By Jon Paul Fiorentino
“Behind the hill — four o’ clock. Be there!” This was the socially accepted way to declare one’s intention to fight a fellow student at Harold Hatcher Elementary School, in the mid-’80s. These words were cast upon me one fateful spring day in 1985. I was in grade two, in Ms. Bannock’s Language Arts class while she was teaching us how to use the plural forms of words. This seemed to me a tedious exercise in the obvious. I had considered myself to be a fairly strong student–I was in the special spelling club, which was a kind of feeding system for the spelling bees. It was not only an honour, but a heavy responsibility. The linguistic pride of my entire class rested on a select few. And come spelling bee time, we had to step up to the plate.
I think my greatest flaw has always been my tendency toward emotional eating, but for the purposes of this story, let’s just say that my greatest flaw has always been snobbery. It’s not much of a stretch. Ms. Bannock noticed that that I was rolling my eyes at the seemingly futile collective Q and A session that she was conducting:
“Jimmy, what’s the plural form of the word ‘cow’?”
“Cows!”
“Very good, Jimmy!”
I sighed.Yes, very good indeed, you mindless hick.
“Sally, what’s the plural form of the word ‘teacher’?”
“Ummm… Teachers?”
“Well done, Sally!”
Oh way to go, Sally, you singular form of hussy!
“Sven, what’s the plural form of the word ‘goose’?”
Oh this was a curveball! Would the new, fat Swedish kid be able to deliver? There was a long pause.
“Ummm… Geese?”
“That’s right, sweetie!”
Oh Bravo, Sven, you fat, Nordic god of pluralization! And “sweetie?” What the hell was that? Some god awful pun on his ethnicity? Christ. I rolled my eyes as dramatically as I possibly could. Ms. Bannock took note of my diva behaviour and directed the next question at me.
“Jonny, what’s the plural form of the word ‘foot’?”
“Foots!” I exclaimed instantly. I responded so quickly and thoughtlessly that I choked. Of course it was feet, what the hell was wrong with me?
As Ms. Bannock corrected me, the class erupted in laughter, slow-motion laughter. My embarrassment turned to rage as I focused on Sven Anderssen, the fat Swedish kid whose face was glowing red as he projected his grating belly laugh in my direction. Sven’s yodel-like guffaws were too much to bear. I lost it. I pointed at him and screamed, “Oh yeah? Well, at least I’m not a fat, dirty Swede whose father sucks at hockey.” The class grew eerily silent. Sven’s father was Anders Anderssen–a recent acquisition of the Winnipeg Jets, and although he was a highly touted prospect at one point, his NHL career was a grave disappointment as he failed to adapt to the North American style of hockey. Sven’s face grew redder still, and, enraged, he charged across the room and clotheslined me in the head, knocking me right off of my desk. It was quite a vicious clothesline. (If only his father could have shown that kind of determination on the ice.)
Sven, Ms. Bannock, and I sat in the principal’s office at lunchtime. The general consensus was that I deserved an additional beating and so Mr. Rand supplemented with a light strapping. Sven got off scot-free. I knew I deserved that blow to the head. It wasn’t Sven’s fault that he was Swedish. No, that’s not it. Let me try again. It wasn’t Sven’s fault that he got his plural question right and I choked on mine. And it certainly wasn’t his fault that his father was a sub-par leftwinger. I was ready to bury the hatchet and move on when Sven approached me during the afternoon recess and made the announcement. “Behind the hill–four o’ clock. Be there!”
The hill behind our school was not so much a hill as it was a grass-covered speedbump. Its elevation was due entirely to the fact that it used to be a landfill. The city planners just tossed some sod over the garbage like a throw rug and our hill was born.
A huge group of kids convened behind the hill, pumping their fists and chanting, “Sven! Sven! Sven!” He had a posse of older tough kids who were giving him some last minute pointers. I shuffled down the hill by myself. I knew I couldn’t escape this. The sheer spectacle of it all was intimidation enough, not to mention the clearly pro-Sven crowd. And then there was Sven, rosy-cheeked and pumped-up, like a chubby miniature version of Dolph Lundgren. I was so screwed. We circled each other, with Sven occasionally kicking at the air between us, and me waving my dukes around like a fop attempting to adhere to Marquis of Queensbury rules. The comedic value of our prancing was short-lived and the crowd was getting restless. The chants of Sven’s name began to peter out and people began to disperse as we continued to circle each other like mentally challenged square dancers. Eventually, there was a smaller, less partisan crowd, and they had grown impatient with Sven’s lack of killer instinct. I was able to implement my only strategy to get out of this. As much as snobbery was my fault, oratory was my gift. I raised my hand and addressed the crowd.
“My dear and worthy opponent, fellow classmates, I propose that violence is not the solution to our problem. Let us, instead drink the sweet nectar of forgiveness. For, is not the sweetest drink, the drink shared with friends? Sven, I apologize for my behaviour earlier today. It was wrong to transfer my shame into verbal aggression toward you. We can all learn from my mistake. Your father is a highly skilled hockey player. Please send him my regards. And please, do accept my apology, my fair-haired, portly, fiord-navigating, Nordic compadre.”
I reached out my hand. After a pause, he took it. There we stood, in the middle of the field behind that famed hill of violence, shaking hands. It was a cinematic moment to say the least. Those left of the bloodthirsty crowd were not particularly pleased. They called us “sissies.” I tightened my grip on Sven’s hand and kneed him in the groin; as he was doubled over I began to pound on him mercilessly. The crowd was now clearly on my side. “Jonny! Jonny! Jonny!” It may have been a dirty way to win a fight but it does speak to the power of a persuasive speech. Besides, his father had played 57 games with the Jets that year and scored five goals, with 13 assists, for a total of 18 points with 20 penalty minutes. I felt I was pounding on him on behalf of many disenfranchised Jets fans. I spent the next few minutes kicking Sven in the stomach, working him over with both of my foots.
Anders Anderssen — Career Statistics
Height: 5’10,Weight: 175, Shoots: Left.
Hartford Whalers (NHL)
GP G A PTS PIM
1986 66 14 20 34 14
Winnipeg Jets (NHL)
GP G A PTS PIM
1987 58 9 25 34 10
1988 57 5 13 18 20
In the off-season, Anders is an avid dog-racing enthusiast.
from the book Asthmatica, Insomniac Press, www.insomniacpress.com, www.jonpaulfiorentino.com