The Tournament

by Angelo Kontos

  “Ditch this nerd, baby.”

  “Goddammit, Isaac! That’s it!” Jim snarled as the woman gasped. “Get outta here! Get out!”

  Isaac drained his second beer and wiped away his beer moustache. He stood and grabbed his guitar and skateboard.

  “No problemo, my man.”

  He got on his skateboard and rolled past the couple as they tried to ignore him.

  “Think about it, sweetheart,” Isaac said to her. “Those are some fierce eyebrows.”

  “Alright, that’s it!” the boyfr]iend exclaimed.

  Isaac held his guitar up in a threatening manner as the boyfriend lunged at him, but at the last second Alex Bucco came out of nowhere and stepped in between them.

  “Okay, let’s not,” Alex said. “My friend is out of line and I apologize on his behalf.”

  Jim had come around with his sleeves rolled up.

  “You know this guy?” Jim asked Alex.

  Isaac and Alex looked at each other. Isaac was smiling. He lowered his guitar and put his sunglasses back on.

  “Yeah, I know him,” Alex answered. “Looks like he hasn’t changed much.”

  Isaac put the skateboard down on the floor and wheeled himself toward the front door. “Alex, my man. I have no idea why you’re here, but I totally dig it, baby. Come on, let’s go.”

  Alex took a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and gave it to Jim. He pointed at the couple.

  “Let me buy their drinks,” Alex said. “He’s a bit of an idiot, but he really is a good guy, I promise.”

  Isaac stood at the front door and balanced himself on the skateboard.

  He called out to the woman: “Come see me play, sweetheart.”

  “Shut up,” Alex said as he pushed Isaac out the door.

  28.

  When Corey Peters said to his wife, “If you’d like to help more, just let me know,” Helen took it to heart. During breakfast the next morning, she announced that she wanted to be actively involved in helping organize The Tournament. This fed Corey’s ego, as she was obviously doing so just to make him happy. It was about time she stopped whining and appreciated that she was married to the next mayor of Toronto.

  Following their argument the other night, Helen dressed up and went for a jog in High Park to think. She stopped at the Grenadier Café in the middle of the park and sat on the patio with a small cup of black coffee. It was there that she liked to contemplate life.

  After meeting Corey many years ago, she knew he would be successful; that he would make money and achieve titles and to hell with whoever he ran over in the process. She wanted the security that came with that.

  The oldest of three girls, Helen was forced to mature at an early age and take care of her two younger sisters. She made their lunches, walked them to and from school and taught herself how to do laundry. As soon as she was old enough, her parents left her money to buy groceries and she borrowed a cookbook from the library so she could learn how to prepare a few proper meals.

  With Corey, she knew that her life would be different, and it was. Even when they worried about money they never worried about money. Corey paid for cleaning ladies and babysitters and this made Helen’s life as a mother much easier than it had been as a daughter and older sister. As for her parents, they worked themselves into an early grave. Helen was determined to avoid a similar fate and Corey provided that insurance.

  At the same time, Helen was not naïve. She knew that she could have done much better than Corey in many respects. He was always busy and never showed her affection. On the rare occasions when they were intimate, Corey never looked at her and gave the impression that he was thinking of someone else.

  As the years went by, he was taking less care of himself. This was hard for Helen to accept as she regularly ran into muscular, younger men in the gym who looked like they wanted to jump her. She resisted the urge to cheat on Corey, but she sometimes wondered if he had the same willpower. It was almost as if she did not really want to know because she honestly could not see herself leaving him, but she would hurt him if she had to.

  While she sat on the Grenadier patio that evening, Helen decided she wanted more for herself. If Corey wanted to set up a tournament, then she would help him set up a tournament. It would probably amount to nothing, but it would get her blood flowing and when he put his name in for mayor, she would work on his campaign and help him get elected. She would become his Hillary Clinton and one day it would be her turn to pursue something.

  Surprisingly, this “non-professional” tournament seemed to be coming together. A competent and persuasive lawyer, Corey had been very effective in securing the old Arena Gardens by using money from his old buddy Dave Chambers while also manipulating all the right people in local government.

  Fifteen cities were now confirmed for what was simply being called The Tournament, including New York, Toronto, Detroit and Ottawa. A fifteen-game round robin schedule would be played before playoffs with the bottom three teams eliminated. Twelve teams would then compete for the championship.

  As good as he was at being a lawyer, Corey had no idea how to promote anything. Helen, on the other hand, studied marketing in university and had a flair for it. During that time, she also completed an internship at a public relations firm downtown. She knew that in order to succeed, events needed to move into the public imagination. Figuring out how to push The Tournament was her first exciting task since she got her marketing degree years ago.

  Helen quickly organized and executed a public relations blitzkrieg, which culminated in a press conference scheduled to take place at the foot of the CN Tower. First, she made expert use of electronic media, promoting The Tournament presser through notices and ads on social media sites. Second, she created a sleek-looking press kit which she forwarded to every major news outlet as well as university and college campuses. Helen then spent two days completing follow-up phone calls with each of these media venues. There was lukewarm interest at best, which is why she convinced Corey and his sugar daddy Dave Chambers to hire their own photographer and freelance scribe to cover the event. That way at least somebody would be there.

  Finally, there was good old-fashioned grunt work. Helen made up flyers about The Tournament and paid two teenagers from her neighbourhood to distribute them all around downtown. The two teenage boys were eager to please and Helen offered them each a hundred dollars a day. In fact, they were so keen that they were thrown out of the Metro Convention Centre for being a little too aggressive while distributing the flyers there. About an hour before the press conference, Helen gave them both another hundred dollars to stand on the steps of the always crowded Ripley’s Aquarium and give out the flyers there too.

  It came as no surprise to Corey and Helen that they needed special permission to use the CN Tower for a press conference. So, their way around it was to move the event onto municipal property in between Ripley’s and the CN Tower. The tower was so big that if filmed from the right angle it would appear in the background anyway. Let the city come after them if they really wanted to.

  Helen hired an expensive DJ who specialized in outdoor events. Close to the noon hour, a podium was set up for Corey, and the DJ adjusted his microphone. After a few minutes, he told Corey that everything was ready. Corey looked at his watch and it was 12:01. The photographer they hired turned on a light from his camera and focused it on the podium. Corey could not believe it, but a small crowd had gathered, and it looked like more people were coming over to see what was going on. At least four or five actual reporters were there too, judging by their portable recording devices and tablets.

  Corey suddenly began to sweat. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow. He had a speech ready, but now wondered if he could get through it. Helen caught his eye and turned him away from the cameras to face her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you nervous?” Helen asked. “You’re a lawyer, for Christ’s sake, Corey.”


  “Yeah, but I don’t like court,” Corey replied as he wiped his forehead again. “And I’m a partner, by the way.”

  “Okay, but right now you’re a promoter. Go and promote,” Helen said.

  Corey nodded and looked at the crowd, which had swelled to nearly two dozen people in addition to the handful of reporters. Helen pulled him in, gave him a kiss and then wiped her lipstick from his mouth.

  “You’ll be great,” she said before stepping off to the side of the podium.

  Corey put his handkerchief away and pulled some cue cards from his suit pocket. He took a deep breath before exhaling onto the open microphone by mistake, and the whooshing sound of his breath reverberated around the open area. A few people laughed. Helen smiled at Corey and shrugged. At least the microphone worked.

  “Good afternoon and thank you for coming. My name is Corey Peters. In my day-to-day life, I’m a partner in a successful law firm downtown, but today I stand here a disillusioned hockey fan.”

  Corey paused for a moment and looked up at the crowd. It had grown more and people appeared to be listening.

  He continued:

  “Recently, the professional hockey season was cancelled because of yet another dispute between players and team owners. And while players and owners continue to get more and more rich, the average hard-working fan cannot afford to take their own family to a game. This is wrong.”

  Corey paused to clear his throat. The reporter Brooks Edwards rolled his eyes and frowned, but he kept listening.

  “This amazing game has changed, and not in a good way. We have gone from delaying a season so players could fight for their country in World War II to cancelling games over salary caps, luxury taxes and revenue sharing.”

  The only thing that could be heard other than Corey’s voice was the sound of a pleasant breeze which blew litter around the sidewalk.

  Corey went on:

  “I, for one, have had enough. And I think it’s time we bring hockey back to the people!”

  Corey really punched that last phrase. He had rehearsed in front of the mirror for a long time.

  “I am putting together a team that will participate in a fifteen-city tournament that will do just that: bring hockey back to the people!

  “This tournament will be based on tryouts and it will be competitive. The only criteria is that any player who tries out cannot have played professionally. They will not do this for money or fame. They will do it because they love hockey and a married couple with two or three kids will be able to go and see the games without worrying about breaking their budgets.”

  Corey took a few more minutes to explain some of the details of The Tournament. The old Arena Gardens would host games. How fitting, Corey pointed out, as professional hockey in Toronto started on those very grounds in the now-demolished Mutual Street Arena more than a hundred years ago. Players would be paid a very modest amount and would need to free up their schedules for three to four months if they made the team. There would be coaching and training staff. They would have to travel to other cities. All the logistics would be worked out, Corey promised. More details would be revealed soon.

  “I’ll take any questions now.”

  Four of the five reporters’ hands shot up, as did many in the crowd from people who were curious and stopped to watch. The only reporter who did not want to ask a question was the fake one that Helen hired. He was an amateur actor and he looked bored.

  Helen smiled. The little press junket could not have gone much better.

  29.

  Sixteen-year-old Alex sat in a hospital waiting room still dressed in his pajamas. A social worker was seated beside him and kept talking on and on, but Alex didn’t process anything she was saying. Instead, he stared blankly at a television programmed to a twenty-four-hour news station. The social worker gave Alex vending machine hot chocolate and cookies. He sipped on the hot chocolate, but ignored the cookies.

  After the police pulled over when Alex had wandered into the street, they put him in the back of their squad car and handed him a blanket which he promptly pulled up to his face so he could feel safe. The nurse who stopped to see if he was okay stood to the side and looked on sympathetically as the car sped off. Alex gave the officers his address, and one of them barked something into a CB radio. Within minutes, Alex was blinded by police lights as more police cars roared onto his street. Officers quickly surrounded his property and ran in with their guns drawn. Alex was kept back inside the car.

  He had not seen his mother, and after an eternity the two officers announced they were taking Alex to the hospital.

  “Your mom’s ok, buddy,” one officer said. “She’s being taken to hospital, but she’s ok.”

  “What about my dad?” Alex asked.

  The officers exchanged glances. The cop driving looked at Alex through the rear-view mirror.

  “I think you should wait to see your mom at the hospital, okay?”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  The other officer on the passenger side turned around to face Alex.

  “Listen, buddy. You’ve been through a lot tonight. Try to relax and you’ll be back with your mom soon.”

  At the hospital, Alex looked up at the clock. It was just past 4:30 a.m. He could not, at his age, ever remember being up this late. He just assumed the entire world was asleep during that time.

  A set of double doors opened. His mother ran in and scanned the room frantically. She was still wearing her nightgown which was covered in dried-up blood. Alex would learn many years later that she held his father in her lap and applied as much pressure as she could to his head wounds in a futile effort to keep him alive.

  Alex had been relatively calm up to this point, but the sight of his mother covered in his father’s blood was just too much. He got up and ran out of the waiting area.

  “Alex!” his mother called out.

  He kept running until he saw an exit sign that led to a stairwell. Alex was a fast runner and burst out of the room so quickly he was convinced that no one saw where he went. He ran through an exit door and down a flight of stairs. He sat on a step, covered his ears and rocked himself.

  He did not want to hear another sound.

  “Alex?!” his mother called out frantically.

  Alex’s mother peered down the stairs and saw him sitting there. She scampered down and threw her arms around him.

  After several minutes she said, “We’re going to be okay, Alex.”

  She kissed him on his head and hugged him as tightly as she could.

  “We’re going to be okay.”

  30.

  Isaac Banion was sprawled out on Alex’s couch and slept with one arm around his guitar. His backpack was on the floor beside his skateboard. Isaac normally kept the backpack strapped to part of his body when he crashed at a hostel or, when the weather was good enough, on a bench at Moss Park. Sometimes he slept outside City Hall and entertained other homeless people by playing music. The bright lights shining at City Hall made him feel like he was falling asleep on a stage after a legendary performance. Besides, for now he did not have the money to get back into his tiny apartment.

  Although Isaac had not seen Alex in many years, they had been close friends since childhood. In those days, Isaac had always trusted Alex because he was one of the few people who never judged him. After Alex rescued Isaac from the pub earlier, they spent the rest of the day catching up and eventually made it back to Alex’s apartment.

  Late into the night, Alex mentioned joining The Tournament.

  Isaac now opened his eyes and blinked a few times, trying to remember where he was. Slowly, he sat up and strummed his guitar. He heard a light click off and Alex approached from the bathroom. He was dressed in a tracksuit and held a pair of jogging pants and a T-shirt, which he tossed at Isaac.

  “Get up, we’re going for a run.”

  “We’re going where?”

  “For a run,” Alex repeated.

  Alex went to the kitchen and poured
them both tall glasses of water.

  Isaac found his sunglasses and put them on.

  “That ain’t happenin’, baby,” he smiled. “Mr. Big Time don’t jog.”

  Alex walked over and handed Isaac a glass of water.

  “This all you got to drink?” Isaac asked.

  “We’re going for a run, and then we’re going to go buy some equipment. Tryouts are in a few days.”

  “Yeah, about that,” Isaac said. “Look, Alex, my man, I’ll always love you and I dig that you found me after all these years, but I ain’t playin’ in no tournament. I ain’t built for that no more.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re going to do it anyway.”

  “Besides,” Isaac continued. “I’m dangerously close to signing a record deal and then I’ll be world famous.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You got any bacon in this place?” Isaac asked as he stood up and took another drink.

  “We’ll get breakfast after,” Alex answered and pointed at the clothes. “Put those on. We’re about the same size. They should fit.”

  Isaac raised his sunglasses.

  “Why’d you come find me?” Isaac asked.

  Alex held up a pair of shoes for Isaac to see and then put them down by the door.

  “Well,” he began, “you said it yourself. You’re Mr. Big Time.”

  Isaac put his glass of water down on the coffee table and walked over to Alex. He looked at him for a second before throwing his arms around him.

  “Alright, man. Fuck it. Let’s go jogging.”

  31.

  Mike Hill stepped off a crowded streetcar in Toronto. He’d taken a train into the city from Peterborough to meet with community leaders in nearby Regent Park so they could organize a field trip exchange between their two youth centres. Once the meeting was over, Mike decided to hang out and grab lunch downtown.

  As he walked along Carlton Street and approached historic Maple Leaf Gardens, Mike looked down an alleyway and remembered his father bringing him to a game when he was little and parking illegally in that alley. Of course, when they came out of the game their car had been towed.