The Tournament

by Angelo Kontos

  “I need you,” Helen told him, “to be more present.”

  “More present?” Corey repeated, crossing his arms.

  “More present,” Helen repeated. “For the kids, for me…for us.”

  “What do you want, Helen?”

  “I just told you.”

  “Fine, I’ll be more ‘present,’ whatever that means. Now will you please get out of the way and let me work?”

  Helen paused before moving, only because she knew it bothered him, and then she left again.

  Whenever anyone met Helen for the first time, they would usually turn to Corey and comment on how beautiful she was, or as one of his colleagues once half-drunkenly asked at an office party: “That’s your wife?”

  If Corey were impressed with Helen’s beauty or anything else about her, no one would ever know it. And as much as Helen exercised regularly and maintained a healthy diet, Corey was eating out too often and gaining a belly. Lately, Helen found herself studying the back of Corey’s head after he fell asleep to try and determine whether he was getting a bald spot.

  Corey shook his head and turned his monitor back on. Both women in his life, his wife and mistress, were putting pressure on him. He would deal with them later. For now, he had to find the next member of the Deep Six, the Little Pest.

  24.

  Alex and Mike sat on a picnic bench by Curve Lake to dry off from their ball hockey game. Mike seemed fine, as he was used to this level of activity, but Alex was already getting sore. He had not run around or held a hockey stick in quite some time. He still wasn’t sure if he was going to puke or not. Alex put one leg up at a time on the bench and stretched. Mike had gotten them water and Alex tried not to drink it all at once.

  “Still got that hard shot,” Mike smiled.

  “You’re mixing it up with those kids and you could still turn their lights out if you wanted to,” Alex chuckled.

  “I’ve got nothing to prove,” Mike shrugged.

  Mike was so modest and selfless, but in a very genuine way. He was one of the few people Alex had met outside of his mother whom he wished he was more like. As good as it was to catch up, Mike knew why Alex was there. He mentioned The Tournament over the phone. They agreed to discuss it more in person.

  “Listen, Alex,” Mike said. “I don’t think I can play in a tournament. Me and Becky keep busy, you know, with our kids. And there’s all the stuff I do around here. I just don’t see it.”

  “Look, Chief, I have too much respect for you to give you a sales pitch,” Alex replied. “I have doubts myself about whether I should play. I don’t think anyone’s going to care about this, but Corey Peters thinks he can put it together.”

  “Now there’s a great guy,” Mike said sarcastically.

  “Yeah, but so what?” Alex said. “Think about it: all of us playingtogether again. Whoever thought that’d be possible?”

  “That’d be unreal,” Mike agreed. “I don’t know…I’m in a good place right now. Everything here makes sense to me. I just can’t see leaving it all for four months.”

  Alex stopped stretching and sat up straight. “Well, I’m not in a good place and maybe that’s the difference. For now, playing hockey doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.”

  Mike nodded, and following an awkward silence, Alex started asking him questions about Curve Lake. After they both had mostly stopped sweating, Mike took Alex on a walk through the reservation grounds that lasted an hour. Alex enjoyed it, but he was exhausted by the time they returned to his car.

  “You sure you don’t want to stay a night?” Mike asked.

  “I’m sure. Another time, though,” Alex replied.

  Alex unlocked his car and opened the driver-side door. Before he got in, he and Mike had a long embrace.

  “Your dad would be really proud of you,” Alex said. “Thanks, brother.”

  25.

  Eddie Mark – “The Little Pest”

  Years ago, the old Riverdale Hospital in Toronto transitioned into Bridgepoint Health, a brightly lit building at the corner of Gerrard Street and Broadview Avenue. Patients were admitted to Bridgepoint Health, like Riverdale Hospital before it, if they had suffered a significant or catastrophic injury and needed long-term care, or if they were terminally ill with no realistic prospect of recovery.

  Eddie Mark entered through the front doors and walked over to the elevators for his weekly visit. As he watched a group of Bridgepoint volunteers post Easter decorations in the lobby, he recalled that his old friend Tommy was admitted there during Easter nearly fifteen years ago. Eddie had made a habit of visiting Tommy every single week since then.

  A nurse came on before the elevator doors closed. She smiled at Eddie and said hello. Unless they were brand new, every staff member and volunteer and even many of the patients’ families recognized Eddie.

  A natural athlete from a young age, Eddie started playing hockey when his older brother set up a net in their driveway and taught him the three basic shots: wrist shot, slapshot and snapshot. Eddie soon developed an excellent wrist shot that he could bury in either top corner of the goal.

  He was raised in a traditional Chinese family, and it took convincing from Eddie’s older brother before his parents agreed to put him in hockey. Eddie’s coaches loved him and found him very coachable. He had great speed and was very dedicated to playing defence, especially for a young centre. Back then, most of the kids his age just worried about scoring flashy goals, like his best friend Tommy, who played hockey with him everywhere except university. A valuable member of the Deep Six, Eddie became known by his teammates as “The Little Pest,” and was one of Ken Hornsby’s most trusted and respected players. During the summers, Eddie also enjoyed playing soccer.

  His main assignment was usually to shadow the other team’s best scorer and make their life miserable. In fact, many of his opponents became so frustrated they would slash him or give him a shot when the referee was looking the other way. As quiet as he was, Eddie was very competitive and had an intense sports temper.

  He entered his old friend’s room and saw Tommy sitting by the window as always. Tommy’s room had a view of the Don Valley Parkway below. The terrible incident had left Tommy almost completely paralyzed on his left side and in both legs. He also suffered a severe brain injury that rendered him speechless. His doctors said that his cognitive ability was severely limited, but he was somewhat able to recognize and respond to immediate surroundings and stimuli. There was always the hope that over time he would improve, but that hope was coming from Eddie and not the doctors. It was much more likely that his physical and neurological condition would deteriorate and lately there were more and more signs that it was.

  Eddie had stood by his friend while many others, including members of Tommy’s family could not bear the state that Tommy was in. There had been insurance payouts and other settlements. Tommy’s family used the money to ensure their son was provided with a high standard of care. Charities and scholarships were set up in Tommy’s name, but after a while the story faded to the background, which Eddie always had trouble understanding. For him, it could never get old.

  He sat beside his friend and smiled. He believed that Tommy was happy to see him even if that was the extent of his thought process. That alone was reason enough for Eddie to keep visiting.

  Eddie had been working for the same software company doing the same job and receiving the same pay for over a decade now. He enjoyed the routine and comfort of the job and could work nearly every day from home. In fact, a few years ago he accepted a promotion but quickly asked for his old job back because the new position required him to go into the office more. He preferred his previous life where he could get through his work and then play video games or listen to music. He lived alone and made smart decisions with his cash, such as renting out the basement of his small bungalow to help pay the mortgage.

  At the hospital, Eddie did his usual bit where he tidied up a few things around Tommy’s bed and then sat down again beside his
friend, where he planned to spend the next hour.

  After wiping Tommy’s mouth with a tissue, Eddie felt his phone go off. He pulled it out of his jacket and read a text from his friend at work. Someone named Corey Peters left a message for him. His friend also wrote in his text that Corey Peters came across as rude and demanding.

  Corey Peters?

  Eddie wondered why Corey would contact him after all these years. He was curious and would call in to pick up the message after he left Bridgepoint. In the meantime, he turned to face the window and joined Tommy in staring down at the heavy traffic on the Don Valley Parkway.

  A familiar thought crossed his mind for perhaps the two hundredth time: that hit was meant for him…it should have been him.

  26.

  Freddy “The Flash” Rozelli was frustrated. Before his world crashed, he had been enjoying the bitter labour dispute, and why not? He was making boatloads of money and the lockout felt like an extended holiday.

  Then in short order the nightclub incident happened, followed by that annoying kid and his prick father hounding him for an autograph. How in the world was he getting all the heat for that? The kid’s father attacked him. Then his team fired him from his contract, as if he were the only player into drugs. Finally, to top it all off his agent unceremoniously dumped him.

  After several arguments with the players’ union, Freddy finally came to accept what they were telling him: they were launching an appeal. Get ready to dig in, one of the union reps told him, because it would take time. Freddy wanted assurances everything would be fixed, but no one would give him that.

  It was his smoking hot massage therapist who suggested he get away somewhere secluded to clear his head. She recommended a place called the Great Lodge, about two hours north of the city. She had gone there for a Thanksgiving weekend with her boyfriend a few years ago and loved it. Freddy agreed it was a good idea and asked her to go with him, but she turned him down.

  The Great Lodge had just opened for a new season and Freddy showed up without a reservation. Easter was in the middle of April and that was a typically busy time for the lodge, but Freddy checked into a room the week before and there might have been one other family there. He needed to relax, which meant loading up on liquor and packing a suitcase full of goodies.

  Lately, he was on a Xanax-marijuana kick, or sometimes he would pop a Xanax and do one or two lines of cocaine. After the first night at the Great Lodge, Freddy worried the fumes from the weed would aggravate the staff, so he leaned more on the Xanax-coke combination.

  His room had a gorgeous view of the lake and a row of beach chairs right by the water. Freddy soon established a routine of pouring beer into a disposable cup and plopping himself down in one of those chairs. For the next several hours, he drifted in and out of consciousness until the various buzzes wore off and then he started up again.

  The only healthy part of his day was attending the home-cooked meals the Great Lodge served in their dining room. His stomach was in knots, but he still loved the food and ate as much of it as he could. Everything was so simple and so good. During the lunch buffet he went back for additional helpings of steamed carrots.

  Now, as he walked back to his room after dinner, he felt like clearing his head and decided to go for an evening walk. When he entered his room to grab a jacket, Freddy noticed his phone flashing on the bed. He picked it up and saw an anonymous text with a link attached. He thought of deleting it, but curiosity got the better of him and he clicked on it.

  It was a mock news report someone posted online called “The State of Rozelli.”

  At first, Freddy thought it was a real report from a major news outlet, but as soon as he heard the narrator’s smarmy voice, Freddy knew it was a hatchet job from an internet troll who was taking unusually large amounts of pleasure in Freddy’s fall from grace. The five-minute video mercilessly ridiculed Freddy every which way, including rapid clips of Freddy in the club followed by his apology press conference. The video slowed down whenever Freddy said “sorry” to make it seem like he was saying the word while underwater.

  The troll also hit the streets to ask people what they thought of Freddy and mashed together their responses for the video: greedy, loser, jerk, jerk-off, douchebag, loser…loser…loser…loser. And if all that were not enough, the guy had the nerve to track down Freddy’s parents at their home.

  Freddy seethed as he watched his mother poke her head out the front door of her house while being filmed and trying to shoo the guy away as though he were an unwanted raccoon that had gotten on the porch.

  “You go!” Mrs. Rozelli said in broken English. “You go from here! Freddy good boy!”

  The guy could be heard laughing while running down the stairs and away from the house as Mrs. Rozelli came outside with a broom.

  An edit of the video replayed his mother’s comment, “Freddy good boy!” over and over as it showed her waving the broom at him.

  The final scene was Freddy’s closing speech that night at the club where he stood in front of the camera and posed with his cash, except the comments were dubbed in by the narrator:

  “Freddy bad boy! Freddy bad boy!”

  The video stopped.

  Freddy sat on the bed staring blankly at the wall for a few minutes. Then he slammed the phone down on the floor and began stomping it to pieces. He finally stopped to catch his breath and reached under the bed for his suitcase.

  27.

  Isaac Banion – “Mr. Big Time”

  Just east of downtown, in Leslieville, pubs and restaurants prepared to open for lunch along Queen Street East. That stretch of Queen was crowded with people walking along holding coffee cups and ducking into various specialty stores. The neighbourhood was a throwback to old Toronto, which began to disappear in the 1980s when big companies started dominating the city’s retail and commercial landscape.

  The whirring sound of small wheels could be heard on the pavement. As it grew louder and people turned to see where the noise was coming from, a tall, lanky man on a skateboard sped by them.

  “Excuse me, baby!” the man exclaimed as he whizzed by a frightened woman who jumped out of the way to avoid him.

  Another man yelled various angry things at him, but the wind was in his ears and he smiled, oblivious.

  Isaac Banion, or “Mr. Big Time” as he was known during better days, carried a guitar in his right hand while pushing off on his left leg to pick up more speed on the skateboard. With long wavy black hair and an oversized pair of sunglasses, he was dressed in a tank top and acid washed jeans. Both of Isaac’s arms were covered in various tattoos.

  He stopped his skateboard outside a pub just as the owner, a short, overweight bald man named Jim, opened the front door and put the sidewalk sign with the lunch specials out on display.

  “Hey, Jimmy! Jim-bo…Jim Beam!” Isaac sang as he kick-stopped his board and grabbed it in mid-air.

  “Get lost, Isaac. Don’t even think of coming in unless I see cash in advance,” Jim said grumpily before going inside.

  Isaac got back on his board and followed Jim into the pub.

  “Hey! I told you, no skateboarding in here!”

  Isaac ignored him and wheeled around various tables.

  “Goddamit, Isaac!”

  Isaac kick-stopped his skateboard again.

  “It’s cool, my man. Whatever you say.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large handful of cash.

  “Where’d you get all that?” Jim asked. “You steal it?”

  “Naw, baby,” Isaac said as he hopped onto a barstool. “Stood in the middle of the street last night and played, probably for the first time in world history, a Hendrix-Clapton mash-up…people stopped and just lost their minds…handed over all their cash.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jim responded as he poured Isaac a beer.

  “A chick took her top off, no joke,” Isaac said as he picked up the frosted mug. He held it up and admired it for a second before taking a sip.

>   “You want something to eat?”

  “Um, yeah, baby. You got any of those free shitty peanuts?”

  Jim reached underneath the counter for a bowl of peanuts and put them down in front of Isaac.

  “Here you go, you cheap bastard.”

  Isaac took a peanut and chewed it slowly.

  “Mmm…you know, I think when you leave the same peanuts in a bowl for two months, they start to get a new flavour,” Isaac said before popping a second one into his mouth.

  “Can’t afford new peanuts with cheap customers,” Jim replied as he began to polish cocktail glasses.

  “Speaking of cheap, I need a job, my man. You know, until I get my record deal. Whaddya think? Can you use me?”

  Jim put a glass down and sighed.

  “Isaac, every week you ask me that and every week I tell you the same thing: no way. Last thing I need is for some guy who looks like Satan scaring off my customers.”

  “You think Satan looks like me?” Isaac asked incredulously. “Maybe he looks like you…like a fat, fucking greaseball.”

  “Hey! Watch your mouth or get out of here for good!”

  Isaac swallowed the rest of his beer in one long gulp and slammed the mug back down on the counter.

  “Sorry, baby. Hit me again,” he said.

  Jim took Isaac’s cash and grudgingly poured him another beer.

  “After this one, you go,” Jim said. “I don’t need you drunk in here again before noon.”

  “Sure, boss, whatever you say,” Isaac responded.

  He belched loudly before starting his second beer.

  The door to the pub opened and a man and woman walked in holding hands. As they made their way to the bar, Isaac turned his head and stared at the pretty woman.

  Her boyfriend pulled a chair out for her like a perfect gentleman. He was obviously head-over-heels and swooning over her every step. He also had thick eyebrows, which Isaac immediately noticed from a distance.

  The boyfriend ordered drinks from Jim and asked for menus. Isaac kept staring at the woman. He leaned forward and gestured toward her boyfriend.