AUBURN – Dalton Dyer never stops moving. His fingers tug at the sleeves of his T-shirt. He drapes a leg over a table in the multipurpose room near the Placer High School gym and, in one continuous motion, stands and leans against a wall. He drops to a knee and clasps his hands. He starts to sit, then settles for a crouch.

But the smile is fixed, unforgettable, stretching from here to Oakland.

Dyer – the junior running back-defensive back thrust into the recent maelstrom involving California Interscholastic Federation transfer requirements, the California courts, the foster care system and three impassioned foothill communities – is trying to breathe deeply, to slow down. But he can't. He can't. It's too soon, the pace still too frenetic.

"I slept in the car coming back from Oakland the other day," Dyer said Tuesday afternoon. "I wanted to get away from it for a while. But now it's back to football. And football is everything to me. It's what keeps me out of trouble."

During his first season with the Hillmen, he ran a kick back for a touchdown. He started some games, subbed in others, but that's not really what his story is about.

Long before someone contacted CIF officials and questioned his eligibility as a transfer student, before Placer forfeited two league games and lost a playoff berth, before a local attorney raised hell – before Dyer and Placer and state law prevailed – Dalton's biography already was too thick for his 16 years.

The youngster in that Oakland courtroom Monday? The one with the cherubic features, who wore gray slacks, a long-sleeve white shirt and a blue tie borrowed from his coach? The undersized running back who broke into a grin that hasn't disappeared since Judge Judith Ford restored his eligibility and returned Placer to the playoffs?

What a sweet kid. What a shame.

In a 45-minute conversation before Tuesday's practice, the 5-foot-6, 165-pound Dyer – who was insistent upon projecting himself as a survivor, not a victim – offered insights into his life and, ultimately, his escape to Auburn and football.

His father, Dalton Dyer Sr., died months before he was born. Unable to care for Dalton and his seven siblings, his mother lost custody, beginning a pattern of foster home shuttling that persisted until his aunt, Murlene Spinks, gained custody in August.

"I don't remember living with my mom," Dyer said matter of factly. "I lived with my grandmother before she passed. Then I lived in a foster home until she (his foster mother) was diagnosed with cancer. Then I came to Auburn and lived for a few years with my auntie, until seventh grade. Then it was another foster home … and another one in Vallejo. I think there were seven homes in all."

Pause.

"It was tough, but I try to focus on what I have."

He has goals. He wants to attend Sierra College for two years before transferring to Cal. He spends hours on the computer perusing prep Web sites, he says, analyzing the recruiting process and seeking a summer camp he can afford to attend.

He has dreams. He dreams of snow. He has never seen it, never touched it, never snagged a flake with his tongue. Several of his teammates, Dyer reveals proudly, plan to take him snowboarding after the first winter storm.

He has perspective. Suggesting someone too wise for his years, he feels badly for his Colfax peers. As he talks about the team ousted from the postseason by the ruling that was based on state law protecting foster youths, he nods forcefully, his left leg dancing.

"Those guys at Colfax worked really hard for the playoffs, too. But I just had to do what I thought was right. Just over some paperwork … "

With a shrug, Dyer skipped to the next topic – gratitude to his coach, Joey Montoya, seemingly attached to his side; to his teammates and the Auburn community that embraced his cause; and mostly to his aunt, Spinks, and two teenage cousins who are more like sisters.

It is Spinks, who works in family day care, who reveals the depth of the anxiety Dyer experienced throughout the ordeal. The nervous, constant gesturing. She attributes that to stress.

"Last Friday, Dalton spent the night at one of his teammates' house," Spinks said on her cell phone, "and I happened to be online, reading comments about the situation. All of a sudden, I look at one posting, and it's from Dalton. It's 2 a.m. He was responding to someone, calmly trying to explain his position.

"He is so mild-mannered, such a nice young man. He has grown so much since the last time he was here. He does his schoolwork, his chores. He gives me no trouble. It was difficult. I never wanted to give him up."

Spinks said she relinquished custody of Dyer and his siblings four years ago because of her own overwhelming personal circumstances.

"I was working full-time, and with eight kids in the house from age 11 to 17," she said, "It was chaotic. But Dalton has always wanted to come back, and we got it done last summer. Now he has his own room, his own space. I'm so glad he's back with us. Win or lose the football game, this is a life-changing situation for him."

When Dyer is asked about his aunt and cousins, his features soften. He loves his auntie. Jasmine, a freshman, is a hoot. And it was 17-year-old Tonisha escorting him past the phalanx of cameras after Monday's hearing.

"I always tried to pretend that I wasn't in a foster home," he said softly. "That's how I deal with stuff. But now I'm not. Now I'm in a family."

Call The Bee's Ailene Voisin, (916) 321-1208.