Golden Goal

by David Starr

  Golden Goal

  David Starr

  James Lorimer & Company Ltd., Publishers

  Toronto

  This book is dedicated to my wife Sharon, my son Aidan, the Edmonds Community School Eagles, Canada Scores Vancouver, Staff Sergeant Major John Buis,

  Cst. Aaron Cheng and the Burnaby RCMP,

  Jeff Clark of the Burnaby Fire Department and all those who make a difference in the lives of our youth.

  Thank you.

  Prologue

  Dylan’s Dream

  “Tony! I’m open!” Dylan West shouts, streaking down the middle of the soccer field. It is the final game of the Burnaby School District Championship. The Regent Heights Knights are tied with Fifth Avenue Elementary School, deep in the last minutes of the second half.

  “I see you!” cries Tony Delmonico, Regent’s other forward. Dylan doesn’t even have to call for the ball. After all, he’s played soccer with Tony and Emmanuel Gordon, Regent’s all-star goalie, since Kindergarten.

  Tony leans into the ball, passing it perfectly. The ball bounces once, landing at Dylan’s feet. Without slowing down, Dylan takes control of the ball. He dribbles expertly down the field toward the crease. Dylan knows there is only one nervous-looking defender between him and the goal, one Dylan has owned all game.

  “Go, son!” Dylan’s dad cheers from the sidelines. Dylan smiles. His dad is his biggest fan. He never misses a game, rain, shine or snow. Dylan’s dad always comes to his games, even away games like this one.

  Ten metres from the goal, Dylan fakes right. The defender falls for it. Dylan drags the ball back to the left, leaving the helpless defender behind him. The goalie approaches, trying to cut off the angle. Dylan darts quickly, taking the goalie off-balance. As the goal opens wide in front of him, Dylan pulls his left foot back.

  When he kicks it, the ball takes off like a rocket. It flies through the air toward the top left corner of the goal. The goalie stretches desperately, but he is out of position. There is no way he can reach it in time. The ball hits the back of the net, pushing it out like a balloon. The Regent Heights fans cheer. Dylan’s dad is the loudest.

  Tony and the rest of the team surround Dylan.

  “MVP! MVP!” Tony chants.

  This is the best moment of Dylan’s life.

  “I’m so proud of you, son,” his dad says, hugging Dylan tightly. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’m in a dream,” Dylan says.

  “This is no dream,” his father replies. “You worked hard for this. You earned it.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” says Dylan, hugging him back. If this is a dream, I never want to wake up!

  1

  The First Day of School

  “Wake up, Dylan! It’s time to get ready for school.” Dylan groaned at the sound of his mother’s voice. He pulled his pillow over his head, his heart still racing. For just a moment, he had been back in his old life. But the good dream was over. It was replaced by the nightmare he was living six months after his father’s death.

  “Dylan!” His mother was louder this time. “Get out of bed! You don’t want to be late for your first day at your new school, do you?”

  Dylan groaned again as he crawled out from under the covers. He couldn’t care less if he was late for school, or if he never went to school again. It was January. He should be nearly halfway through Grade 7 at Regent Heights. Instead, today was his first day at Grandview Community School. Grandview was a new, terrible school close to their new, terrible apartment in their new, terrible neighbourhood.

  “Mom, please,” Dylan begged, sitting up. “Let me take the bus back to Regent. I’m thirteen now. I’m old enough.”

  “We’ve had this talk before.” Even through the bedroom door Dylan could hear the frustration in his mom’s voice. “Regent’s too far. You’d have to take the bus to the north side of town. That’s forty-five minutes away. And then you’d have to walk two kilometres to the school. Besides, until we get back on our feet I can only afford one Compass Card for transit. And I need it to SkyTrain downtown.”

  Until we get back on our feet.

  Dylan had heard that a thousand times since they moved from Vancouver to the southeast corner of Burnaby. That, and it’s not in our budget. He hated those expressions. They meant no cell phone, no new shoes or clothes for school, no allowance and no computer.

  And they meant no chance of repeating the school district championship at Regent. Dylan wished he was back in his dream, in his old life where the Knights had beat Fifth Avenue Elementary 4–1 and he had scored two goals.

  Suddenly the memory of his dad running out onto the field, healthy and full of life, vanished. It was replaced by the horrible image of a hospital bed, his dad thin and bald, connected to machines with wires and tubes. “Don’t worry, son,” his dad had said, squeezing Dylan’s hand. “I’ll beat this.”

  But his dad hadn’t beaten the disease. He was gone. Maybe it was a good thing Dylan wasn’t playing soccer anymore. He couldn’t remember ever playing a game without his dad watching.

  Dylan got dressed and stepped out of the only bedroom in the apartment. They’d only been here for two weeks. He still couldn’t believe how tiny, how gross the place was, even with the Christmas decorations still up.

  It had been the worst Christmas ever, just his mom and him in this rotten place. The whole apartment was smaller than the family room in their old house. There were water stains on the ceiling, and the carpet was a terrible browny-orange colour.

  Every piece of wood, every appliance was old, faded and ugly. They still had some of their old furniture, and a new sofa-bed his mom had bought for herself. She’d given Dylan the apartment’s one small bedroom while she slept in the living room.

  Dylan walked from the tiny living room to the even smaller kitchen. He opened the fridge for the milk. As he poured himself a bowl of cereal, he couldn’t keep his feelings from showing in his face.

  “I don’t like it either, honey,” his mom said as Dylan sat down to eat. “I didn’t want to have to sell the house. But you know we couldn’t afford the mortgage. Besides, it won’t be forever, you know, just until we…”

  “… get back on our feet. I know, Mom,” Dylan said. One thousand and one times, he thought. “Do I get to eat lunch today at least?” he asked grumpily. “Or do I have to go without food until we get back on our feet again?”

  “I talked to your new principal, Ms. Bhullar.” His mom ignored his sarcasm. “I signed you up for the school lunch program. I saw the menu when I registered you at Grandview before the Christmas break. It looks pretty good.”

  Dylan was horrified. Everybody knew that the lunch program was for poor kids. “Are you kidding me? Mom, please, an apple or a peanut butter sandwich. I don’t need much. I don’t want to be on the hot lunch program. Come on, Mom. You’re an accountant or something. Are you saying that we can’t afford lunch?”

  “That’s enough, Dylan.” His mom’s face was red and her eyes bright with tears. “Doing the books for your father’s business hardly makes me an accountant. I was lucky to get a job as a payroll clerk. You didn’t ask for this, I didn’t ask for this and your father certainly didn’t ask for this. But now we have to just deal with it. You have a roof over your head and a school to go to, which is more than a lot of people have. So stop complaining.”

  “Fine.” Dylan angrily scooped up his coat and backpack. “You have a nice day being a payroll clerk.” Fighting back his own tears, Dylan opened the apartment door and slammed it behind him.

  As bad as their apartment was, the rest of the building was worse. The carpet in the hallway was stained and ripped, and everything smelled old
, musty and stale. He reached the lobby, pushed open the front door and stepped out onto Salisbury Street.

  There wasn’t one house on Salisbury, just a dozen or so three-storey apartment buildings. Somebody with a bad sense of humour had named all the buildings after trees — Cedar Place, Aspen Glade, Evergreen Gardens. Dylan and his mom lived in Maple Grove.

  What stupid names, thought Dylan as he walked up to Grandview Boulevard. The only thing even close to a tree on this street was a large, ugly bush beside Cedar Place.

  The buildings weren’t the only things named wrong. Grandview? There’s no view at all. Why would anyone name this stupid street Grandview? He looked up the busy commuter route, full of drivers heading downtown to work. Now, Regent Heights had a view. From Dylan’s old bedroom he could see the snow-covered North Shore Mountains, from West Vancouver all the way to Indian Arm. All he saw from his new bedroom was the back of the next building.

  Back in Regent Heights almost nobody walked, but here the sidewalks were full. Women wearing scarves over their heads waited for the bus with small children. Dylan watched a man who looked like he was from Africa open the steel shutter on a store that said Halal Meats.

  You didn’t see things like this on Pinewood Crescent, his old street in Regent Heights. Pinewood was lined with large fir trees, including the one in their backyard. His dad had built him a tree fort in one of them when he was little. He’d played in the fort for hours on end with his best friends Tony and Emmanuel.

  But those days were over. Now he had to just deal with it. If only it were that easy.

  2

  Ms. Jorgensen’s Class

  Lost in his thoughts, Dylan reached Grandview Community School, an old, two-storey, white and green building next to a fire hall.

  To get to the school doors, Dylan had to cross the soccer field.

  If you can call it a field, he thought. At Regent he’d played on a field of brand new artificial turf. Here, the students kicked their soccer ball on a lumpy gravel playing field. The goals were wooden, and the top bar of one sagged slightly. There was no netting, no crease and no touch line. It was the ugliest soccer field Dylan had ever seen.

  The sorry state of their field didn’t stop the kids from enjoying their game, Dylan noticed. They chased the soccer ball crazily around the field. Mr. Alvarez, his old coach at Regent, would have blown the whistle right away. Get your shape! Discipline! Stay in position!

  Dylan almost wanted to laugh. Or maybe cry. Once, soccer had been just about the most important thing in the world to him. But now the game brought back too many painful memories. Dylan never wanted to play soccer again.

  Suddenly, the bell rang. Dylan was surrounded by dozens of yelling and laughing children, all anxious to get to class. Dylan thought about just turning around and going home. But then he imagined the trouble he’d get in if he skipped. I might as well get this over with, Dylan thought, taking a deep breath. Like Mom said, I just have to deal with it.

  Dylan was greeted by the principal when he arrived at the school office. “You must be Dylan. Welcome to Grandview Community School,” she said, smiling. “I’m Ms. Bhullar.”

  “Thanks,” he said politely. He tried his best to return the smile.

  “Your mom told me things haven’t been so good for you,” Ms. Bhullar said, showing Dylan into her office. “I’ll take you to your class in a bit. But I’d like to talk to you a little first.”

  “Sure.” Dylan cringed. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about how awful his life was.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Ms. Bhullar began. “With your dad’s cancer and the move, the last few months can’t have been easy.”

  “It’s okay,” Dylan said. He wasn’t comfortable with starting this way.

  Ms. Bhullar nodded. “Some of the kids in this building have gone through a lot. If you need to talk to somebody, there are lots of adults who can help, including me.”

  “Sure.” Dylan hoped his face wouldn’t give away what he was really thinking. Talk to you? Never in a million years! What do you know about me? You don’t understand what I’ve been through!

  “I mean it, Dylan,” Ms. Bhullar went on. “Let me know if you ever need to talk about things.”

  “Thanks,” Dylan said, avoiding eye contact, “but I’m okay.”

  “Then I guess the next thing to do is get you up to your class. Ms. Jorgensen and your classmates are waiting to meet you.”

  Dylan followed Ms. Bhullar out of the office. “The intermediate students are upstairs.” Ms. Bhullar led Dylan up a wide staircase. “Ms. Jorgensen’s class is Division 2. End of the hall, last class on the left. Mr. Briscoe is the other Grade 7 teacher. His class is right next door.”

  “Dylan! Welcome!” said Ms. Jorgensen as Ms. Bhullar opened the classroom door. “I’ve got a desk set up for you beside Abbas and Claude.” Abbas was an Arabic boy, at least two inches taller than Dylan. Claude was short, slimly built, with dark skin and tightly curled, short-cropped black hair.

  “Welcome,” Claude said in a French accent as Dylan sat in the empty desk.

  “Hey,” Dylan replied.

  “Hello,” Abbas said in formal accented English. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “You too,” Dylan said, taking off his backpack. Every student in the class introduced themselves to Dylan. Then they went back to work.

  When Dylan thought about it later, he couldn’t remember what Ms. Jorgensen taught that day. All he could recall was sitting beside two strange new boys, thinking about his old life and feeling absolutely, one hundred per cent alone.

  “Okay, class,” Ms. Jorgensen said, snapping Dylan back to attention. “The bell is going to ring in two minutes. Get your snacks, then go outside and play. But don’t wear yourselves out,” she added. “We’re going to the gym after recess.”

  When the bell rang the students ran into the hallway.

  “Do you have a snack, Dylan?” Ms. Jorgensen asked as Dylan got up. “If not, I have lots of granola bars. The Burnaby Fire Department keeps us well-stocked.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Dylan said. He was, but having to eat the school lunch was bad enough. The last thing his pride could take was a charity snack.

  “Okay,” his new teacher said. “Then join the rest of the class outside and have fun. You look like you haven’t had much of that for a while.”

  When Dylan reached the playground, most of the boys from Ms. Jorgensen’s class were already out on the gravel field, kicking the ball around.

  “Do you want to play football — soccer I mean?” Claude asked.

  “No thanks,” Dylan replied. “I’m just going to hang out.”

  “Next time then.” Claude grinned and ran to join the game.

  “Sure. Next time,” Dylan said, not meaning it. He sat down on the pavement and leaned against the wall of the school, feeling sorry for himself.

  After what seemed like forever, the bell rang. Dylan stood up and slowly made his way back to his classroom.

  “Okay, people,” Ms. Jorgensen said. “Gym time.”

  “I hope we get to play basketball,” a girl with dark, curly hair said as they walked toward the gym.

  “No way! Floor hockey!” a Middle-Eastern boy with black hair and a bright smile replied. “Or volleyball!”

  “I have a feeling we’ll be playing soccer,” said Claude.

  “Here we go!” laughed a boy named Jake. “Claude is having another one of his feelings. He’s like a magician, like Harry Potter or something!”

  “Maybe I am.” Claude smiled. “I’m also getting a feeling that I’m going to beat you at whatever game we play!”

  “Four corner soccer,” announced Ms. Jorgensen.

  3

  The Fight

  Not soccer! Dylan groaned to himself as his classmates organized themselves expertly. In less than two minutes the
nets were placed in each corner of the gym. They were sorted into four teams wearing different coloured pinnies. Claude was a one, Abbas a three and Dylan a four.

  Dylan had played four corner soccer a million times. Each team would wait by their net for the teacher to call out two teams. Those teams would play furiously until the whistle blew and the other two teams took their turn. The winning team was the one with the most goals when the game ended.

  “You ready?” called Ms. Jorgensen, putting the ball in the centre of the gym. “Three and four! Go!”

  Both teams rushed to get the ball. A girl on Dylan’s team, Fatima, was first to touch it. She turned quickly and passed to Dylan. But before he could do anything, Abbas came out of nowhere, stripped him of the ball and fired into the net. Team Three led 1–0.

  “That was quick!” said Ms. Jorgensen. “Keep playing!”

  Jake was on Dylan’s team. He took the ball and rushed toward the net. He shot, but the ball went wide, bounced off the wall and came right to Dylan. Dylan moved toward the goal. It was then that Abbas came at him again.

  Dylan tried to fake right. But Abbas guessed what Dylan would do and bumped into him. It wasn’t hard enough to foul, but enough to take the ball from him again.

  “Too slow!” shouted Abbas as he shot, scoring again.

  Dylan’s cheeks burned. This Abbas kid had embarrassed him twice in two minutes, and now he was rubbing it in. There was no way he’d let it happen again.

  The whistle blew. “Three and four back to your corners,” said Ms. Jorgensen.

  Never taking his eyes from Abbas, Dylan moved off the floor. Dylan watched him smile and goof around with the members of his team. Abbas was making fun of him, he was sure of it. You won’t be smiling soon, Dylan thought.

  It took ten minutes for teams three and four to face each other again. When they did, Dylan did not hang back. Abbas had the ball and Dylan ran at him, hip-checking him roughly. He took the ball and kicked it as hard as he could into the back of the net.