they put on skates and fall some more. Over time, they learn to pivot, turn corners and ram into people as competing members of SCAR.
There is no fee to watch SCAR play — and no pop quiz.
“You don’t need to know how the game actually works to enjoy watching derby,” Adams said.
But for those who are curious, each team is made up of five players: four blockers and a jammer. Only the jammer can score, and does so by passing opponents on a flat, circular track. The other, more technical rules of derby are generally not what draw people to the sport.
“It’s fun to watch people get knocked down,” Lacey “LaSassin” Auman, an analyst at Penn State, said.
Derby is much less theatrical — and violent — than it was when it was invented in the 1930s. After a period of dormancy in the ‘80s and ‘90s, derby had a resurgence in the early aughts, and came back with more safety measures. Players today wear elbow pads, knee pads, wrist guards, helmets and mouth guards.
Many pair the required safety gear with loud, personal touches. For the first game of the season, players wore neon green tights, pink socks, rainbow fishnets and short skirts. Adams wore shorts with blue, black and red sequins, and a sticker on her helmet said, “Let’s do this before the anxiety kicks in.”
SCAR has competitive A- and B- teams, which travel for games, as well as intraleague teams. On Saturday, SCAR invited outside skaters to join them as the “The Wreckers” and “Fender Benders” for a mixer game.
To warm up, skaters ran on their toes, shuffled side to side, pivoted, glided and crouched.
Throughout the game, whistles blew and skates whirred. Bottoms hit faces. Shoulders rammed into sides. Jammers struggled through defensive barricades formed by three or more players. There were many falls, but no injuries. The teams traded first place several times, with the Fender Benders ultimately winning 155 to 93.
More than just skating
Three volunteers kept score. There were also two penalty timers, a penalty manager, five officials on skates and a pair of announcers. Two people manned a registration table, and techs livestreamed the game. Two EMTs, the only paid volunteers, were present in case of injury. Volunteers occasionally receive tokens of gratitude, such as gift cards. But as a nonprofit, SCAR’s resources are limited, and the high costs associated with insurance and renting space make it is expensive to maintain a league.
“We all do this at the cost of our sanity,” said Katie Emery, a wildlife disease biologist technician who goes by “Nancy Drew Blood” on skates.
Setting up for games is only part of what goes into keeping SCAR alive. To recruit new players, members post flyers around town and on social media. They need space to practice and play, and dozens of volunteers for every game. Skaters don’t earn money from games, and instead spend $45 per month to play. The Betty Fund, named after the league’s founder, helps people who cannot afford that fee to play.
Skaters also must fulfill a community service requirement to compete. Practices last three hours twice a week, and tournaments consume entire weekends.
“It’s a full-time job, just to be able to hit your friends once every couple months,” Adams said with a laugh.
The significant time commitment, in addition to the safety concerns associated with any contact sport, steer some people away from SCAR. Around 10 people come to the initial meetings of each season, Adams said. Just a few fresh cuts graduate from each training program.
Those who stick around join a tight-knit group.
The skaters ended Saturday’s game with high-fives, shoutouts and group pictures. Adams, who played for The Wreckers, won the “MVP Blocker” award and took home a homemade trophy — an illustrated block of wood with one toy car rear-ending another.
Players were sweaty and flushed as they prepared to leave for Axemann Brewery, SCAR’s usual post-game spot.
“When it comes down to it, we’re all just a bunch of friends,” Adams said.
