A black hexagonal table sits on a raised platform in the middle of the Logan Square Auditorium‘s cavernous ballroom, illuminated by a spotlight. A gangly referee in aviator sunglasses and tight spandex shorts checks to make sure the handrails at the table’s edge and the elbow pads at its center are fully secured. Next to him stands “Rockke L. Squelch,” mistress of ceremonies. In a white dress that leaves almost nothing to the imagination, her brown hair curled and piled high on her head, Squelch sashays across the stage and belts out a blunt command in a mild eastern European accent: “Let’s get this motherfucker started!”
At a pre-event meeting last week, Squelch (aka Karie Miller) ran through a minute-by-minute schedule for the March 8 match, debriefing volunteers and her two floor managers, women who would later wander around the auditorium wearing mustaches and navy janitorial jumpsuits. Organizers passed around medical liability forms and talked through safety regulations (“Code Eagle” for an in-fight injury, “Code Raven” to monitor potential harassment).
CLLAW members commit themselves thoroughly to the conceit of the show, and many take the physical side of the performance seriously, bingeing on Internet instructional videos and hitting the gym to bulk up. Since Miller branched out from Charlottesville, women in nearly 30 cities have established local leagues. “There’s something psychological that happens when you put on a costume,” Wimer says. “All of the sudden you have superpowers.”
Garcia hasn’t decided whether she’ll defend her title at CLLAW’s next Chicago contest, tentatively scheduled for July 25—summer is the busiest season at her pediatric clinic, and she’s trying to balance those responsibilities with physical therapy school and her social life. Still, she’s certain that Chi-Quita Flores will climb back into the ring before too long. “You have your friends there cheering you on, and you’re also terrified at the same time,” she says. “It’s one of the best feelings you can have.”
