I left the pitch. And I walked towards Bengt. And everyone saw it.
One memory from my childhood that I will always carry with me involves two boy kings: Bengt and Sat. Bengt was the king of Barkaleitet. Sat had earned his respect in Rollandslia. I think they were both between two and four years older than me. Either way, that’s a lot when you’re a little squirt.
Bengt was a short, stocky powerhouse and the best footballer in the neighbourhood among the older boys. For me, who had football as the meaning of life, Bengt was a legend. I don’t know if he was extraordinarily talented – I can’t remember his skills beyond him being lightning fast – but I know he had a name. He was Bengt, and all us little kids knew that if you were Bengt, you were the best. I didn’t know him personally; he was older, after all; he was just someone you were very aware of in the back of your mind. Sometime in his teens, he was called up to a national team camp after impressing at Ekebergsletten in Oslo. I remember seeing him at “Storbanen” by Rolland School shortly after the selection. It was spectacularly inspiring to see him then. “Bengaen” had made it.
I don’t remember much about Sat. I don’t even know if he played football. But he had become legendary in the neighbourhood at a young age. He was known as a tough guy, someone you didn’t want to cross. I seem to recall there were many rumours that he was a karate expert and an authority on ninja stars. It was as exotic as it could get. Sat was a mysterious figure in my childhood. Someone people whispered about. I’m sure he was a decent guy.
But then, one day, it all went wrong. Bengt and Sat got into a fight. A fistfight. In the heart of Barkaleitet/Rollandslia – the little football pitch by the kindergarten, my favourite place on earth, along with “Storbanen” and “Pumabanen.”
I don’t remember what led to the fight, but there was a huge commotion. It was like something you’d see in a movie. A swarm of kids standing in a circle around two boys hammering away at each other. The whole neighbourhood was there. I think it got brutal. There might have been blood. And for some reason, everyone took Sat’s side. Whether that was because he won the fight, I don’t know, but I remember the hatred towards “Bengaen” was intense that afternoon. A bit strange, really – he had a name. He was Bengt.
We all stood on that little football pitch and watched the boy king trudge, battered, away from the pitch towards the playground a stone’s throw away. There he sat down, all alone. And he cried, I think. And everyone watched him. And everyone cheered for Sat.
But not Frank Benjamin.
I left the pitch. And I walked towards Bengt. And everyone saw it.
I’ve tried to remember what I was thinking in that moment. The only thing I know is that I was very aware that he, that afternoon, had everyone against him. And I had decided to tell my hero that I supported him – in front of everyone.
Playing marbles was a very popular pastime in my childhood. All the kids loved playing marbles. The “milky ones” were the most popular marbles. The completely white ones. The blue ones were also highly valued. When I reached Bengt, I suppose I told him I was on his side. I don’t remember what I said. But I remember he was genuinely grateful that the little squirt had stood up for him. He pulled out a plastic bag. In it were all his marbles. And he gave me the bag. All the marbles were blue.
I still remember the feeling I got when he gave me that bag. It was electric. It made me incredibly happy.
It’s perhaps not a very monumental story. But I will always remember that moment with Bengt. I stood up for the one who was my inspiration.
(This text was published on frankbenjaminhartvedt.no in 2025)