by Dirk Mclean
Tournament Fugee
Dirk McLean
James Lorimer & Company Ltd., Publishers
Toronto
For Renée, Jessica and Melissa. And my mother, Jacqueline.
* * *
“People in this world don’t know how other people does affect their lives.”
Sam Selvon, The Lonely Londoners
Prologue
Kicking the Ball
Victor tucked his beat-up soccer ball under his arm and jumped off the back of the truck. He joined his family gathered at the side of the road. He had to rescue his prized possession.
The truck sped away, leaving them at the crossroads.
“How far are we from the border, Grampa?” Victor asked.
Grampa Bayazid scratched his grey beard and peered into the distance. Then he pointed along the highway.
“About twenty kilometres, if it is Allah’s will,” he said. “Victor, you have strong legs to kick that ball. Maybe we skip a mile, yes,” he chuckled.
Victor grinned. He was used to Grampa’s humour. He knew that Grampa would tell stories along the way to make the journey seem shorter.
They set off under the mid-morning sun. Ahead of Victor and Grampa were Victor’s mom, dad and his six-year-old brother Gabriel. They all had as many of their belongings as they could carry.
Ten-year-old Victor knew that this was not an ordinary family outing. With each step forward they were leaving the land of their birth, the Syria they loved and may never see again. By the next morning they would be in Lebanon, another country. They would become the same as those who had already fled ahead to freedom. It was a word whispered in households across the land — refugees.
* * *
A few hours later, with the sun high in the cloudless sky, the Bayazid family was marching along the paved highway. The oncoming vehicles were few and far between. Victor bounced his soccer ball. He loved the sound of it striking the hardened earth beside the road. He was careful not to bounce it on a pebble. He didn’t want it to roll onto the highway away from him.
They had passed other families along the way. Others had suddenly appeared from the sides of the road, having camped the night before. Victor knew there were many families behind them fleeing the danger in Syria. He imagined he was a hawk high above, watching the people crawl like ants toward a giant pomegranate lying in the distance. The fruit was freedom, and its ripe seeds could feed millions.
Grampa walked beside Victor but closer to the highway, protecting him.
“Victor,” Grampa said, “your mother and father are responsible for you and Gabriel. That is true no matter what changes happen in your lives. And you are responsible for Gabriel. You understand?”
“Yes, Grampa.” Victor nodded.
“You are separated by four years. You’ll be able to teach him a lot, for you have your lives ahead of you.”
“You mean like soccer?”
“Yes, that,” Grampa chuckled. “But much, much more.”
The border between Syria and Lebanon was friendly. Grampa had a solid plan about where they should cross. He had been to Lebanon many times in his life. There he had made lifelong friends who would help his family.
They came across a clearing right beside the highway. Victor could see that people had camped there. There was a clump of ashes where a fire had kept them warm during the cold night in the desert wilderness.
Grampa checked his watch.
“What time is it, Grampa?” Victor asked.
“Look at the sun. It’s directly above us. Haven’t I taught you how to read the sun, the wind, the clouds and the stars?” he scolded in a joking manner.
“Not yet, Grampa.”
“Then I am not being a responsible grampa,” he said, pointing to the sun. “It’s almost noon. We eat. Lessons after lunch.”
The Bayazid family unrolled thin prayer mats and knelt facing east. They said the midday prayer, led by Grampa. Then they sat and shared a meal of flat bread, olives, dried dates and almonds. They sipped only enough water to help the food go down to their stomachs.
“Family,” Grampa said, looking around at each of them. “There’s nothing more important than family.”
While the adults rested, Victor and Gabriel kicked the soccer ball to each other. Victor began thinking of what Grampa had told him earlier. He began to look forward to all that he would learn in their new life in Lebanon. He thought about all that he would share with Gabriel.
Gabriel rolled the ball across the orange earth straight toward Victor.
1
Tripped Up
Thirteen-year-old Victor Bayazid stood in front of the goal line, ready to defend a corner kick. His defenders and midfielders jostled with the forwards and midfielders of the North York Engineers. The score was 1–1 and the North York Engineers seemed hungry to break that tie against Victor’s Scarborough Tigers. It was a must-win match. The winners would advance to the playoff round. The losers — well, that would be the end of their indoor-league season.
The Scarborough Tigers were new to the league. Victor was determined to have them advance and please Coach Jeong-Hough.
“Drew, move a bit to your right!” Victor shouted to his defender. “I can’t see clearly.”
As Drew Merasty moved over, Victor watched the ball leave the corner spot on his left. It increased in speed as it headed toward his goal. Players were already jumping. Victor knew that he would have to jump higher than everyone else if he was going to catch the ball. Victor had prepared for this play in practice all season. He had thought about it long before, when he decided to be a goalkeeper. He knew more than most the importance of keeping his eyes on the ball no matter what the other team was doing in front of his goal.
Victor bent his knees slightly and sprang up, up, up. He raised his arms high above all the players and willed the spinning ball into his gloved hands. When it was safely there, Victor hugged the ball into his chest for extra security. He cradled it like it was the most precious thing in the world. And at that moment, it was. His feet landed back on earth. Actually, it was the green artificial turf of the field. He knew without looking that he had landed in front of his goal line. It was a good goalkeeper’s save.
Then Victor felt something strange. A foot struck his left heel, hard. In a play like a corner kick, with players bunched in front of the goal, Victor had often felt someone land on his cleat. He had even been kicked on his shin. Never before had he felt anything behind his leg.
In an instant Victor’s left leg was up. He felt his body falling backwards. He could not stop himself. As his back hit the turf the ball flew out of his hands behind him. Victor heard a sound that seemed to come from far away. As it got closer, and louder, he recognized the ref’s whistle. Victor knew that he was lying behind the goal line.
Where is the ball?
Victor rolled over and saw the ball nestled against the back of the net.
As Drew helped Victor to his feet, he saw the Engineers celebrating.
“Did you see that?” Victor asked Drew.
“You caught the ball, Victor,” Drew replied. “And then you fell. You scored on your own goal, man.”
“I didn’t,” Victor protested. “I was tripped.”
Victor ran over to where Coach Jeong-Hough stood on the sideline. “Didn’t you see, Coach?” he asked.
Coach Jeong-Hough shook her head.
Victor turned to Raymond Park, their captain. “Raymond, somebody tripped me.”
“You fell, Victor. It happens,” Coach Jeong-Hough said with a shrug. “We still have twelve minutes to score two goals and win this match.�
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Victor looked over at Ozzie. Ozzie was his friend and team co-goalkeeper who had played the first half. Ozzie, too, shook his head.
The ref came over to Victor. “Time to take your place,” he ordered.
Something inside Victor snapped. He felt that no one was supporting him. He felt like he had no place to take, not anymore. “Ozzie, you take my place,” he said. “I’m done.”
Then Victor did something he never thought he would do. He walked off the field.
* * *
Victor sat in the change room. He was dressed in street clothes with his winter coat on his lap. Voices still echoed in his head.
“What the hell are you doing?” midfielder Foster asked.
“Victor, you come back here!” Coach Jeong-Hough yelled.
“Stop, man, that’s crazy!” said Nathan in his Jamaican accent.
“You’re gonna be suspended!” Raymond shouted.
Victor thought back to the moment he felt the leg on his heel. In his mind he scanned the faces of the North York Engineers around the goal. One face stood out, and it was wearing a sneer. Randy Harris. Randy had once called Victor a name when the Tigers played against them before. Victor knew that Randy was the one who tripped him. He also knew there was no way he could ever prove it.
When Victor’s team returned to the change room, the way they straggled in told the story. They had lost. Victor thought of leaving right away. Yet something inside him said that if he did, things would be worse on the minibus home. He decided to look each of his teammates in the eye as their abuse started.
“Never thought you’d be a quitter, Victor.”
“Don’t come begging for a spot next season.”
“Thanks for screwing up our season.”
“We could have made the playoffs if you weren’t so clumsy.”
“You should never have been on this team, boy.”
Others stared at Victor without saying a word. He kept his gaze on them. It surprised him how easily some of them turned against him. But he wasn’t going to show them how much that hurt him.
Ozzie trotted in. He took in the scene and said, “Hey, that’s soccer, Victor. Could have gone either way.”
“It figures goalkeepers would stand up for each other,” said midfielder Dennis Kim.
“Don’t get started on me, Dennis!” Ozzie yelled.
“Guys, guys, no fighting,” Victor said. He picked up his bag as he stood up. “I’m sorry. That’s all.”
Walking out of the change room, Victor bumped into Coach Jeong-Hough. Victor didn’t think he could take it if she was angry with him too. She had played in the World Cup for South Korea, and the fall before she had coached a Grade 7/8 team to become Division Champions. Victor and his coach looked at each other for a few seconds.
“Things happen in soccer, Victor,” she started. “How we react, how we behave makes the difference. I expected more from you.”
“Sorry, Coach.”
“Running away from your team. Disobeying your coach. Not being responsible. That’s unacceptable. I don’t think there’ll be room for that kind of player next season. I’m truly disappointed.”
She walked past him and entered the change room.
Outside, the Saturday afternoon light was starting to fade. Light snow flurries blew around in the cold air. Victor zipped up his coat tighter with his free hand to protect his neck — just like his mom always reminded him. He took a few steps toward the parking lot and the team’s minibus. A man wearing a brown suit under an open coat approached Victor. He started speaking in Arabic.
“You are a very talented goalkeeper,” he said.
Victor turned around. The man must have been speaking to someone behind him. Seeing no one, he responded, “Are you speaking to me?”
The man grinned and held out a business card. “I only spoke Arabic to get your attention,” he said in English. “We’ll speak English, yes?”
Victor put his equipment bag on the ground. He took the card and wiped off some snow. What stood out easily was “Mr. Michael Bridge.”
“I would like to speak with you and your parents about soccer,” the man in the brown suit said. “Please have them call me as soon as it’s possible.”
Victor nodded. Mr. Bridge held out his hand. Victor shook it. The man’s hand was warm — a surprise. Victor slipped the card into his coat pocket and bent down to pick up his bag. When he stood up Mr. Bridge was speaking with Coach Jeong-Hough.
Victor thought of tossing the card. He didn’t see any recycling bins close by so he kept the card in his pocket.
Sitting in the minibus, Victor saw Ozzie run out of the soccer complex. His familiar limp was from a childhood accident in Nigeria. Seconds later Victor watched Mr. Bridge approach Muhammad just outside the minibus. Muhammad was Victor and Ozzie’s schoolmate at William Hall PS and the top striker on the Tigers.
Victor wondered what Mr. Bridge could be saying to Muhammad, but not to Ozzie. Victor took out the card and held it at an angle so he could read it. Above Mr. Bridge’s name it read “Syrian Committee for Thank You Canada Soccer Tournament.”
“What’s this all about?” he whispered to himself.
2
An Invitation
Victor lived in northeast Scarborough, outside of downtown Toronto. His neighbourhood, Malvern, was home to a mixture of people from all over the world and of all incomes. The Bayazids lived in a two-bedroom apartment in a high-rise. The furnishings were simple with touches of their Syrian background in colourful cushions and throws. The store IKEA had become one of their favourites.
Victor waited until after supper to break the news to his mom and dad. Somewhere Victor had learned that bad news is received better on a full stomach. He had already told them that the Tigers were not in the league playoffs. He made it sound like not a big deal. He said new teams sometimes need a few seasons to strike it big. He reminded his dad that it took Toronto FC ten years before they made it to their first MLS Final.
While clearing the dishes from the dining room, Victor told the full story.
“You should not have been suspended!” Dad roared. “Don’t they have cameras with replays these days?”
“For pro matches,” Victor replied. “And sometimes we see things clearer on TV than the refs and lines-people do.”
“I’m going to tell that coach what I think,” Dad said, picking up his cell phone.
“No need, Dad. The season is over.”
Mom joined them and took the phone from Dad’s hand. “Many things are not fair, Victor,” she said. “Sometimes good things come after bad. We have all learned that.”
Victor knew that his mom was referring to leaving Syria in fear for their lives. From Lebanon, they had come to Canada, to Toronto, almost three years earlier as sponsored refugees. And they now had this safe, new life. They were no longer refugees. They were new Canadians.
The memories reminded Victor of what it said on Mr. Bridge’s card. He dashed to the front closet, fished out the card from his coat pocket and returned to the dining room. He handed the card to his mom and dad and explained his meeting with Mr. Bridge. They read the card and turned it over as if they would find the answers to their questions on the back.
“Who is this Michael Bridge?” Dad scowled.
“I don’t know anything but what it says here,” Victor said.
“He spoke to you in Arabic?” Mom asked. Dad’s English was better than Mom’s. Victor knew it was true what the Newcomer Centre said — speaking more English at home would help.
Victor nodded.
“It’s clear that he had seen you play. Do you remember seeing him at any matches?”
“I — I think so,” Victor responded. But he was not sure.
“I have heard nothing about this committee,” Dad sneered. “And I listen out for everything about
Syrians.”
“You don’t hear everything about Syrians,” Mom teased.
“Okay, okay, almost everything.” Dad smiled at Mom.
Victor was glad his parents could still joke with each other. He knew that some of his Syrian friends had parents who were always fighting, even more than they did before coming to Canada.
“You still want to play soccer, Victor?” Dad asked.
“Sure he does,” nine-year-old Gabriel piped up.
“Of course, Dad,” Victor said at the same time.
“Even after what happened today?”
“Sure.”
Dad looked at Mom. She nodded.
“I tell you what we will do,” Dad stated. “We will invite this Mr. Michael Bridge to our home. We will look at him face to face. And we will hear what he has to say about himself and this committee.”
* * *
On Sunday afternoon, while Gabriel was playing with a friend down the hallway, Mr. Bridge was offered a second cup of coffee. Victor watched him sip it like it cost one hundred dollars. He listened politely and watched for any signs of untruth.
Dad was the chief interrogator in the Bayazid Courtroom. Mom was his backup. At times they switched roles. The three adults often switched from English to Arabic and back again. Victor felt like he was watching a bilingual comedy. But he dared not laugh out loud.
Thousands of Syrian refugees had moved to Canada for a new life. Mr. Bridge and other Syrian businesspeople wanted to say thanks to their new country by organizing a soccer tournament. Mr. Bridge, a former Under-14 coach, was going to coach a Greater Toronto Area (or GTA) team. It was one of eight teams from across Canada to play in Vancouver. All the players were Syrian boys.
“And why Under-14 boys?” Dad asked.
“This age group of refugees, thirteen to fourteen, are the most active in soccer across the country,” Mr. Bridge replied from the witness stand, known usually as the love seat.
“No girls?” Mom asked.
“Mrs. Bayazid, we did consider girls,” Mr. Bridge responded. “We’ve all had a hard time rounding up boys in the various cities in time for the tournament in about a month. If we had to find girls too, the project would have taken a couple of years. Let me ask you: would you have said yes any quicker if I was asking you to let a daughter play?”
