The Tournament

by Angelo Kontos

  Mike had very fond memories of seeing two or three games each year with his dad during his childhood. It was always just the two of them, as his two older brothers did not share the enthusiasm he and their old man had for hockey.

  He turned his gaze away from the alley and back to Maple Leaf Gardens. While growing up, Mike dreamed of playing there and had been very close to realizing that dream. He tried out for an expansion club and survived the first round of cuts in training camp, but then his father died suddenly, and everything changed.

  Mike hung onto memories of attending games because that was really the only time he saw his father happy and relaxed. His father had owned and operated two stores near Peterborough. One was a busy convenience store, and the other specialized in selling artifacts and other items specific to Ojibwe culture. That store was wildly unsuccessful.

  Mike’s dad was proud of his Indigenous roots and tried to instil that pride in Mike and his brothers. His stores were in a very white neighbourhood during the 1990s, and the one with Ojibwe items was often a target for vandalism. Mike’s mother begged her husband to relocate the family to Toronto, which she believed would be more inclusive. They bickered about this, as Mike’s father argued that Toronto’s version of diversity did not include “Indians.”

  “We’re better off here,” he would say.

  In the meantime, Mike and his brothers hung out with white friends at school and Mike played hockey. They never mentioned anything about having Indigenous blood. No one gave the boys a hard time, but it was not like that for their father. Mike’s dad knew that some of the vandals also came into his convenience store to buy milk, gum and bus tickets. He could tell by the way they smirked at him.

  When it became obvious they would not be relocating, Mike’s mother then pleaded with her husband to close the Ojibwe store, but he refused. He would not be intimidated. At some point Mike’s mother grew tired of listening to him rant and backed off.

  His death appeared to be a tragic accident.

  Always preoccupied and exhausted, Mike’s father had locked up the Ojibwe store after staying late one night to clean racist graffiti off the storefront window. He crossed the street to his car when a van came around suddenly and hit him, killing him instantly. The driver of the van insisted that he had not been speeding, and that Mike’s dad came out of nowhere. There were no witnesses. The driver was some redneck named Tom, who was charged but acquitted six months later. His lawyer managed to convince the trial judge that Mike’s father stepped in front of the car so abruptly there was no reasonable way to avoid the fatal contact. The closest streetlamp had not been functioning, which brought up the possibility that the driver, through no fault of his own, could not see Mike’s father crossing the street.

  Tom’s uncle had gotten into a confrontation with Mike’s dad at a community town hall meeting about a year earlier. The uncle made some ignorant comments and Mike’s dad dressed him down publicly. Going from being a simple hillbilly to committing deliberate vehicular homicide was a stretch, but over the years Mike had a sinking feeling at times. Perhaps Tom saw an opportunity and could not resist.

  Immediately following his father’s death, Mike started to feel guilty. Playing hockey suddenly seemed childish. Mike quit his pro tryout and decided to teach and live around the reserve. His long-time girlfriend Becky came with him. Early on in their relationship Becky felt that Mike possessed an inherent decency and honour that were rare in men nowadays. She was moved by his need to do right by his father’s memory and to live with purpose. It was not long before they married and started their own family – three boys.

  Since Alex’s visit, Mike thought repeatedly about playing in The Tournament. He caught highlights of Corey’s press conference, which actually got a bit of attention in the local media. Even though it had a bit of a circus feel to it, all Mike could think about was playing hockey again with Alex and perhaps a few other old friends. Becky understood him better than anyone and pushed him to reconsider.

  “You should play,” she told him.

  Mike entered a pizza place and looked through the store’s window at Maple Leaf Gardens once more. He could still remember what it felt like leaving a game from there and holding his father’s hand. He wondered how his old man would feel about him playing again.

  32.

  After school one afternoon, sixteen-year-old Alex raced home on his bike. If he made good time, he would have exactly ten minutes to grab a bite of food and hug his mother before jumping back on the bike and riding to the drugstore for his part-time job as a stock boy.

  A few months had passed since the tragic night in their home, and Alex and Maria Bucco were struggling to regain a sense of normalcy. Against everyone’s advice, Alex’s mother insisted that she and her son would remain in the house.

  “What if those men come back?” everyone asked.

  “They won’t,” Mrs. Bucco answered. “They got who they came for.”

  Alex rode up their small driveway and hopped off his bike while it was still in motion, letting it fall to the ground. He recognized his Aunt Irene’s car parked near the side door.

  As soon as he entered the house, Alex heard his mother arguing with his aunt.

  He went down the stairs and saw them sitting across from each other in the small recreation room. They were each holding a coffee mug and stopped talking when they saw Alex.

  “Hi, Aunt Irene,” Alex said.

  “Hello, Alex.” Aunt Irene forced a smile. “How was school?”

  “Fine,” Alex replied.

  School was not fine. Ever since word spread about his father’s death, almost everyone at school avoided Alex. Even a few of his teachers were acting weird around him. The only person who really spoke to him was his friend Isaac Banion.

  Alex studied his mother’s expression.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?”

  “Nothing, Alex. Go upstairs and get something to eat,” his mother responded.

  “Aunt Irene, what’s going on?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Aunt Irene said.

  Alex’s mother glared at her sister before turning back to Alex.

  “Your Aunt Irene came by to tell us that we’re not invited to your cousin’s wedding,” she announced.

  “Maria…” Aunt Irene objected.

  “Why don’t you explain to your nephew why he can’t attend your son’s wedding?” Alex’s mother demanded.

  “Maybe you should leave, Aunt Irene,” Alex suggested.

  Aunt Irene put her coffee mug down.

  “Maria, you have to understand, we’re all scared after what happened. I didn’t even want to come here today. I couldn’t sleep last night just thinking about it.”

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t go to the trouble next time,” Alex’s mother replied.

  “Aunt Irene, I think it’s time to go,” Alex repeated.

  “Well, what the hell’s the matter with you, anyway?” Aunt Irene snapped at her sister. “First, you marry this horrible man…”

  Alex raised his voice. “Aunt Irene! Time to go.”

  His aunt continued. “And then you stay in this godforsaken house? Do you know what people are saying?”

  Alex left the room.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” Aunt Irene said as she stood. “How are you raising your son like this? Why won’t you listen?”

  Alex returned clutching his baseball bat. He pointed it at his aunt, who took a few steps backward and tripped over the couch.

  “Do not talk to my mother like that,” Alex said. “Get out of here right now or I’ll go outside and smash your car.”

  “Alex!” his mother yelled.

  Aunt Irene scrambled to grab her purse off the couch and then ran up the stairs. Alex followed with bat in hand. His mother tugged on his arm, but he pulled free and followed his aunt outside to the driveway.

  Aunt Irene had already started her car. She stuck her head out the window.

  “You’re crazy just like your father!�
� she called out to Alex.

  Alex’s mother had grabbed his arm again and was begging him to go back inside.

  “You’re crazy too, Maria!” she yelled.

  Alex yanked his arm free and ran over to the car.

  He took a homerun swing at one of the headlights. His mother and Aunt Irene both screamed at the same time as the sound of shattered glass hit the pavement. Alex held the bat over his head with both hands and brought it down on the hood with all his strength. The impact made a deafening noise. Aunt Irene was so stunned she hit the brakes and stopped the car. Next, Alex went for the windshield and smashed it.

  As he prepared to take another swing, Aunt Irene floored the gas and sped out of the driveway. Alex flung the bat at the car and it hit the windshield again before falling to the ground. A few people walking across the street had stopped and were staring.

  Alex pointed a menacing finger at his aunt.

  “Don’t you ever come here and disrespect my mother again!”

  Aunt Irene sped off down the street crying and screaming. Alex turned to face his mother, who looked weak and was leaning on the side of the house for support. He went to her and they held each other for several minutes before going back inside.

  33.

  Thirty-nine-year-old Alex lay on his couch early on a weekday morning with icepacks strapped to both knees. He had just returned from a run and figured that if he was really going to play in this tournament, he better get in shape.

  Alex’s balcony faced east, and he caught a glimpse of the sun rising at 6:45. It was the third week in April and conditions were perfect for a jog, so he decided to run three or four kilometres. However, after twenty minutes, Alex stopped jogging altogether and walked the rest of the way back home. Had he kept going he would have thrown up on the sidewalk. Still better than that pathetic “jog” with Isaac the other day which lasted all of 10 minutes.

  Although he was exhausted and falling into a nap, Alex was calm. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins and liked the rhythmic sound of his heart pounding in his ears. He closed his eyes and decided that he was going to try and dream about Diana.

  To hell with her mother.

  Just as he began to feel weightless, there was a loud knock on the door. Startled, Alex gritted his teeth as he sat up and swung his sore legs onto the floor. The ice packs taped around his knees were so snug that he was able to walk with them securely attached.

  Alex opened the door. Corey Peters stood there holding two extra-large coffee cups and a brown paper bag. He looked down at the ice packs.

  “Guess you’ve started paying your dues,” Corey said and walked inside without being invited.

  Alex closed the door and waddled back over to his couch. Corey sat in a recliner across from him and put the food and drinks down on a coffee table.

  “What do you want?” Alex asked, grimacing as he raised his legs back up and adjusted the ice packs.

  “I want to talk about The Tournament.”

  Corey picked up one of the huge coffee cups and handed it to Alex.

  “You drink this much coffee?” Alex asked. “I’ll be pissing for hours.”

  “It’s a specialty coffee,” Corey said as he took croissants out of the paper bag and put them on the table.

  “Oh, yeah?” Alex mused and sniffed the top of the cup.

  “There’s a shot of caramel in there and there’s protein too,” Corey said as he bit into a croissant.

  “Protein in coffee?”

  “Just drink it.”

  “Maybe in a minute,” Alex said as he put the cup down on the floor beside the couch. “I’ll try a croissant though, thanks.”

  “Look, Alex. Over the phone you told me that you couldn’t get Mike Hill,” Corey said.

  “Your wife’s helping you, eh?” Alex said. “I saw her standing there at your cute little press conference.”

  “So now we’re back to Helen?”

  “We’re not back to anything, Corey. Relax.”

  Corey put his half-eaten croissant down. “Okay, look. This thing is moving and we’re holding tryouts soon. Helen is helping me and she’s doing a damn good job, but we need Mike.”

  “I tried. He said no.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  Corey felt his phone go off. He pulled it out and studied it. Associate Mistress.

  “I have to go.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  As Corey stood to leave, he chugged on his large coffee for several seconds until it was done. Alex wondered if he suffered internal burns.

  “I want you to call Mike again,” Corey said.

  “No.”

  Corey glared at him. “Okay, fine, then at least try to get Eddie Mark.”

  “Wait a minute, I thought you were going to try him.”

  “He hung up on me,” Corey said. “Didn’t even give me a chance to finish.”

  Corey pulled out a piece of paper and left it by the door.

  “His phone number and address. Call him or go see him. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

  As he was walking out, Corey stopped and looked at Alex. “Remember him on faceoffs? He had seventy –”

  “Seventy-percent efficiency on draws. Yeah, I know,” Alex interjected. “I was on the ice with him for a lot of those. And I think it was closer to eighty percent.”

  34.

  The emergency room was overflowing with patients and Dr. Diana Cross needed a moment to catch her breath. She had been working for eight straight hours and only took one small break to use the bathroom. Working too much had become common practice for Diana and she knew it was unhealthy. She ducked into a linen closet in the staff lounge and left the light off.

  As she dug into her pockets and pulled out a small bottle of pills, it occurred to her that her long shift might be a blessing. It would get her out of a dinner date with Charlie Hudson, whom her parents had been pressuring her to go out with for two or three months now. Charlie was nice enough, but there was just no spark between them. To Diana’s parents and especially her mother, Diana’s breakup with Alex Bucco was proof that Alex had been wrong for her. Charlie was a successful businessman whose family attended their church.

  What could be more perfect?

  Diana got a pill out, threw her head back and dry-swallowed it. She regularly missed lunch and dinner when working, but never medication.

  She had to go back to the nurses’ station and organize her files. It had literally been non-stop all day and Diana wanted to ensure her charts were up to date. She opened the door and stepped back into the fray.

  As she approached the nurses’ station, Diana saw Charlie Hudson standing there waiting politely. Charlie was black, tall, and handsome by all accounts. He was coming from work and wore an expensive-looking suit with a folded trench coat slung over his arm. His dark-framed glasses suited him and made him look smart. Diana stopped a few feet away, hopefully far enough that he would not step forward to greet her with a kiss or hug.

  “Charlie. What are you doing here?” Diana asked. “I sent you a text that I had to work late.”

  “You did,” Charlie said. “I just wanted to see you and I figured since you had to work late, I’d bring you some dinner.”

  Charlie put his briefcase down on the floor and lifted his coat up to reveal a fancy paper bag from a nearby steakhouse.

  “That’s sweet,” she said. “Thank you.”

  A nurse approached Diana. “Dr. Cross, we need you. Sixteen-year-old was hit by a car riding his bike. Mashed up his right leg. He’s quite hysterical.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right there,” Diana responded gratefully. She wanted to get out of this, no offence to the hysterical sixteen-year-old.

  Charlie held the paper bag out to her and smiled. “Looks like you’re busy.”

  Diana took the bag. “This is really very thoughtful.”

  “Have a good night.” Charlie smiled and turned to leave.

  Diana watched h
im go and then slipped in behind the nurses’ station.

  “Dr. Cross?” the nurse asked.

  “Yes?” Diana responded.

  “The sixteen-year-old?”

  “Oh, yes, where?”

  “Number Seven – Blue Wing,” the nurse answered.

  “Thank you,” Diana said. “By the way, do you like steakhouse food?”

  The nurse looked at the bag and her eyes widened.

  “I would like anything from that place,” she answered.

  “It’s all yours.”

  35.

  After Alex used his aunt’s car for batting practice, his mother worried that her son would end up dead or in jail one day because of his temper. She dragged him to the doctor’s office and Alex sat there slumped in a chair listening to their doctor recommend grief counselling. He was turning seventeen in a few days and was referred to a grief-counselling group for young people between the ages of fourteen to eighteen. Alex started to object, but when he saw that his mother was ready to burst into tears, he backed down and agreed to go.

  The sessions were held at the world-renowned Hospital for Sick Kids off University Avenue in downtown Toronto. Alex took the subway there and his mother insisted on going with him the first time to ensure that he attended. Once she saw him go in the room, she went downstairs to have a coffee and wait.

  On the first day, Alex sat beside a young guy who was so big and muscular he had a hard time sitting in the small chairs they set up for everyone in a circle. Alex would later learn the guy’s mother hung herself and he was the one who found her. She was already gone by the time he figured out a way to jump up and get her down. Clearly still traumatized, he just kept staring into space and looked like a soulless version of the Incredible Hulk.

  On Alex’s other side was a tiny and very cute black teenage girl who sat nervously with her legs wrapped around the chair and her arms crossed as though she were trying to hug herself. When the psychologist went around the room and asked everyone to state their name, she quietly said, “Diana.” She spoke so softly that he had to ask her to repeat herself. On the third attempt, Alex answered for her.