In which the W. C. leaves Neverland to finally become a real boy and learn the true meaning of X-mas.
I started this blog a year ago with the intent of creating a forum where I could interact and converse with people about the sport that I love: Roller Derby. (I’ve talked a little bit about that in other posts, like this one.) At its height, I had 250 people reading the blog and about 1,000 at least looking at it on Facebook (and that’s pretty awesome for a social media troglodyte like myself). But after an entire season of covering TXRD, giving pre and post bout analysis, and even covering random other TXRD events, I have racked up a grand total of five comments on my blog. Don’t get me wrong, my feelings are not hurt. I didn’t cry uncontrollably while rocking back and forth in the corner of my room or anything. (Why would you even say that. That’s hurtful, is what that is. Idontwattotalkaboutitanymore.) But despite all the cool things about the blog that I love, it seems to have failed at the exact purpose that I built it for.
I love roller derby. I love talking about strategy and game plan. I love speculating wildly about why players are doing well, or having a bad game. Why someone isn’t getting played more or why someone else retired at the peak of their career (I’m looking at you Indy). I wanted to share my enthusiasm with others, but more than that I wanted to get that Monday-morning-bench-managing that you get at the water cooler with any other major sport (like professional bocce ball (100% real. Look it up.)).
And while the response to the blog has been overwhelmingly positive, a man can’t live on likes alone. It’s great that you liked what I wrote. It’s super-fantastic-awesome that you liked it and I genuinely appreciate it, from the bottom of my heart. But people liked what Edgar Allen Poe wrote and he died penniless.
The other factor that adds into this equation (like Einstein’s famous theorem (yes, the W.C. just put himself on the same level as Einstein (OK, maybe just in the same coffee shop that Einstein happens to walk into.))) is time. It takes a lot of time to put together a bout analysis. After researching the teams (And let’s get real for a second here TXRD…your website could be better. It’s like the girl who shows up to the party already drunk and didn’t bring any wine or cheese, even though the invitation specifically stated to bring one or the other, because we’re all on a budget here and if everyone chips in, we all get to have a good time. All a girl asks for is updated rosters and a season schedule.). Anyway, after researching the teams, recording notes at the bout, putting those notes into some kind of coherent order in the form of a blog, creating the banner art, and getting the thing actually posted…it takes four to six hours just to get one post online. And while I would happily perform like a street musician for just a few coins in his empty cap, you can’t buy a sandwich if all anyone does is walk by and give a “thumbs up”.
So Skates and Scars will retire. The W.C. will go back to being just an enthusiastic fan. He’ll still be at every bout (and most special events) cheering on his favorite team (as a matter of record it’s the Cherry Bombs (Sorry Dusty…Also, Sorry Boss*)) and paying way too much for pizza. And he’ll wonder out loud about why things happened the way they did during the bouts, and be content that the bouts were there for him to wonder about in the first place.
This post probably broke approximately three people’s hearts, and for that I apologize.
*Did the W.C. ever tell that story where he had a dream that the Putas Shanghaied him and were going to give him a “Puta tattoo”? The dream did not specify what a “Puta tattoo” was, so feel free to speculate wildly about what horrors that may entail. Horrors or awesomeness. It can honestly go either way when the Putas are involved. Also, spellcheck keeps trying to correct Putas to Pitas and I’m like, “No, spellcheck. You don’t seem to understand how pitas actually work. I can see why you’re confused, but trust me on this one. I got it.”
P.S.: The W.C. thanks each and every one of you who ever took the time to peruse his disjointed ramblings. I’ll miss you. But I’ll miss you most of all, Scarecrow.