Ashley Callister Island Pacific School, Bowen Island, BC CanadaCommonwealth Essay B. 4Sport - love it or loathe it?I hate Soccer. I hate it with a passion. But for my brother Mark, it's the opposite. It's always been this way. In elementaryschool he would play at any available chance. Now we're 15, and in grade 10. Mark is the captain of our high school soccer team,and is already being scouted for scholarships. He's featured in every addition of our school paper, and has loads of friends. He's thetypical idol for any male who dreams of popularity. Me? I'm one of those people who no one really knows. I'm in grade ten alsoand Mark is my twin brother. My name is James DeLanka and I'm your typical nobody.It's Saturday, the day after Marks big game, which the Sharks won 3-2. Mark of course scored the winning goal. Thething I like the most about Saturday's is breakfast. It's the only day of the week where we have an annual brunch, featuring dad'sfamous hash-browns. As we're eating, my parents are congratulating Mark on yesterday’s game. Typical. Of course I never getcongratulated on getting an A on my math test, sports are just more important."Hey James! Wanna go play some road hockey? One on one?" Mark yells from the kitchen. "Sure." I mumble, silently adding,"Just so you can beat me as always?"He grabs the nets, I grab the sticks and we set up. Ever since we were in grade seven, when our uncle bought us streethockey nets, we played hockey on the neighborhood road. This used to be fun, but ever since we got into high school it just felt so pointless. Why compete with Mark? I know that he'll beat me. We even used to play on the same soccer team, but not anymore.Man I hate soccer.Mark starts with the ball. He sets up his shot, and I even blink as it soars over my left shoulder and into the net."Yeah! Wooo!" Mark exclaims as he pulls his shirt up over his face and does his signature victory pose. I have to smile a little. Iremember when he was practicing this in grade eight. He told me that it was super important to have one so that when he scored agoal he could always be recognized.It's my turn with the ball. As I'm dribbling, I decide I'm going to shoot it low. I aim for the bottom right corner and FIRE!The ball completely misses the net and goes sailing down the road. "I got it!" Shouts Mark and he takes off after it. I silently cursemyself and kick a stone as I wait for Mark to return."SCREEEEEEEECCHHH!! BAM!!". Is the only thing I hear before I whip my head around and see a steaming, whiteminivan stopped in the middle of the road, a big dent embedded in its bumper. Directly in front of the van is the still, crumpledshape of Mark, and the tiny orange hockey ball rolling past him.Chaos. I sprint towards him. "MARK!" I scream as I approach, the driver already next to him checking for a pulse. When Ireach him, I can see something is obviously wrong. His legs are bent in odd angles, his back twisted. "Call the ambulance!" Icommand the driver who quickly complies.

It felt like hours as we waited. There wasn't much we could do, we just silently monitored Mark's breathing. I couldn't believe this was happening. After that moment, the memories are blurry. I remember the ambulance arriving, putting Mark onto astretcher and roaring off with lights flashing and sirens blaring. The police were there too, asking the van driver questions. I havenever seen anyone look as wretched as that man did. I remember being in the hospital ER waiting room, and bursting into tearswhen my terrified parents arrived. Most of all I remember the horrible feeling that it was my fault.We stayed at the hospital overnight, waiting for news of Marks condition. My father paced the lobby until he was tooexhausted to walk. In the morning, we were greeted by a solemn looking nurse, who led us into a room lit by a small window inwhich Mark was lying in a small bed attached to a machine monitoring his breathing and heartbeat. In a whirlwind of gasps andsobs my mother was beside the bed. She stroked his hair, looking despairingly at my father who was stunned at his sonsappearance. I took in Marks face. His forehead was bruised and scraped, a row of stitches about a 2 inches long on across it. Hehad a neck brace on. Both his legs were in casts and there were tubes in his nose and mouth.As we watched, his green eyes slowly fluttered open. I'm relieved, but I can't get over the fact that this is inadvertently myfault. It was my shot, my bad aim... Mark attempts to smile despite the tube, and murmurs a croaky: "Hey". This sends my mother back into tears. The nurse begins to explain his condition. When the van hit Mark from behind, it broke both his legs, and his spine.I struggle to process this information. Mark closes his eyes again, I can just see the glimmer of a tear slide out from under hiseyelid. “A broken back?” I thought. “How can this be possible?After the technical explanation it's clear that Mark will require a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He will also needmultiple surgeries in order to re-build his legs, which could prove to be tricky. This meant no more soccer.The nurse told us we were free to stay until 1:00, which was when visiting hours ended and Mark would need to go intosurgery. We stayed with Mark and took turns talking with him, there was only one chair beside the hospital bed.When it was my turn to talk to Mark, it wasn’t awkward like it usually was. Even though Mark still looked terrible, he now hadthe energy to speak. I apologized about 10 times, and then we started to talk about old times. We remembered this one particular time when we were about 10 years old and still on the same soccer team. It was around November, but the weather was freezing.Everyone played their hardest, despite the cold. After halftime, the game started to get interesting. The score was 2-2 and it wasnearing the end of the game. Just before the final whistle blew, I intercepted a pass and took off. As I neared the opposing team’sdefenseman I saw Mark, on my left, wide open. I faked a shot, and made a perfect pass to Mark who hammered the ball into thetop corner, just beating the final whistle.As we remember this we both laugh. “Those were the days” says Mark as he adds the part about dad taking us out for large hot chocolates after the game. “I never thought it would end.” Mark says, his eyes filling up again. “I’ll never play again...."Silence. Then he says “You were a pretty decent player... Why did you quit?” I figure that after everything he’s been throughtoday, Mark deserves the truth. “I quit because I was never as good as you, and it was pointless to keep playing when you were

obviously the one with the talent”. Mark is silent, and then he says “Man, that’s stupid. Is that why we haven’t been close sincehigh school started?" He pauses, “It’s not about how good you are, it’s about how you feel about it. Competition should never getin the way of that.”Right then the nurse entered, and told us it was 1:00, time to go. Our family said our goodbyes, telling Mark we will be back tomorrow “Thanks Mark” I say. “You really taught me something today.” “Oh man,” He says to me. “Sometimes thestupidest things can get in the way of living”. I smile at him as I leave the room. “You’re the best” I tell him. “Yup.” He says,giving me a cocky half smile. “See ya.”It was about 6:00 when the phone rings. My mom picks it up. “Hello? ...What? No!” She drops the receiver after listing tothe voice on the other end. She’s sobbing hysterically... My father picks up the phone. “Hello?” As he listens, the color drainedfrom his face. “Yes, I understand. Thank you.” He says in a strangled voice before sitting down on the couch, lookingdumbfounded. I know what’s coming, but there is still a small hope in me that I’m wrong. “What is it?” I ask slowly. “Oh honey!”my mom says through her tears. “There were complications with Marks surgeries. He’s gone.” My vision blurs, the room spins, mystomach churns. He was okay when we were talking. This was not supposed to happen. He was supposed to live.“NO!” I scream as the tears pour. “It just can’t be true,” I say to myself as I listen to the sniffs and sobs of my parents. Irun to Mark’s room and gather up his soccer jersey in my arms and hug it tightly as I collapse on his bed and absorb his smell. Imust have stayed there for about two hours before my mom came and joined me.There was a ceremony for Mark at school, and a funeral for him at home that my whole extended family attended. We hadMark cremated and put into an urn that we placed on the mantle so that he would always be at home. It was obvious that Mark wasmissed at school. There was a gloom and silence that hung over everyone that knew him. Almost everyone I passed in the hallstopped and gave their condolences.I keep remembering Mark’s last words to me, when we talked about soccer. He taught me something that I will never forget. I had taken every moment with him for granted. I had resented him because he was “A better soccer player”. I was so jealous of his popularity and talent that I lost my love for the game. Had I not gotten so carried away with competing with him, Imight have actually stopped to realize that we were both talented, just at different things. The truth is I don’t hate soccer, I actuallyreally enjoy it.Mark was one of those people who lived in the moment, taking advantage of every opportunity. He always did his ownthing, and was respected for it. I’ve learned that if one is insecure, is always pitting themselves up against another, they will never achieve true victory. It just isn’t worth it.I’ve forgiven myself for what happened. I’ve found that by just believing in myself I can accomplish almost anything. I oweeverything to Mark, I feel him with me every day of my life. I’ve even rejoined the soccer team, as a defenseman. I’ve actually