At the end of my past life, I earned the right to be the first flat track derby announcer with the Texas Rollergirls.
What follows is a very old, very unauthorized, and very unedited version of the document I produced describing my experiences during the genesis of flat track derby. It would be some of the last moments of my past life.
Enjoy.
LOUDMOUTH: Confessions of a Flat Track Derby Announcer
By
Bowie V. Ibarra
Copyright 2007 Bowie V. Ibarra
Chapter XI: Announcer Pay
If its not abundantly clear to the reader at this point,
I enjoy becoming Julio. Glasses: Iron Announcer Texas several times a year and
calling flat track bouts with Whiskey L’Amour, Jim “Kool Aid” Jones, and even
Chip Queso.
In case it has not been made clear, my other half does
not appreciate my participation in flat track derby. From my wife’s perspective, flat track is
degrading and the sport does nothing for women because the women dress like
sluts.
At this point, I can pull a Bill Clinton and ask her to
define “slut”, “dress”, and “degrading”.
The message of empowerment and the balancing of the femininity can be
very confusing. Slut is a very strong
word, and it is really hard to defend the “dress like sluts” issue with a woman
and spouse, as the outfits can, and usually are, very provocative and sexually
stimulating. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
At any rate, it’s hard to defend that point. Anything else brought up about charity work,
community service, or the actual athletic ability and training is a moot point.
When I first auditioned for this job, it was under the assumption
that there would be compensation. I
assumed announcers and other staff were compensated.
As mentioned, I was wrong.
But at the same time, I did not have much of a problem
with it. To me, it was like community
theatre. I would get a chance to perform
a role I had desired my entire life (that is, announcer for a sports
entertainment event) and have some fun doing it. It was a start up group at the time, and I
assumed money was going to be tight.
Perhaps it was, and perhaps it still is.
I joined around the time I was to make XXXXX my fiancée
and, ultimately, my wife. She knew what
I was doing and I thought, at the time, she didn’t mind it.
However, she attended one show and was appalled. One of her first comments to me was, with the
smile of a woman holding back rage, “No wonder you like to come to this.” With the likes of Dinah Mite walking around
in long white boots and Catholic School girls with their butts hanging out from
under little mini skirts, the assumption was harsh, but fair.
Sure the sights were amusing. It was part of the spectacle. But the truth was I was there to do a job,
and do it well. I was not there to pick
up rollergirls. I was an engaged
man. I had given my word to XXXXX’s
father, her mother, to her, and to God that I would forever be there for her
and never leave her. You know, “For
richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, ‘til death…yada, yada, yada.”
So for me to keep this job and my wife and family, it was
necessary to conduct the job of announcing as professionally as possible. That meant not going to every after party and
not participating at other rollergirl events.
To me, that’s not a big deal. I
really have no business at an after party anyway, and am usually just another
face in the Jim Jones cult following.
The parties are not about me anyway, they are about, and for, the girls
who went to battle that evening. Like I
said, I really have no business there.
But the anger and animosity toward the organization
continued to grow in my home, especially when I found out by accident that the
DJ gets paid a very significant amount each bout. I was a little upset, as I initially thought
EVERYONE was working for free.
The conversations at the house became heated. “You’re a professional performer. Why do you continue to work for free?” she
would ask. “You’re good at what you do,
and they should pay you.”
“Because it’s something I enjoy doing,” I would reply.
“You like looking at the girls. That’s why you do it for free.”
Was she right? To
a certain extent. I would be Elton John
if I told you that looking at the strong and powerful legs of the rollergirls
was not a turn on. But that is not what
I was there for. The real reason I was
there is because I loved announcing. If
it was for the girls, I would be attending more rollergirl functions, and there
were plenty of them. Pep rallies,
charity work, fund raisers. But
attendance to any of those events outside of the actual game day would be
perpetually tied to “looking at the girls.”
So the arguments would move forward.
“If you really did it because you loved announcing, you’d
quit the rollergirls and get an announcing job that respected your work and
professionalism enough to pay you for it.”
It was hard to debate that. The fact was I was good at it. Was I the best ever? I can never say that, as I believe a person
is always growing and can always learn something new.
But, in my humble opinion, I was one of the best. And I did take my work very seriously. When visiting teams would come to Austin, I
would make it a point to learn their names.
Even early in my announcing career, when I thought Wednesday practice
attendance before the bouts
were mandatory, I was there to work and learn names, and not necessarily to
schmooze. Sure I talked to some to get
to know them. But that wasn’t about
picking up. It was about discovering
some side of them that I could use for announcing.
I took my wife’s words to heart and sought out to find
announcing work that paid. Like “The
Secret” says, you send out the energy, opportunities come to you. I found a small time professional wrestling
outfit in Austin that was looking for an announcer. I made a call and before I knew it, I was in.
I made sure to dress the part in my blue business suit
and tie. I was to be a professional
wrestling announcer, my lifelong dream.
But one last hurdle needed to be jumped, a challenging hurdle that I was
afraid to face down.
For those unfamiliar with the professional wrestling
world, especially the small circuits, it is a tough world to negotiate. There are many promoters around that seek to
take advantage of “marks” and wannabes, people who will do anything to just be
in the show.
Fortunately for me, I knew a very good friend who had
worked many of the wrestling rings across Texas who I called with advice as I
ventured into the world of professional wrestling. His name was Jeromy Sage, and I owe him
immensely to the advancement of my announcing career.
Jeromy made very clear that before I do any work, I make
arrangements to be paid. He advised me
that, in general, the going rate for work in the indies is about twenty-five
bucks. However, once that rate is
established, there should never, ever, be a reduction in pay. It goes unspoken that if twenty-five was paid
once, the pay after that should be the same or higher.
If the time comes when a promoter refuses to pay, then
you can do several things, depending on the kind of wrestler you were and how
many of your friends did not get paid as well.
You can 1) Walk out with $25 worth of stuff, 2) You can threaten them
with physical harm if you do not get your money, 3) You and your friends can
kidnap the promoter’s wife/girlfriend, take her back to her house, tie her up
on the stairs, rough up and then tie up her promoter husband when he returns,
and force him to watch as you, your friends, and a dog have their way with his
wife.
Well, a lot of those options were really not palatable
for me. At least not the married me,
that is. So I hoped there would be some honor
when I went in to discuss my first night.
As Jeremy predicted, they did try to immediately get me
on the mic. I chose to begin working my
magic. The fans and the workers were
impressed. I hoped the promoter felt the
same way.
I mustered up some courage and used the words Jeremy had
suggested.
“Sir, I understand that this is a business and I need to
get compensated for my work.”
He was ready with a question. “How much does roller derby pay you?”
I was not a liar.
“I do it for free.” I had to save
the conversation, as it was going south pretty quick. “Listen, if you like what you hear, I hope
you will compensate me appropriately.”
That was not a good save.
He replied, “I’ll pay you a quarter.”
A quarter? What?
Trying not to be too suspicious, I went ahead and
continued with the show.
By the end of the evening, when the booker approached me
inconspicuously with my pay via a handshake, I learned what a “quarter” was in
the business.
$25.
I was overjoyed.
My wife would be happy. I immediately
celebrated by purchasing a 32oz can of Busch beer and putting the rest straight
into the truck. I saved one dollar and
placed it in a picture frame that held the flyer for that particular show.
The shows continued every Saturday night and to my surprise
my pay was actually going up. For
several weeks the pay raised up in increments of $5. I was very happy with the way things were
going. My wife was right. My work was respected and compensated in kind
by one of the hardest bunches of people to please.
But that created a kind of resentment in me. The professional wrestling show was very low
budget. The workers put a lot of heart
and soul into the matches, like most every professional wrestler in the
world. They do it because they love
it.
Unfortunately for them, our crowds were very small. The venue they performed in was attended by
maybe 30-50 people every Saturday night, with most of the people being family
and relatives.
Yet they were still paying me very magnanimously.
I announced the Texas Rolllergirls championship game with
heart and soul. I was on fire and really
felt it was my best performance in describing the action, getting the girls
over, and cracking a few jokes as well.
But I looked at the arena and saw the crowd of 700 to
maybe 900 people standing and watching the Gold Standard of Flat Track Derby
and was very upset. How could a league
of rollergirls who drew close to 800 people on a regular basis at $15 a ticket
not pay me when a ragtag group of courageous professional wrestlers who pack a
house with maybe 40 people not only pay me, but incrementally raise my pay each
weekend, depending on the gate?
I vented to Whiskey, who politely listened to my rant,
and sympathized with my position. Chip
was curious as to why I was upset as well, but I kept it vague. I didn’t want to put a damper on the rest of
their evening.
I went to the MySpace announcer group, the Voices of
Reason. The group was a collection of
flat track derby announcers from around the nation. The responses to my question, “Flat Track
Derby Announcers: A fine perfume, or
chopped liver”, in which I asked if it was reasonable for announcers to get
compensated, especially if other people in production are getting paid. The responses were varied and passionate. I touched a nerve.
*** “We’re there for the rollergirls. We don’t have to meet formally and they give
us beer to drink once a month.”
*** “If the DJ gets paid, you should get paid. You can do derby without a DJ, but not
announcers.”
*** “You’re a sellout if you take money. You do it because you love it. Period.
In my league, the rollergirls voted in their second season to pay me,
but it was unnecessary because I’d do it for free.”
*** “There’s no price tag on the real rewards of
announcing. Meeting people from all over
the nation, going to states you would never go to if it wasn’t for derby, and
having the privilege to go into most any city in America to a fellow announcers
house and say, “I’m with (team), is there a place for me to stay? Besides, if the girls don’t get paid, we
shouldn’t”
*** “You don’t get paid?
Suckers!”
Months passed.
I
stopped announcing for the Austin wrestling group, taking up another offer to
call professional wrestling for more money without having to lose so many
Saturday nights with my wife and child.
It might have been for the best, as a shift in the political climate of
the Austin organization brought to the helm people who I had been warned about. Despite the warnings, I gave them a
chance. After all, they had not done
anything wrong to me, even though they had wronged several of my friends who
worked in professional wrestling.
It
was poetic that my last day announcing for the organization, the fears of my
friends were made manifest. The new
regime leader stiffed me five dollars. I
knew the rules. I knew I had to insist
on getting that money. That was how it
worked in professional wrestling.
But
I gave him a chance. Not knowing I was
not going to be there the following week, I gave him a chance, even though I
probably shouldn’t have. I told him he
could get me the five dollars next week, but I was now expecting thirty.
It
was not to be. The new gig worked out,
and I would be in Dallas working on commentary for the international
distribution of the IWA Puerto Rico every few weekends for more money.
I
called the Austin group to tell them I wouldn’t be going back. Appropriately enough, the promoter thought it
was for the five dollars. I told him if
I come back to work, we’ll talk about that then. I did not burn the bridge, and the promoter
was amicable in my parting ways.
But
the new season of flat track was starting soon, and pressure was coming to bear
about pay again. I brought it to league
officials, who had allegedly already discussed the issue several times, but
were dragging their feet to take a vote.
I
really want to thank Sparkle Plenty for her help. I really felt she was an advocate for us in
bringing up this issue. I appreciate her
going to bat for us in those long meetings announcers are not privy to.
In the end, after the third bout of the season, Sparkle
confirmed that the girls agreed we should be paid for our work.
The price tag?
Suffice it to say it was competitive with the wrestling association.
After my experience in professional wrestling, it was
appropriate.
The first pay night, the third bout of the season, was a
great night. I was on fire and really
felt in the zone calling the game. But I
was a little nervous. How was I going to
deal with the pay? Should I do it like I
did when I announced for the Austin pro-wrestling group and inconspicuously
wait around until the promoter placed it in my hand during a handshake? Would I have to fight it out if they refused
to pay?
My question would be answered by Sparkle, who told me
Muffin Tumble was writing the checks. I
followed Muffin to the front of Playland, where she pulled out a
checkbook. Muffin is usually all smiles. Tonight, she seemed a bit severe.
A check! The story
of Mickey Finn, Jr., popped into my head when the same promoter that stiffed me
five dollars tried to pay Finn with a check.
You never take a check from a promoter.
Finn used option 2).
But this was flat track derby. This was not professional wrestling.
This was the Texas Rollergirls.
Watching the moment unfold, I watched the referees and
several other people get paid with a check.
It looked like the checks were dependable.
Taking the check into my hand, I smiled.
My work really was appreciated.
=====
Mo
