Initiation

I may have mentioned how much I hated moving when I was younger. Sure it taught me how to pack a truck really well and fulfilled the requisite Kentucky Fried Chicken fix, but man it pissed me off. Learning the new lay of the land, navigating the politics of school and trying to not get murdered were all very real concerns. I knew why my parents were moving every couple of years but I didn't like it much, mostly because of the rituals that you had to go through to get accepted at a new school or in a new neighbourhood....not fun. Of course, moving experiences always provided initiation stories, and you know how much I like a good story.

Way back when hockey cards meant nothing further than the sheer joy of owning them and then scrambling all your extras to the adoring younger grades, when recess meant tether ball, soccer or foot hockey, with the ensuing red bruised face from where the ball hit you, the mud caked sneakers from the field or the ripped up knees from playing goal (I remember bleeding into my shoes once) There was another time honoured tradition that us grade five students pursued...the game of chicken. The ultimate show of machismo for young boys to show their mettle and in the process impress a girl or two with fearless bravado. They were probably laughing at us all along but there was no way you were going to show weakness in front of a bunch of people after school.

And so it came to be at this new school that I had to show, once again, that I belonged or at least could take the punishment being doled out. The school was St. Dorothy's Catholic School...real tough sounding place eh? Actually it was pretty tough because of the area where it was located, a mixed neighbourhood of low to middle class families, lot's of immigrants and more than a little tension. It wasn't Jane and Finch, which I had lived in just before this area, but it wasn't Rosedale either. Remember the eye poking story...this was the place.

I had arrived with a couple of months left in grade four so I really never had the opportunity to develop any real friendships and the switch from public school to the catholic system was messing around with me, especially in regards to French class. I hadn't spoken a word of it prior to landing in the new school so I was four years behind everyone else...nice when the teacher calls you out for that by the way. Hated my new school, I'm pretty sure that I let my parents know in no uncertain terms. Bit by bit over the summer I met some kids from the school and made some friends as well. There was a local tough kid that I had seen and learned to stay away from in the townhouse complex, he scared me a bit to be honest. Wouldn't you know that this kid, Wayne, went to my school instead of the public school next door to St. Dorothy's. Seems he has been kicked out of the other school...you know where this is going.

I don't really recall what the mild disagreement was over when we started off the new year but it seemed that master Wayne had an issue with me. This being before my revelation to not give a flying fuck about what people thought of me, I probably took it the wrong way, which didn't help matters I am sure. I do recall playing foot hockey this one day and stopping him every time he had the ball on his feet and he being way more athletic than I for sure he took some frustration with him back to class when the bell rang. Whatever...I did what I was supposed to do for my team, stop the damn ball in those epic games that meant the world back then. And he didn't like it. And probably he didn't like me because I was white and he was black...he really was angry kid, which made him all the more intimidating to me. Which mattered not a bit when I somehow found myself facing off with him in a stupid game of chicken. There we were, two feet separating us and we were throwing switch blades at each others feet....yep. We had sneakers on but still....yep. The idea was to get the other guy to get his feet as close as possible together by throwing the blade between the feet, and one foot move to the new standard indicated by the knife....yep

Now, I may have been a bit scared of him but I was not going to let that stop me from this moronic game we were playing....I wouldn't call chicken with this clown, not a chance in hell. And here he is with the knife and my feet completely together...if he was throwing there was a good chance it was going into my foot, go ahead man, your turn. "You're not calling chicken?" Nope...throw man. So he did and the knife bounced off my foot harmlessly....phew. My turn, I brought his feet right together with my next shot and waited while he decided what to do next. Bam...he missed to the right of the foot. My turn, "you calling chicken?" No! There was no shortage of bravado on this day but there was a pair of ripped pants...seems like I put a slice into them with my next shot and I was staring down this angry guy after nearly stabbing him. His shot, I don't think he even asked if I was going to call chicken so he threw down, he managed to put it in the gap between my feet....hahaha On my next turn I pierced his shoe and the knife was sticking out of the rubber at the head of his foot...very close to drawing blood. This seemed to shock him, I saw the uncertainty in his eyes...he was getting nervous. His next shot bounced away again and I decided to fuck around with him at this point. I picked up the blade, felt for sharpness and made a crazy eyed face at him as I wound up for my throw....he jumped out of way before I could release. I had won and without injury, but what I seemed to get most was street cred with these guys...I didn't back down and guys appreciate that from other guys. I now had a friend to watch my back in case I needed it...I didn't but it was nice to know that crazy Wayne was there.

Fast forward a few years and guess what, we moved again....woooohooooo This time we moved in to the St. Marcellus catch area the summer before grade eight started. You already heard of my Portuguese encounters but there was also the mafia connection with all the Italians on my street, and as I was about to find out, my school. I was definitely in the minority by not being Italian but I don't know if that ever bothered me...I could hold my own playing ball hockey with these guys and that counted for something. I didn't know what to expect my first week of school but it certainly wasn't what was about to happen. Back in grade eight I was definitely in better shape than I am now, which is to say I wasn't pear shaped. I could run...both cross country and I had some speed. Both of these would be needed for day two of school. Seems we were playing murder ball that lunch period, for those of you unaware of the subtleties of murder ball, please allow me to explain. Kid chases other kid with tennis ball, wings it at the other kid as hard as possible (hence the murder) preferably at his head. That other kid is now it and must find a new target to murder. Who ever was it at the first bell lost the game and would suffer some sort of punishment. Fun right?

It took me two rounds to realise what was going on with these guys, I would be it, I would chase a kid down and ping him off. This guy would in turn give the ball to Tom Fazzezi, whom I later learned was the fasted kid in the school, and Sir Tom would chase me around the entire school yard waiting for the perfect shot hoping to put one in my ear or worse, right in the face. Because I was shifty and not so slow, I managed to do some great evading...I remember it as an epic battle and I'm certain their were trumpets blowing as we ran around the yard trying not to squash younger kids. When is this recess over? If I had been a little smarter I would have waited until the bell was about to ring and ping someone off right at the buzzer but well, you know. Sure enough I was it at the end. Fine...what form of punishment will I need to endure? They called it the gauntlet...14 guys by my count standing with their legs spread wide as I had to quickly crawl through as they punched me from above. Awesome, sure...great...fuck. Not one to shrink from danger I started plowing my way through and truth be told, it wasn't too bad. I noticed who it me the hardest as a way of marking who to watch out for and sure enough the prick got back into line. Well...let's just say he shouldn't have done it as I raised my rather large noggin at the exact right time to have him consider wearing a jock strap next time he partook in this wonderful game. That's what you get for being a dick...a sore dick.

Like in grade five, I had won over some people and my year never saw that kind of madness again. Indeed I found myself a little niche that year by somehow being one of the smartest kids in the three classes. There was a ranking system based on grades and so on and my name was always in the top ten and if I recall correctly, I finsihed the year as the top boy...not sure how that happened because I rarely handed in my homework on time and hardly ever studied for a test. I feel maybe what I had studied the year before in grade seven at St. Dorothy was an advantage for me, but who knows. I ran cross country, track a little and would have been considered the MVP in foot hockey if there was such a thing. I did well in public speaking contests, learned about styling my hair a bit and I got to dance to Stairway to Heaven on the final song at the last school dance with Nadia....and she picked me, because I wasn't going to dance at all....hahaha I had a good year.

I will have to come back to the boy with the sore balls sometime, Mr Tony Marchese and I had a couple of more run ins a few years later that would make for a good chapter on false bravado.

I hope you're enjoying my reminiscing as I am surely enjoying recounting these stories...lots of memories have flooded back recently.

Ciao
D