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Watch out, bladders: For her skating handle, reporter Amy Bartner tried out a number of monikers, including Bladder Puncher -- a name she ultimately rejected. (Neal Taflinger/Indy.com)

Reporter straps on skates, then gets in touch with her inner ruffian

I'm thinking it was my first call to Lethal Chrissy that set the arena for my adventure as a Circle City Socialite roller girl.

"Have you ever skated before?"

How could she ask me such a question? After all, I had been a child.

"When was the last time you were on skates?"

OK, OK. So it was when I was in eighth grade, nervously holding the hand of my first boyfriend while rolling along to "Achy Breaky Heart."

So it's only been 10 years. Fine, 12. Blah, blah, blah, some cliche about riding a bike, right?

But doing the math took my cockiness down a few notches. So I did what I thought was necessary to ease my concerns about skating in two-hour practice with the Socialites: I came up with a name to epitomize my on-wheels personality.

I petitioned my friends for ideas. Some offered comical plays on "Amy Fisher." I imagine that's only because we share the same first name, and not because I bear any lifestyle resemblance to the Long Island Lolita. Then the anagrams started coming in. Who knew the letters in my name could spell "Ten Bra Army"?

Finally, someone suggested "Bladder Puncher." It was dirty. It was fierce, and not like America's Next Top Model "fierce." It was, well, punchy.

And so I became the Bladder Puncher.

The day of practice, I modeled my derby getup for the younger sister, Jenny, in my apartment.

"You look like something out of a Tim Burton movie," she said.

There I was, thinking I would be the envy of every roller girl on the track with my striped knee-high socks, striped tank top and, shhh, striped underwear. And Jenny "Bubble Burster" Bartner (sounds like a good derby name to me) had to come in and ruin my good time.

I arrived at the100-degree Ellenberger Park ice arena, on the east side of town, to find derby gear ready for me. I borrowed a Socialite's skates, kneepads, elbow pads, wrist guards, helmet and a mouth guard. Kidding, Mom. I dropped the $1.49 for my own mouth guard to protect my twice-braced teeth.

I sat on the ground and tied up my laces, thinking about how many women had been pummeled by the owner of these skates. And then, for the first time since I heard Billy Ray Cyrus' sweet voice in my hometown roller rink, I stood up on skates. It wasn't without some inappropriate use of the arena wall, either, as I dragged my lower body up with my arms. That would be first of many, many times the wall and I would meet that night.

With a Bambi-wobble, I slowly slid my way to the center of the arena, where the team of about 20 had gathered.

We began with stretching. Easy enough. I sat my tush on the track floor, knowing I'd soon have to be on my wheels again and the wall was far from reach.

Coach Lethal Chrissy (known as Kerri Klein to non-derby folk) puffed on her whistle, and we were up. Suddenly, my feet remembered what it was like in the early '90s. They remembered the layered tube socks they used to wear. I was skating. Unsteadily, but I was skating.

(Jenny, who came with me, told me later I looked like I "was doing the Chicken Dance" on skates. Hmph.)

My skater's high was short-lived. It took about 30 seconds to realize that, although my feet remember how to skate, they also remembered how they never learned to turn -- or stop, for that matter. I slammed into the chest-high arena wall as a few Socialites sailed by me.

Next we practiced some maneuvering techniques, and I thought Lethal was playing a joke on me. Let's watch the new girl jump over the blue pool noodle after skating around orange cones. But she wasn't kidding. I went through that little obstacle course from hell three times. I made it over the noodle each and every time, only to fall on my knees. The small crowd of bystanders cheered at my piss-poor attempts. I think I even heard someone yell "Punch some bladders!"

Finally, we started on drills that resembled the actual game. Is this where I admit that I had no idea how roller derby is played, even though I Wikied it? I knew it involved roller skating, hitting and fishnets, but not much else.

Suffice it to say, I had a fairly quick crash-course. There's a pack of players, which is just a jumble of two teams. A girl from each team skates behind the pack, trying to make her way through and past the group as the opposing players try to block her. She's called the "jammer," and it's her job to score points.

My attempt at blocking was feeble, at best. I simply skated with the pack, and when a jammer made it through, I muttered a curse word and watched her zip by.

Despite my passive blocking, I had some glorious wipeouts that involved loud cracks as my borrowed kneepads and skates collided with the floor and sometimes other bodies. I knew my career as a roller derby blocker was limited, but I soon made it a goal to skate through the pack once as a jammer.

At 5 feet 3 inches, I was shorter than most, if not all, of the Socialites. It became an advantage when it was my turn to jam. I didn't have the skill to speed around them, so I relied on my crafty nature to find an opening to worm my way through.

Try No. 1: I fell. I shot up and tried again. My sudden determination to make it through gave me speed I didn't know I was capable of. I can't say with certainty that these girls didn't let me through for my own ego. I'd rather not know. I sped through the cluster of girls as if a Xanadu-loving mob was chasing me, with my fists in the air.

It was then I remembered some advice that Lethal Chrissy had given me:

"You need to know your team members really well," she said. "You need to know what they smell like, you need to know what they look like from behind."

But that didn't make sense until after practice, as I removed the sweaty gear. I left the arena with some muscle soreness and one small bruise on my leg. One girl, though, took a spill during an earlier practice and fractured her ankle; her team members were quick to help her.

The players encourage each other as they move in one mass around the track during practices, and the faster skaters give the slower ones a little push when they needed it.

I felt part of the team for that day, and for that day, that team was only as good and as fast as I was.

What's my name?

My chosen name of Bladder Puncher would later change during practice to April O'Squeal and finally come to rest on Lois Pain. The Socialites informed me that, with me being a reporter and all, I should stick to hilarious girl-reporter puns. Plus, team members actually call each other by these names, and I'd rather answer to "Hey, Lois!" than "Hey, Bladder!"