The Tournament

by Angelo Kontos

  “She said her name’s Diana,” Alex called out.

  When they had a fifteen-minute break to grab a snack, Alex tried to line up behind Diana and made a point of smiling at her whenever she made eye contact. She always smiled back. After awhile, seeing her was the only thing he looked forward to when he came to these sessions.

  As they sat in the circle that first time, the psychologist addressed everyone:

  “I know it’s difficult to open up to strangers, but we’re all here to support one another.”

  There were approximately fifteen people and at least half of them looked like they wanted to be somewhere else. However, there were two or three who couldn’t get enough of hearing themselves talk. They dominated the discussion and the psychologist appeared to be getting sick of them. As one of the serial talkers continued to yammer on, the psychologist cut him off and looked at Diana.

  “Let’s take a moment to hear from someone who has not yet shared their story,” he said and looked around. “Diana?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you give us a brief description, or even just a point or two about why you’re here?”

  Diana crossed her legs tightly and looked at Alex before turning to face the group.

  “My little sister died a few weeks ago,” she said quietly.

  She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. Alex saw her eyes glistening.

  “How did she die?” the psychologist asked gently. Alex gave him a dirty look.

  “She was at a party with a guy who dealt drugs at our school. She got drunk and took pills…too many pills,” Diana whispered.

  Everyone was listening. If a pin dropped, the noise would be heard around the room.

  “We…my parents and I, that is…”

  Diana wiped tears from her cheeks. Alex was watching her intently. It looked like she could not go on. After a moment, the psychologist broke the silence.

  “Thank you, Diana,” he said. “Give yourself a little break and we’ll come back to you, okay?”

  Diana nodded. Alex leaned across and put his hand over hers. She didn’t look at him, but she did squeeze his hand.

  36.

  Eddie Mark blew through his tasks at the office and decided to knock off work early. He was very efficient when he wanted to be. It was also Friday, after all. He had better things to do.

  When he was growing up, Eddie’s older brother set up a hockey net in their driveway and all the neighbourhood kids would go there looking for a game. After they were done playing, Eddie’s parents picked three or four guys whom they found to be the most respectful and let them stay a bit longer to play video games with Eddie downstairs in the family rec room. One of them was always Eddie’s best friend Tommy.

  Eddie’s older brother had the best tech gadgets. Eddie was the first among his friends in the 1980s to have a nice computer and video game consoles. He even set up speakers long before that became the norm for gaming.

  Eddie loved the alternate universe in video games. Everything was so clear and simple. He was blowing up asteroids or shooting a criminal. He was always the good guy and he always won. Why couldn’t life be like that?

  Now he lived on his own and invested in his own entertainment much the same way his older brother had when they were growing up. He had the newest gaming systems and ergonomically correct recliners so he would not strain his back or neck playing for hours on end. This was all he spent money on, and he made sure that he always had top-of-the-line stuff.

  On this Friday afternoon, Eddie decided to start things off with the latest hockey game. The graphics were so vivid that it was like watching real players on television. Since Corey Peters had contacted him about trying out for The Tournament, Eddie found that he was playing hockey on his console three or four times a day instead of the usual one time. He had no intention of playing real hockey ever again, but he felt unsettled somehow.

  Eddie fired up the game and was choosing his team when he heard the front doorbell. It was probably his tenant. Every once in a while, she forgot her keys to the basement apartment and knocked on his door to let her in. She was a good tenant, but she was also scatterbrained. Eddie had trouble understanding people like that, as he was personally quite meticulous.

  He never forgot anything.

  Eddie paused the game and grabbed a set of keys from the top of his fridge. He opened the front door expecting to find his apologetic tenant, but he was surprised to see Alex Bucco standing there instead. Alex smiled and put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

  “Hey buddy.”

  37.

  After his father’s violent murder, the police sent a detective regularly to check in on Alex and his mother. At first it was once a week, and then once every two weeks. The police treated mother and son decently and wanted to ensure they were safe.

  After a few months, Alex noticed the tone of the meetings changed. At first very concerned and empathetic, lately the detective was going back in time and asking the same questions posed during the initial days of the investigation.

  “Mrs. Bucco, can you remember who your husband associated with? Surely you must have seen or heard someone?”

  “Alex, did you ever hear your dad mention anyone’s name?”

  “Was he scared of anyone?”

  The answers were always “We don’t know” or “No” or “I don’t think so.”

  Then the tone of the questions changed..

  “Didn’t you find it strange that he brought home all that cash?”

  “You mentioned that he kept very erratic hours. Did you ever ask what he was doing?”

  “How could you not be curious?”

  It was like the detective could not believe they had been so naïve about the dangerous world his father travelled in. At the same time, Alex and his mother had difficulty understanding how the detective could possibly think they knew anything. Not a single person had been arrested and the police were coming up empty. The detective’s frustration was increasingly evident.

  On the detective’s way out during the most recent visit, Alex, who had just turned seventeen, pulled him aside.

  “My mother and I appreciate everything you and the police have done for us, but we just want to be left alone now.”

  The detective looked surprised. “Look, Alex. We still haven’t got who did this.”

  “We’ll call you if something changes,” Alex replied.

  Alex unlocked the front door and held it open. As the detective walked past Alex to leave, he paused for a moment.

  “I know you’d like to believe whoever did this will never show up again. But the truth is, until we figure out who’s responsible for your father’s murder, you and your mom will always be looking over your shoulder. These guys tend to hide in the shadows.”

  “We understand. Thank you.”

  38.

  Another night meant another late shift for Diana Cross at the hospital and another night that she managed to avoid going out with Charlie Hudson. However, her strategy of wearing out his patience by being constantly busy was not working. They would try again tomorrow or the next night, he announced over the phone. Diana thanked him for being understanding. No need to go to any trouble dropping dinner off again, she said before hanging up. She had already eaten something.

  Diana went to the nurses’ station and studied a chart. Her next patient was an elderly woman who fell down the stairs in her house and had been driven to the emergency room by her neighbour.

  When she parted the curtain, Diana saw Pertia John sitting up in the bed. She was still dressed in her own clothes and her right leg had been immobilized. Sitting beside her and holding her hand was Pertia’s neighbour Ken Hornsby. Diana studied him for a second, but she did not break stride.

  “Hi there, I’m Dr. Cross,” Diana said. “Ms. John, I understand you had a fall in your home?”

  Pertia winced as she spoke. “That’s right.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Diana asked as she bega
n to look over Pertia’s injured leg.

  “Oh, just silly,” Pertia answered. “I forgot something on the stove and tripped rushing down the stairs.”

  Diana examined the swelling around Pertia’s knee.

  “We’re going to send you for an X-ray and give you something for the pain. We’ll also work on getting the swelling down. How old are you, Ms. John?” Diana asked.

  “I’m seventy-five years young, sweetheart, and please call me Pertia.”

  “Alright, Pertia. Does it hurt anywhere else?”

  Pertia held up her right hand and rubbed her wrist. “Jammed my hand a little bit trying to break the fall, but it’s really just my leg.”

  Diana turned to Ken. “And you’re her neighbour, sir?”

  Ken cleared his throat. “Yes. She called me and I went right over.”

  “Kenny takes care of me,” Pertia said proudly.

  “We both live alone and keep each other company,” Ken explained. “I wish I’d been there when this happened.”

  Pertia groaned as she shifted positions in the bed.

  Diana picked up her chart and started writing on it. “Let’s get you more comfortable, Pertia. And then we’ll run some tests.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Cross,” Pertia said.

  Diana smiled and turned to leave. She looked at Ken and paused for a moment.

  “Are you Ken Hornsby?” she asked him.

  “Yes, I am.” Ken stood politely and extended his hand. “You look familiar.”

  “I met you a few times through Alex Bucco.”

  “Oh yes, I remember now. And you became a doctor. Good for you.”

  “We’ll take good care of Pertia.”

  Diana parted the curtain to leave.

  “I’m not sure if you’ve heard about this hockey tournament that’s going to happen, but Alex’s been recruited to play and I’ve been asked to coach,” Ken said.

  “Is that right?” Diana replied. “I don’t think I’ve heard anything about it. Well, good luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  39.

  It was bound to happen sooner or later. After the psychologist asked Diana to participate during the grief-counselling sessions, everyone in the group had spoken except for Alex.

  The psychologist turned to Alex and asked him to share his story. Alex refused, but the psychologist stayed on him.

  “Why not? What are you afraid of?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why not share a few details?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Alex, since you started coming here, you’ve heard person after person share their story. Why not try?” the psychologist persisted.

  Alex shrugged.

  “You seem angry.”

  “I have a lot to be angry about.”

  “How do you deal with anger, Alex?” the psychologist asked.

  Alex laughed and shook his head. He glared at the psychologist, who looked back at him calmly.

  “You must be joking,” Alex said.

  One of the serial talkers, a young man who was chewing gum loudly, leaned forward in his seat.

  “Your pain supposed to be worse than ours, or something?” he asked Alex. “Just talk.”

  Alex stared at the gum chewer for several seconds before lunging at him. The psychologist and a few others jumped in and Alex was restrained by the large, muscular hulk, who grabbed him from behind and spun him around with great force. Alex stumbled four or five feet before regaining his balance.

  He still wanted to get his hands on the gum chewer, but Diana stepped in front of him calmly. She took hold of his clenched fists with both of her hands and slowly lowered them.

  “Come on, sit down,” she said softly.

  Alex allowed her to guide him back to their chairs. For the rest of that session, Diana held Alex’s clenched fists in her hands.

  40.

  The day of the tryouts finally came, and the action at the Old Arena Gardens was scheduled to start at 3:00 p.m. Angus Miller arrived at noon to make sure everything was ready to go.

  Angus could see that Helen had become the brains of the operation. Corey was an arrogant dumbass, but his wife was not. Most recently, she’d reached out to a community college with a sports marketing program and advertised through their social media that The Tournament was looking for volunteers. She spent last night planning for the tryouts and took approximately two dozen volunteers through an orientation around the arena.

  The volunteers flowed in progressively until they were all in the rink by two o’clock. Helen set them up in their various battle stations. She’d converted a decrepit old storage room into a main office and stuck a phone, computer and printer in there. They also bought the cheapest Zamboni they could find, and Angus offered to flood the rink. He used to do it years ago for the city and knew how.

  An hour or so before tryouts were scheduled to start, Angus opened up the receiving area for the delivery of the new digital screen and scoring clock. Between him and Helen, they organized everything. Angus wasn’t sure what Corey had done, other than walk around wearing a hard hat and barking at him to deep-wash everything in sight.

  Angus looked out the front door at 2:20 and saw twenty or thirty guys gathering with their hockey bags and sticks. It seemed a far cry from the five hundred who supposedly signed up, and this was all supposed to start in less than an hour. Ten volunteers were stationed at the front to sign the players in and turn them away if they had not registered in advance. The only exceptions were on a small list that Helen provided: the members of the Deep Six.

  “What if we turn away really good players just because they didn’t sign up in time?” Corey argued with Helen last night as they both lay awake in bed.

  “Then we’ll deal with it,” Helen replied. “There has to be some limit to this, Corey. Five hundred people signed up. It’s going to be crazy. Let the coaches figure it out.”

  At the moment “coaches” meant “coach” – Ken Hornsby. Helen met Ken briefly the other afternoon and it was difficult to read him. He was very polite, but he seemed preoccupied. He mentioned that a friend of his had been in hospital. Corey was cordial and businesslike with Ken, but privately told Helen that he did not want Hornsby behind the bench. He caved to Alex Bucco who had strong-armed him about it.

  Helen was also looking forward to seeing Alex. Back in university, they were basically kids the one night they spent together before Alex became serious with Diana and Helen got together with Corey. Alcohol had been a factor, but inexperienced as they both were, it was also the only time Helen could ever really remember enjoying intimacy. Ever since then, it had been Corey. And Corey was all about Corey. Alex had not been like that.

  By 2:30, another dozen or so guys were in line, so the grand total was somewhere around forty or fifty potentially undiscovered hockey superstars. Angus figured a lot of them would not show up. After all, anyone could sign up for anything.

  Helen called Angus into her office and invited him to sit down. She got up and went over to pour them coffee from a small coffeemaker. Angus winced as he sat down. He was always buzzing around, and he felt tired and sore.

  She poured him a coffee and handed it over. “You’ve been so great, Angus. I really appreciate you.”

  Angus flashed his gap-toothed grin and gratefully accepted the coffee. “I sure hope your husband appreciates you.”

  Helen forced a smile and drank her coffee.

  “He can be a dick, can’t he?” Angus asked.

  “Angus,” Helen said in a voice clearly not meant to be serious. “That’s my husband you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, well, I call ’em like I see ’em!” Angus proclaimed loudly while coughing his way through a laugh.

  “I like that about you.”

  A stressed-out-looking volunteer ran into the office. It was almost 2:50.

  “Mrs. Peters, um, the line outside…Maybe you want to have a look.”

  Angus and Helen put their coffees down a
nd went out to the front. They looked out the windows of the double doors and Helen’s eyes widened. There was an endless sea of men holding hockey sticks and skates with equipment bags strapped to their backs. Another volunteer ran over.

  “Mrs. Peters, Coach Hornsby says he’s ready.”

  “Okay,” Helen nodded. “Open the doors.”

  41.

  Four hours in, Ken and the volunteers were exhausted. They had gotten through approximately half of the guys who had come out. There were eleven goaltenders and Ken rotated them every thirty minutes. After splitting the forwards from the defence, he ran three rapid drills for fifty skaters at a time.

  The players had large numbers on their jerseys written in black marker, and the volunteers used tablets to keep track of them. If Ken liked what he saw, he made sure the player’s number was recorded by one of the volunteers. Most of the hopefuls looked too slow, or their hands were like stone and they couldn’t carry the puck. Many of them just seemed confused by what the coach wanted.

  Ken still had no concept of what the competition would be like in this tournament, but he imagined the objective was for something more than below-average shinny, which was mostly what he was seeing here. None of his old boys from the Deep Six had turned up yet.

  A few more hours went by and Ken was told they were down to the last group. It was past 11:00 p.m. and he was beyond tired. Helen ordered pizza and the volunteers took turns running into the office and inhaling a few slices. They had taken only one ten-minute break so Angus could flood the ice again. Ken wanted to get through all this and was surviving on water. Helen saved him some pizza.

  Corey sat in the stands doing his best impression of a grim-faced hockey executive. Ken saw Corey and smiled politely. As a player, Corey had not been very good, but Ken remembered that even he was better than most of the guys who had tried out so far.