Everything Came to a Head
When I turned 13, everything came to a head. I had another meltdown at the Murphys’, and the pressure of my confined life became unbearable. Though I lived in their basement and rarely left except for school and skating classes, the isolation was suffocating. The TV was always on, providing the comfort of background voices to fill the silence that otherwise enveloped me. The basement felt like a cage, and the rare trips upstairs—for piano lessons or dinner—only emphasized the divide between their world and mine. I felt invisible, existing on the fringes of their family.
As the weeks passed, my frustration and anger grew. I began to realize that other kids didn’t live like I did, and resentment festered.
In that stifling environment, I did what I had always done: I looked for an opening, a chance to create an exit. My attitude toward the Murphys had deteriorated to the point where my dad was forced to make a change.
The New Reality
He decided to buy a house—or more accurately, half of a duplex—at 6608 106th Street in south Edmonton. I even remember the phone number… 435-0337. The neighborhood was working-class and conveniently close to my junior high school, as well as the high school I would later attend, Strathcona Composite High. A bus stop half a block away provided a direct route to the rink. At first, the move felt exciting—a new home, a fresh start, and a sense of independence. But my father’s rules quickly tempered my enthusiasm.
He had made a surprising decision: I was to live in the house alone, five days a week. From the moment we moved in, he gave me explicit instructions. “If social services finds out you’re living here by yourself, they’ll take you away from me,” he warned. I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone what was going on, and friends were strictly forbidden.
He stocked the kitchen with TV dinners, homemade chili, canned soups, and other prepared foods to ensure I was well-fed. Food wasn’t an issue, but companionship was. The TV became my constant companion, its flickering screen filling the void left by my father’s absence.
Living alone at 13 felt exhilarating, but looking back, I realise it shaped my rebellious nature and fuelled a host of behavioural problems. Encounters with neighbours and strangers were just the beginning. Each situation was a small rebellion in a world with no clear boundaries.
Poppers
Only a few weeks after we moved in, I broke the prime directive, made contact with neighbours and divulged too much information.
The duplexes on our block were identical, lined up like a row of dominoes. One afternoon, as I walked home from school, the door of the first duplex swung open. A man stood there, either a very old teenager or a young adult. He called out, “Hey, are you the kid who just moved in down the street?”
I knew I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone, but I also knew he would see me walk into my house. I figured it was better to engage than to seem suspicious. “Yes,” I said awkwardly.
“Well, why don’t you be friendly and come in to meet your neighbors?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t sure what to do.
“Come on, don’t be shy. We’re really very friendly.”
I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I was curious, or maybe I just wanted to connect with someone—anyone. Against my better judgment, I walked down the path to his door and stepped inside.
The layout of the house was identical to ours, but the interior couldn’t have been more different. Where our place was sparsely furnished, theirs was cluttered with posters, couches, armchairs, and random objects. The TV was on but muted, and the air was thick with smoke. Bad Moon Rising by Creedence Clearwater Revival played on a turntable in the corner.
I was led into the kitchen and told to take a seat. The man introduced himself as Billy and gestured to two others, one of whom he said was his girlfriend. They all had long hair, and the house smelled strange—like nothing I’d encountered before. I immediately felt out of place and stood up, ready to leave.
But Billy stopped me with a question: “So, you just moved in, right? What’s your name?”
“David,” I mumbled. “I should probably go. My dad told me to come home straight after school.”
“But your dad’s at work, right?”
“Yes,” I said, hoping they’d think he’d be home soon and let me leave.
“Where’s your mom?”
“I don’t have a mom.”
“What happened to her?”
“She’s just not here. I really should go.”
“Don’t go yet. You just got here.”
Billy took a small bottle from his girlfriend, who was rubbing her nose, giggling, and stumbling around a bit. He held it up and asked, “Hey, have you ever done poppers?”
“Uh, no,” I said, confused.
“You wanna try? It’s really fun.”
Before I could react, Billy handed me the tiny bottle. It was so small I had to hold it between my thumb and forefinger. “Just put it up to your nose…”
Billy lifted my hand with the bottle in it and placed it on my nostril.
”…and take a deep breath.”
Foolishly, I did as I was instructed.
Immediately, the world tilted. My head spun, a loud thumping noise filled my ears, and stars burst before my eyes. Billy and his friends laughed hysterically at my reaction. I felt nauseous and disoriented, desperate to leave.
Stumbling to the front door, I fumbled with the latch and made my escape. Their laughter followed me outside, Billy shouting faintly, “Come back anytime, neighbour!”
I hurried home, my house key dangling from the cord around my neck. Once inside, I locked the door, closed all the curtains, and collapsed on the couch, waiting for the spinning to stop. Eventually, I felt better. I turned on the TV, grabbed some crackers and peanut butter, and settled in for another evening by myself.
I never went back to that house again.
Living by the Rules
My dad always left me with explicit instructions. I was to wipe the counters and never leave crumbs behind, wash my dishes immediately after eating, and under no circumstances was I to have guests. Ever. My schedule revolved around the rink, with two-hour sessions on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings immediately after school. I’d get home around 6:30 p.m., heat up some chili or throw a TV dinner in the oven, and settle in for another solitary evening.
I had a bad habit of eating all of my dad’s cold cuts, which drove him mad. “You have to leave some food for me,” he’d command sternly. Friday evenings were unpredictable. I’d watch TV, as usual, lounging upside down with my back on the carpet, my legs on the couch and a plate of crackers and peanut butter beside me. From this vantage point, I could see out the curtains to my dad’s parking spot. Around 5 or 6 p.m., I’d start keeping an eye out for his car.
When he pulled up, I had about two minutes before he burst through the door. I’d leap to my feet, dash to the kitchen with my cracker plate in hand, and frantically wipe down the counters. Coat hung, shoes tucked away—I had a mental checklist and became an expert at completing it all in the 90 seconds between the car door slamming and his key turning in the lock.
In the beginning, after we first moved in, things were pretty good. But within a few months, his return home became something I dreaded. More often than not, he arrived agitated about something, and I’d get an earful about what I had done wrong—the crumbs I left behind, the cold cuts I ate, or some other infraction.
Eventually, he’d calm down, make dinner, and we’d eat while watching TV together. Sometimes he’d sit me down for one of his “important talks,” but I rarely absorbed what he was saying. I’d nod along, hoping he’d finish quickly so I could return to the comforting glow of the television. Evenings often ended in uneasy calm, but weekends were a different story—skating consumed them entirely
Icetime
The weekends were all about skating. I had advanced significantly and was being groomed for competition. My Saturday skating schedule steadily increased—from two hours to three, then four, and eventually six hours a day. Sundays included a four-hour training session packed with dance classes, conditioning, and ice time.
My dad wanted to be involved and often sat in the bleachers on weekends after running his errands. Before long, he became a skating judge, fascinated by the figure eights and serpentines we skated during “Patch.” He wanted to have a say in deciding who would win and who would lose. Sometimes, as a registered official, he even stepped onto the ice to inspect the other skaters’ work during patch sessions as part of his training as a judge. Thankfully, he never judged mine; I think my coach told him it wouldn’t be a good idea.
I shared the ice with about 15 others and had two coaches: Mrs. Jean Thirlwell and Cheryl Metcalf. Mrs. Thirlwell was a stern, aging battleaxe from the U.K. who drove us all to exhaustion. She didn’t carry a whip, but she had a stick and knew how to flick and poke it with precision to get the results she wanted. She had a reputation as a champion-maker, with several students who had medaled at national competitions and a few who had even won internationally.
Cheryl, by contrast, was much younger and strikingly beautiful, having once been one of Mrs. Thirlwell’s champions. I think, as I reached puberty, that I had a crush on her. I loved having lessons with Cheryl; she always treated me kindly and with patience. Cheryl’s position as an assistant coach represented the typical trajectory for figure skaters: spend endless hours on the ice, strive to win competitions, and, if successful, transition into coaching, where you could earn a good living training the next generation.
Mrs. Thirlwell’s current star pupil at the time was Oriana Sheck, a twelve-time medal winner who was just one year older than me. Oriana’s mother was pushing her toward the Olympics, which is what my dad wanted for me. He threw money at my coaches, paid for extra ice time, and ensured I had every opportunity to succeed. As a single dad with no other family to support, I guess he had the disposable income.
I’m not sure competitive skating was what I truly wanted, but I enjoyed the personal attention during training. It felt good to have professionals invested in my development, so I went along with it—I didn’t want to let my dad down. By the time I was 13, I was in full training mode as a men’s soloist. Because of my dad’s Jewish heritage, my coach chose Hava Nagila as the music for my solo, marking the start of my journey into competitive skating.
Like many solo sports, figure skating had a series of qualifying competitions: civic, provincial, divisional, and national levels, all leading to international events or even the Olympics. However, there weren’t enough boy skaters in any one city to justify a boys’ competition at the civic level. So, my dad signed me up for the provincial championships to compete against the other eight boys in the province in the Juvenile Men’s Division. We got to travel to another city and stay in a hotel for a whole weekend!
Chasing the Medal
After skating the compulsory figures portion of the competition, we all waited in the rink’s foyer for the results. Parents, coaches, and competitors gathered around as an official posted the scores. I was at the back of the crowd, unable to see where I had placed. Before I could get close enough, people began congratulating me. Parents and skaters smiled and said, “Well done!” and “Congratulations!” but I still didn’t know why.
Finally, I reached the front and saw my name at the top. I had won the figures category with exceptionally high scores. I was elated, overcome with euphoria. For the first time, it felt like all the hard work had paid off. I stepped away from the crowd, desperate to share the moment with my dad.
The first person I encountered was Mr. Thirlwell, my coach’s husband. He extended his hand and said, “Congratulations, David, on winning the figures section.” I shook his hand enthusiastically and replied, “Thank you very much, Mr. Thirlwell. I really appreciate it.”
Before I could find my dad, Mrs. Thirlwell grabbed me by the coat and pulled me forcefully into a changing room. Her face was stern, her voice firm.
“The way you just reacted to my husband,” she began, “is the ONLY way you will respond, EVER! If anyone congratulates you, you will say, ‘Thank you very much,’ and that is all. Do you understand me?”
I nodded, stunned.
“You will be humble and not get cocky,” she continued. “The fact is, you didn’t skate that well. I’ve seen you do much better. This competition is far from over, so don’t think you have it wrapped up. You can still lose—and you probably will, because you’re just the best of a bad bunch.”
Tears welled in my eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I hadn’t even had a moment to bask in my success.
“Now pull yourself together,” she ordered. “We have a free skate practice session in an hour. Tomorrow is a big day.”
She left, and I stood there, wiping tears from my face. Moments later, my dad walked in as if waiting for Mrs Thirlwell to finish berating me.
“I’m proud of you, son” he said, his words lighting me up inside. “I know Mrs. Thirlwell can seem mean, but it’s for your own good. Now, let’s get some fries, watch some skating and get ready for tomorrow. It’s a big day!”
The rest of the day was spent watching competitions and meeting other skaters. But that night, as I lay in bed, I tossed and turned, wondering what tomorrow would bring. Would I land all my jumps? Would I slip and fall? Would I win—or lose? Would my Dad still be proud if I lost? So much depended on the outcome.
Moment of Truth
My division skated in the afternoon, and when it was finally my turn to perform in front of the audience and judges, I felt a surge of nervous energy. Removing my sweater and skate guards, I coasted to my starting position at the far end of the ice. Kneeling down, head bowed, I steadied my breath as the opening strains of Hava Nagila—Hebrew for “Let us rejoice”—filled the rink.
The program lasted 2 minutes and 30 seconds. I was required to execute five jumps, two jump combinations, two spins, and a step pattern—all without fault. As the music swelled, I launched into my routine. Every jump was clean and precise, my fancy footwork flowed effortlessly, and I nailed my signature move: two high Russian split jumps performed in succession. My sit spin, a personal favorite, brought cheers from the crowd.
When the routine ended, the applause erupted like a tidal wave, washing over me. I skated off the ice, feeling like the king of the world. Mrs. Thirlwell was waiting for me near the edge, a strange mix of a contorted smile on her lips and furrowed eyebrows above. Her expression gave away nothing. Unsure of her thoughts, I quickly pulled on my sweater, drank some water, and slipped on my blade guards as I waited for the scores to be announced.
Five card caddies stepped onto the ice, each carrying their judge’s scores. They conferred with their judges before lining up to display the results. It was just like on TV. My heart pounded in my chest, and I felt an urgent need to pee. My stomach churned, and I struggled to catch my breath.
“Please let it be good. Please let it be good,” I silently begged, as if some imaginary deity might intervene.
“For technical merit,” the announcer began. “Judge number 1: 6.0. Judge number 2: 6.0. Judge number 3: 5.9. Judge number 4: 5.8. Judge number 5: 6.0.”
The crowd cheered, and my heart soared.
“And for artistic interpretation,” the announcer continued. “Judge number 1: 6.0. Judge number 2: 6.0. Judge number 3: 6.0. Judge number 4: 5.8. Judge number 5: 6.0.”
I was over the moon. With those scores combined with my earlier performance in figures, it was clear: I would be crowned the Provincial Juvenile Men’s Champion of 1974. The title was mine.
There was one skater left, but it was clear he didn’t stand a chance. Out of respect, I took my seat to watch his routine. As he stepped onto the ice, he stumbled and fell before even reaching his starting position, drawing a collective gasp from the crowd.
Shortly afterwards was the medal ceremony. The announcer called each winner to the podium starting with Bronze, then Silver and then Gold. I skated onto the ice like I owned the rink and took my place on the highest pedestal to enthusiastic applause and whistling.
I was given my medal and a trophy and, as I stood there, I think I realised that this was it. Winning felt like the key to everything—acceptance, admiration, and the assurance that I wouldn’t be alone. But even as the cheers surrounded me, a quiet question lingered: what would happen if I lost?