by Dirk Mclean
“We haven’t said yes for our son,” Mom stated, for the record. “We wish to understand more.”
“I have been to several of Victor’s matches over the winter. To watch him play,” Mr. Bridge confessed.
“So why have you waited until now to talk to us?” Dad asked.
“I promised Coach Jeong-Hough not to poach her players before the season was over.”
“Poach? Like eggs?” Mom looked confused. “Explain yourself.”
“No, no. I mean I couldn’t steal any —”
“You steal?”
“No, no, no. I couldn’t make an offer to a player before now,” he explained calmly. “Also, the money has only just been put into place for the GTA team. Other cities got funding sooner.”
There were more questions and answers. And there were stories exchanged about missing a birthland. Finally, the witness played what Victor would call his trump card.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bayazid, I would like to offer — I would like to invite your son, Victor, to be our goalkeeper. He will travel, all expenses paid, to the tournament in Vancouver.”
All expenses paid had not been mentioned. Definitely the trump card, Victor decided. He looked at Mom and Dad, who looked at each other. And looked at Mr. Bridge. Then they all looked at Victor.
“Victor, is this something you would be interested in?” Dad asked. Vancouver? The edge of the world? For soccer? Victor beamed and nodded.
“Your mother and I will have to discuss this,” Dad said. “Mr. Bridge, how soon do you need our decision?”
“In three days, Mr. Bayazid.”
“All right, then.”
Victor secretly wished that the Bayazid Court could break for a recess, rather than adjourning for the day.
* * *
That evening Victor called Ozzie and told him everything. They were in the same grade eight homeroom and had been friends over the past four months. Because of Ozzie and his other passion, reading, Victor’s English had improved a lot. But there were still times he struggled to find the right word.
“So, you said yes. But you’re not really sure,” said Ozzie.
“They were all staring at me. I had to say something. I don’t know how I feel about being that far from my family.”
“I hear you, Victor. But this is a great chance for a rising soccer star,” Ozzie said. “If I was in your place I would not hesitate.”
“Then I will offer you honorary Syrian citizenship to go instead of me.”
“That’s a generous offer. But being a Nigerian-Trinidadian-Canadian is enough citizenship for me.”
“But —”
“It’s only ten days,” Ozzie reasoned. “Two plane rides. A ton of soccer. You get to be with your people, explore a new city, see mountains and the Pacific Ocean. It’s sounding better the more I think about it. Maybe I’ll go back in time and be born in Syria instead of Nigeria,” he joked.
“Mom and Dad still have to give their permission. They’re going to check out this committee to make sure I’m not going to be kidnapped and —”
“Wait, wait, wait, you didn’t tell me you were the grandson of the king of Syria.”
“You, Ozzie, read too many books about spies.”
Victor felt better after talking to Ozzie. He picked up his sketchpad and sharpened a charcoal pencil. Ms. Tingling, his art teacher, told him to sketch. Not just things around him but also things from his past. That advice was echoed at a Black History Month event at Malvern Public Library by local artists Ras Stone and Charmaine Lurch.
Victor thought of mountains in Syria and he started to sketch.
I hope Mom and Dad don’t find something bad about Mr. Bridge or the committee that would stop me from going to Vancouver, he thought.
3
Back to the Bayazid Courtroom
The alarm clock purred. Victor opened his eyes and climbed down from the upper bunk, careful not to wake Gabriel. He stepped into the hallway, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him. He had an urgent need to pee as he staggered to the bathroom. As he reached the door it opened and Dad came out. They nodded to each other. It was their custom at that hour.
Victor stepped into the bathroom in time to remove his pyjama bottoms and release his bladder. He then performed ablution, the first of two morning rituals. He washed his hands, rinsed his mouth and cleared his nostrils of mucus. Next he took a fresh facecloth, ran it under warm water and washed his arms and feet. After drying his body, he got dressed. He left the bathroom for the second ritual, called salat.
Victor entered the living room, ignoring the pleasant smells of breakfast being cooked by Mom. He unrolled his short prayer rug and laid it on the floor with the top facing east. He stood on the bottom edge and brought his hands together. Closing his eyes, he began salat — a brief prayer to Allah, his God.
This was how Victor began every day. He repeated salat at night before bed. Victor knew that within the next year, when he reached puberty, he would start to do five salats each day.
When he was finished, Victor greeted Mom and Dad. He woke Gabriel and the family sat in the kitchen for a quick breakfast of plain yogurt with honey, eggs, hot cereal, pita bread with goat cheese, date squares and tea.
After breakfast Victor had a quick shower.
“Wear an extra layer, boys. It is minus two degrees this morning,” Mom said.
“With a wind chill of minus eighty,” Dad added. His imitation of a TV weatherperson made Gabriel giggle.
William Hall PS was only two blocks away. Ozzie had told Victor how the school had been saved from closing almost three years ago. Victor thought about how different it might be if Principal Arsenault had not left her Six Nations school to bring new life to William Hall. Entering homeroom, Victor bumped fists with Ozzie.
“Spring is coming,” Ozzie said like it was the biggest announcement of the year. He had been making the same announcement every Monday morning since they had returned to school in January.
They took their seats after a recording of an R&B singer’s soulful rendition of “O Canada” played. This was followed by a girl’s voice Victor thought he recognized.
“We at William Hall PS acknowledge the Indigenous peoples of Canada who originally lived on the land where our school sits. They looked after it with care and pride. For that we are truly thankful,” she said.
Then Principal Arsenault reminded everyone that the next day was Valentine’s Day. Victor had planned to ignore that ritual altogether. Of course, there was a girl he had noticed months ago. Leelah. Yes, it was her beautiful voice that made the announcement. But there was no way he was going to ask her to be his Valentine. He wished the whole day would simply dissolve. He had other things on his mind.
During lunch Victor sought out Muhammad to find out where he stood on Mr. Bridge’s offer. Muhammad told him that his parents had argued after Mr. Bridge left their home.
“Dad said it’s too far and I’m too young,” Muhammad said almost tearfully.
“And your mom?”
“She surprised me. She wanted me to go. She told my dad that we can’t keep being afraid of what might happen to our family.”
“Will your dad change his mind?”
“No, it’s final. Can’t go.”
“That sucks.”
“Tell me about it. And your parents?” Muhammad asked.
“Dad’s playing judge, jury, prosecutor, counsel and private investigator.”
Muhammad began to laugh.
“Well, both my parents are. The only role left is star witness,” Victor continued. “They want to find out more about the committee. I hope I find out tonight.”
* * *
When Victor got home from school, the jury was still out. Mom and Dad had not made a final decision. There were more family discussions. Mom and Dad had conducted what they called “due d
iligence,” which Victor understood to mean close investigating.
“It’s not like I’m going to Antarctica to study how penguins keep warm,” he wanted to say.
“The Syrian consulate said that the committee is legitimate,” Mom offered. “They confirmed there are seven other committees across Canada. But that just means they haven’t yet committed a crime. They could be planning to kidnap one hundred boys and sell them to North Korea or someplace.”
“My spies in the community have heard nothing bad,” Dad reported. “Then, again, they don’t always hear everything.”
Geez! They’ve really become private detectives, Victor thought.
“I can hear what you’re thinking, Victor. You are our child. We have to be careful,” said Mom.
Psychic private detectives, now.
“Tomorrow we do more checking. I’ll skip lunch,” Dad said.
The more Mom and Dad stalled, the more Victor wanted to go to Vancouver.
After supper Dad let Victor and Gabriel watch Arsenal play Barcelona in a Champions League match. Gabriel dozed off early in the second half with Arsenal leading 3–1. Victor watched until the end, picking up goalkeeping tips. He noticed the way the Barcelona goalkeeper punted the ball beyond the half-mark line into Arsenal’s territory. Victor made a mental note to practise his punting.
The next night, Mom and Dad shared more of their discoveries with Victor. The main point was why the defendant, Mr. Bridge, had quit coaching Under-14 soccer in Syria. If Mr. Bridge was a quitter, how would he lead a brand new team to Vancouver? Things were not looking good.
Then Dad presented a major piece of evidence to the Bayazid Courtroom.
“It appears that this Mr. Michael Bridge is a devout man,” Dad said in his opening statement.
“What does devout mean?” Gabriel asked.
“A devout man is true to his faith,” Dad replied. “Mr. Bridge has made the pilgrimage to Mecca in Saudi Arabia. He has travelled to the holy of holies for Muslims.”
Dad was smiling. Victor could see that Dad was speaking as defence for Mr. Bridge. That was good. He remembered that Dad had been planning to make the holy journey himself before the troubles started in Syria. Grampa had made the pilgrimage.
“Lady and gentlemen of the jury, I present to you Exhibit A, El Hajj Michael Bridge.”
Victor knew that if Dad used the title El Hajj, he was willing to trust Mr. Bridge. It could be the tipping point.
But why had he quit coaching?
* * *
That question was answered the next day when Mr. Bridge arrived with two business partners, Mrs. Isa and Mr. Rahman.
“The authorities were watching me,” Mr. Bridge answered. “I knew that my life was in danger. I arranged all my documents and packed one bag. Then I created an argument with the head coach in front of the team before an out-of-town match. I stormed off, saying that I was quitting. I needed witnesses. I was to appear to the authorities for discipline the following afternoon. That night I left Syria. I had to.”
There it was. The mystery was solved. Everyone understood Mr. Bridge did what many Syrians had to do to survive.
“One thing I must ask you,” said Mr. Bridge. “The players, on all teams, are a combination of Shia and Sunni. Our committee made that mandatory. Victor, are you okay with that?”
Victor nodded. “Shia and Sunni and Christian players were on my own team at school.”
Mr. Bridge looked at Mom and Dad. They made a joint decision to ask for the agreement, read it and sign.
“Victor, you are the last player to be signed,” Mr. Bridge said, sipping his coffee. “Our team is registered as the GTA Gazelles, representing the Greater Toronto Area.”
Victor looked at Dad and they both smiled. Gazelles had been Grampa’s favourite animals.
The trial was over. The defendants were acquitted. The judges were satisfied. The jury was dismissed. Justice had been served — with coffee and sweet baklawa pastries.
Victor went to sleep overjoyed. But he was nervous at the prospect of playing with a new team. His fourth team in just a few months.
His first team was Victor United, with his Syrian friends at school. They had combined with Ozzie’s team, Ozzie United, to form Hall United and play the Kingston Bluffers. Then there was the Scarborough Tigers. What would it be like to go back to playing with only other Syrian boys? And how would they do against other teams of Syrians?
4
New Captain
Victor arrived early at Sheppard Soccer Complex. It was the home to several teams, including the season-retired Scarborough Tigers. He found Coach Bridge’s office. His new coach welcomed him.
“One more thing before you head out, Victor,” said Mr. Bridge. “I saw your friendly match last November against the division champs, the Kingston Bluffers.”
“You were there?”
“I’ve been scouting players since last fall. It was an unforgettable match.”
“We had fun,” Victor grinned sheepishly.
Who says you cannot go home again? Victor thought as he walked onto the green turf. He never imagined he would be here again, exactly one week after walking out on his team. Victor felt renewed. This turf held good memories. He waved to Dad and Gabriel in the bleachers.
“Goalkeepers must not be on time — they must be early,” he recalled Ozzie saying. He missed Ozzie being on the same team.
Players and parents began to arrive. When everyone was there Coach Bridge stood in the middle of a circle of thirteen players. He was holding a shiny new red and green soccer ball. He made a slow revolution, looking at each face and smiling, and then he stopped.
“Please don’t start crying,” Victor whispered to himself.
“As-salam alaikum,” Coach Bridge said, wishing God’s peace upon the team.
“Wa-laikum as-salam,” they all responded, returning the greeting.
“Welcome. I have met you all one at a time, along with your parents and guardians. I thank you for agreeing to be a part of this tournament. Together you are the GTA Gazelles. From now on, only English will be spoken on and off the field.”
As Coach Bridge pointed to each player, including the two subs, they each said their first name and position. The players started looking around. Victor wondered who was going to captain the team. Victor was last. All eyes were on him, and he could hear the whispers.
Mr. Bridge pointed at Victor and said, “And your team captain.”
“Victor, goalkeeper,” Victor said in a strong voice, despite his surprise.
For their first practice, the team of Syrian refugees did standard drills and activities. The players had been part of indoor leagues across the GTA, and most had played against each other at some point.
During the break Victor overheard one player say, “I have more league experience than Victor. I should be captain, Johnny. And I would never quit on my team.” Victor recognized the player as a defender and the back-up goalkeeper.
“Right, Raja. We didn’t even get to vote,” said Johnny, another defender.
Victor filed away the comments in his head.
For the last activity of the day, everyone lined up to take penalty shots on goal from the twelve-yard penalty spot. Each player would have three turns.
As defender, Raja would rarely be in a position to score on goal. But for every turn he kicked the ball hard — straight at Victor. Each time Victor felt his gloves vibrate as he stopped the ball.
Some balls did get past Victor into the net. But by jumping high, diving, punching balls with fisted gloves and recovering quickly he passed the test. He was their goalkeeper and captain.
Afterwards everyone, including parents, met in Party Room B for pizza and juice.
“Good first day, Victor,” Coach Bridge said.
“Yeah —” Victor was unsure of what else to say.
>
“It went better than I expected.”
“You chose the team well, Coach. There’s some talent here.”
“Any concerns about anyone?”
“None, Coach.”
“Okay,” Coach Bridge said, patting Victor on the shoulder.
As Victor turned away, Johnny ran into him and spilled juice on his boot.
“Sorry, Victor,” he said.
“It’s — fine,” Victor said.
“I didn’t mean to. I’ll get a paper towel.”
“You don’t have to. Johnny, right?”
“Yep.”
Victor had to believe that the spill was a real mistake, even though he knew Johnny had agreed with Raja that Victor shouldn’t be captain. He excused himself, went to the table, tore some paper towels from a roll and cleaned his boot.
The practice schedule was set for Saturdays, Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Coach Bridge told them that having only a few weeks to prepare would be okay. They had all been playing during the winter and were in good shape. Practices would include more drills, and there would be activities for the players to get to know each other better.
That evening Victor got a call from Ozzie.
“Well, Victor, anything to report?” Ozzie chuckled.
“All quiet,” he replied. He told Ozzie about being named captain. He related Raja’s overheard comment.
“Welcome to the big leagues as a leader, friend,” said Ozzie. “Even if you had been voted in, there would still be some fool thinking he was better than you.”
“Yeah. What’s up with you?” Victor wanted to change the subject.
“Enjoying retirement,” Ozzie joked. “Feels good not to have any planned activities for a change. I’m catching up on my reading.”
“I know how much soccer interfered with your reading this winter,” Victor teased.
