We packed into the wood-paneled station wagon—Tony, George, Karl, and I sat in the back—and left for Medieval Times in the kingdom of Lyndhurst, New Jersey. George and Tony kept teasing me, saying that they called earlier and we were seated in the Green Knight’s section. But Karl said they never called and you don’t get assigned a knight until you get there.
I rushed past the king at the entrance and pulled my family in line.
“Don’t you want a picture with the king?” asked my mother as I bounced on the balls of my feet while attempting to peek over the shoulders of dads and sons ahead of us. At the ticketing booth, they handed out paper crowns signifying the color of your knight. I saw blue crowns, red crowns, and yellow crowns. I’d even be fine with the Yellow Knight—I didn’t care that it was my eighth favorite color: red, maroon, burgundy, purple, blue, cyan, turquoise, yellow.
“Relax, Vito. We’re almost there.”
“Dad, if we get the Green Knight I want to go home. I refuse to be in the Green Knight’s section.”
“Oh, you refuse, huh? Well, this place ain’t cheap, my friend. If we get the green one, you’ll sit in his section and you’ll like it.”
“I refuse!”
“Hi, what’s the name?” asked the young girl running the booth.
“Ferraro.”
“If you give us the Green Knight, I will refuse,” I said, standing on the tips of my sneakers and resting my arms on the counter.
“Then you’ll go to the dungeon, Vito. Go ahead. Tell him. Tell him he’ll get sent to the dungeon.”
“Oh… I, uh…” stammered the girl.
“Tony, enough already,” my mother intervened. “The poor kid hasn’t stopped talking about this for months. Miss? Hi, is there any chance we can be seated in any section except for… which one has he been going on about?”
“Blue!” yelled my brother.
“Red!” yelled George.
“Green! No, no Green!”
“Okay, hold on, hold on. Ferraro… Ferraro… Okay, here it is. Good news. You’re not in the Green Knight’s section.”
“Hallelujah!”
“What’d he say?” asked my mother.
And she handed out black-and-white paper crowns to our party.
Black and White, the wild card. Yes, the Black and White Knight would do just fine. Although I was informed after my research that he was not from Cuba (Santiago de Compostela is in Spain—all of the knights were from Spain, actually), I was still content with the guardian of the cross being my champion.
Karl and I rushed to the gift shop, where my parents bought us wooden weapons (wouldn’t do us any good against orcs, but I suppose they’re fine for practice) and we smashed into each other’s shields with axes and swords.
We walked through the dungeon and I thought Hell—at least the kind of Hell Tom Jones Cleaver warned about—must be in Medieval Times. A cage hung from the ceiling in a bronze silhouette of a man, the kind of cage that made me subconsciously stretch my arms. A long saw that looked like something Paul Bunyon would use on a soaring pine hung on the wall. It was used to saw people—in half, upside-down. And as I passed the bed of nails with a bold-faced sign that read DO NOT TOUCH hanging from the dividing rope, I couldn’t help but imagine a helpless Pierce Stone lying on the serrated twin as my foot pushed down on his chest, slow, slow, slow.
“Vito, it says don’t touch, ya fidend.”
I entered the arena and saw the sand pit and felt like a Roman citizen in a domed coliseum. Weapons, like halberds, swords, and axes, lined the oval siding, and there was a set of thrones perched high above the audience, reserved for their majesties.
The Black and White Knight’s section sat between the Red’s and the Yellow’s, the fifty-yard line. Technically, we were supposed to cheer for those knights too—when ours wasn’t engaged in combat, that is—but I didn’t feel any allegiance to them at all. I was a loyal subject to the Black and White Knight and would’ve gladly lent my squiring services to advance him to tournament champion.
We took our seats, and the king addressed the crowd and read out the list of birthdays that delayed the gladiatorial carnage—my name was in the beginning, and that’s all I needed to hear. A horse show, which wasn’t interesting in the slightest, went on as the waitress dropped dragon soup into bowls we used to tip the slosh into our mouths—there wasn’t a spoon in the establishment.
Next, the falconer took center stage in the sand and let his raptor whiz around the arena above the heads of the audience. Britney let out a shriek that could land her a role in a slasher flick.
Finally, the knights were introduced and trotted out on steeds of chocolate brown and alabaster. The Black and White Knight waved to our section; I waved back.
“You don’t have to wave back, Vic,” said Tony.
I was enamored with the protector of the realm. His blond hair flowed down his back and covered his chainmail hood, and I immediately yearned for the days when my uncles called me Hans or Anders or something Swedish like that.
His squire—the sock—handed him a bundle of red roses with truncated stems. Our champion smelled each rose, kissed them, and delicately tossed them to young lasses dotted throughout his cheering section. One flower went tomahawking over my head to a teenager seated two rows behind me, and I caught myself from jumping out of my seat and snatching
