A fundraising stall sells stuff that screams fashion statement for roller derby fans - pendants, rings, brooches, etc, featuring skulls, tombstones, spanners (or were they bones?), chalices... Roller Brats, the 7 to 17-year old mini-monsters of Northland Nightmares, wheel around all over the place practising jumps and fancy, flourishing stops.
When they're 18 they might be tough enough to try out for the tournament team.
Queen cranks up on the sound system. An air of anticipation begins to crowd the crowd. Kids who have been running about on the floor dash to join their parents on the stands. Queen climaxes in a gasping crescendo.
There are about seven officials already in the middle of the track and then a bunch of referees skids out on skates and roller blades.
In their prisonesque stripes, face-painted scars and tatts they look like extras from a horror movie.
Or escapees from an American ice-hockey game. Roller derby is very American; that's d-er-by folks, not darby. A man starts shouting into an already screeching microphone - welcomes, introductions, regulations, I think. I try to decipher his words; something about blockers, jammers, fouls, sin bin, five to a team ... After a build-up worthy of Super Bowl out come the two teams, crouching, glammed up ghoulish, skating in formation.
Holy cow, what a sight!
The Hellswives, in satanic red and black look mean and determined and trouble.
They are greeted with a gigantic roar. The Richter City sisters are wearing orange and bruise ... I mean purple. Meet Suffer Jet, Jem Molition, Ms Savage, Punk Pantha, Skanda Lass and the team's jammer who would really give the Hellswives a taste of capital punishment, Princess Slayer.
After a whole lot more ear-splitting hype, they're off.
A blur of arms and legs and helmets rush past.
There's pushing and shoving and grunting and tripping and falling and mauling.
Every now and then a woman hits the ground like a ton of bricks and bounces up instantly before she registers 'down' or pain.
There are whistles, and so much yelling - from the crowd, from the skaters, the refs.
Even the floor screeches under the skates.
Four women in each team whizz around the arena trying to fend off the other side, block their jammer from barging through and winning a round. The pace is incredible.
The noise is incredible.
Up on the sound system The Doors are trying to break on through.
On the track the women are trying to break on through. Spectators yell.
Roller chicks yell. Referees yell.
Alarmingly often, a skater crashes at breakneck speed into a bench and sits there for a few rounds.
It takes me a while to realise that's the sin bin.
Just before halftime there's an on-track conference between refs Professor Twiztid, Dan Halen and Justicier.
The spectators go wild.
Rusty Stiletto from Wellington is clutching an ice-pack to her cheek. She's laughing like a drain.
I have no blimmin' idea what's going on. How can the score be Hellswives 32, Wellington 149 so soon?
A woman sitting near me is also watching this phenomenon for the first time.
"I'd describe it as feral," she tells me at halftime.
The ladies belt back out from behind the bleachers, obviously having freshened-up their make-up during the break. Faces are deathly pale with white paint, sutures, scars and feline stripes have been freshly applied.
There are enough flames licking around facial features to do a hot rod show proud.
It's all on again. Chick on chick body slams, multiple pile-ups, elbows. It's not even a grudge match.
These teams haven't played each other before.
It's so hard and fast.
Dodgems on speed, without any dodging.
Somehow the less experienced Richter City win by over 200 points. Petite, sweet voiced Hellswife Wendy Baird, aka Silence, tells me after the match that roller derby's not as dangerous as it looks and twice as much fun.
It's inexpensive to join up, has a five tier graduate system as players move up through from ground level, so to speak, to tournament-capable. The local league is on a recruitment campaign.
Roller derby, which isn't officially recognised as a sport, even if it is "the fastest growing one in the world", is also characterised by warmth and camaraderie, Baird says.
I believe that when after their bruising encounter the women all hug and smile and hug some more and then invite every person in the stadium to their after match function in a Whangarei bar.
It's been an absolute astonishing blast, but I flag the invitation to the party and head home.
A short while later I'm tucked up on the couch watching the ABs beat the Wallabies.
Rugby is such a gentle, civilised sport, I decide.
