The Tournament

by Angelo Kontos

  Or maybe that was all in his head.

  51.

  Diana unlocked the front door to her parents’ home and stepped inside. The Crosses lived in an old but well-maintained two-storey detached house in the city’s west end. Diana and her late sister Tamara grew up there. After a lifetime of hard work, Diana’s parents were sitting on a nice nest egg if they ever decided to sell it and downsize.

  “Mom? Dad?”

  Diana could hear the television. She walked over to the living room and saw her father sitting in his favourite recliner, which was positioned directly in front of their unreliable and ancient 32-inch Trinitron television. Mr. Cross held a beer in his right hand and there were two empty bottles down by his feet. Diana was not used to seeing him drink that much.

  “Dad?”

  “Your mother’s upstairs,” he said without taking his eyes off the television.

  Diana made her way up the small flight of stairs. The door to her parents’ bedroom was open and her mother was sitting in a chair by the window working on needlepoint.

  “How long do you plan on putting us through this?” she asked without looking up.

  “I can’t be with someone just because he goes to your church,” Diana replied.

  Mrs. Cross lowered her needlepoint and scowled at her daughter.

  “That is our family’s church,” she said. “Is it really too hard for you to make a sensible decision?”

  “Mom…”

  Her mother stood up angrily. “Oh, stop it, Diana. I don’t want to hear it.”

  Mrs. Cross grabbed a bag she had on the floor and stuffed her needlepoint in it.

  “Charlie Hudson is a successful man. A man you can build a life with. But what do you do? You make a scene in a restaurant and embarrass him.”

  “He said I embarrassed him?”

  “I said you embarrassed him.”

  “My God, Diana,” she said. “This can’t still be about him. Alex was not good enough for you…and you were always so mad at me for saying so.”

  Diana’s mother paused in the door before leaving. “If I’m so wrong, then why doesn’t he reach out to you?”

  Diana walked over to the window and stared outside until her mother left.

  52.

  Alex and his mother stepped off an elevator into a downtown building. The entire floor was dedicated to selling women’s designer clothing at wholesale prices. Alex’s mother looked at the various racks of clothes on the crowded sales floor. She pulled Alex close to her.

  “Son, what are we doing here?” she asked. “I thought you said we were meeting Diana.”

  “We are,” Alex said. “Any minute now.”

  “Is she buying something?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But you are.”

  “What?”

  “We came here for you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Alex’s mother was suddenly concerned. She rarely if ever bought anything for herself and she certainly never looked at designer tags, wholesale or not.

  Maria Bucco grabbed her son’s hand as though he were still a little boy and guided him back toward the elevator.

  “Mom, I’ve got a full-time job at the college,” Alex said. “Diana is a doctor now. It’s okay.”

  He put an arm around his mother and walked her back into the shopping area.

  “Look, I’m not saying we’re rich,” he said. “But we don’t have to live paycheque to paycheque anymore. Those days are over.”

  Maria Bucco went to the nearest clothing rack and looked at the price tag on one of the blouses.

  “It still costs too much, Alex,” she said in a low voice.

  The elevator doors opened again, and Diana stepped out. Alex made a quick motion with his head toward the retail area.

  “Mom, it’s time to relax a bit,” he said. “It’s time to be happy.”

  “Son, you can’t just start spending all your money because you have a job. That’s not how I raised you.”

  “I’m not just going to spend all my money. Why do you think we’re shopping wholesale?”

  Alex’s mother turned toward the elevator again. Alex jumped in front of her to block her path.

  “Mom!” he exclaimed. “Come on, that’s enough.”

  “Get out of my way, Alex!” she hissed. “Or I will slap you.”

  “You’ve never slapped me,” Alex laughed. “You going to start now?”

  “If I feel like slapping you then I’m going to slap you,” she replied. “Now get out of my way.”

  “Mom, listen to me,” Alex pleaded. “All you’ve ever done since dad died is work and worry…for years. If we couldn’t afford to buy a few things, then we wouldn’t have brought you here.”

  “What do you mean, we?” Alex’s mother asked.

  Diana approached, holding three blouses over each arm.

  “Come on, let’s see you try these on,” Diana said.

  Alex’s mother became overwhelmed. Diana could see this was causing Alex to become emotional too, so she went into action.

  “I think these ones will look beautiful on you.”

  She took the liberty of grabbing Alex’s mother by the arm and led her to a dressing room. Mrs. Bucco reached over and touched one of the blouses. All her clothes had always been cheap polyester-cotton blends.

  “How did you know my size?” she asked.

  “I looked through your stuff,” Alex said without shame. “And then I told Dee.”

  Alex’s mother looked at Alex for a moment and then hit him with her purse. Diana laughed.

  By the time they left three hours later, Alex’s mother had several new blouses, four new pairs of pants and a fall jacket.

  “Let’s go look for shoes now,” Diana said excitedly.

  For Alex and his mother, it was one of the best afternoons of their life.

  53.

  The start of the round robin was 48 hours away and the mood during practice at the Arena Gardens was surprisingly tense.

  Any play that Ken tried to run was crashing. For the power play, he wanted the players to dump and chase, or penetrate the offensive zone with a targeted shoot-around along the boards, but instead his forwards kept trying to carry the puck across the blue line, and they would lose it or go offside. There were also missed defensive coverages everywhere. Collectively, they just did not seem to be clicking and it was becoming worrisome. To make matters worse, their current number-one goalie couldn’t stop a mild sneeze – but he was a nice guy with a positive attitude, so Ken went with him because he had no other choice.

  Think like winners, he told his players, not like a bunch of guys trying to figure out how not to lose.

  As the forwards came up the ice on the next drill, Mike carried the puck and gained the zone. He pumped his brakes and spun around. Mike could hear the roar of Eddie flying down the ice as the defensive centre. He faked a pass and fired a low wrist shot at the goal while Curtis created a screen in front.

  Mike advanced toward the net to look for his own rebound. As he stepped into the crease, a new defenceman named Barry Davis took four or five quick strides forward and levelled him to the ice. Eddie was so close behind Mike that he tripped over him and fell to the ice as well.

  “Oh, what the hell?” Alex exclaimed.

  Ken blew the whistle repeatedly as Alex skated over and dropped Barry with a hard cross-check to the chest. Barry shot right back up and lunged at him.

  Alex had dropped his gloves, his hands were up and he was ready. As soon as Barry got within reach, Alex unleashed a hail of quick punches. Each one connected and even though Barry’s head kept snapping back, he was hanging in there. Barry threw a wild punch that missed as Alex sidestepped it. Alex then used Barry’s compromised momentum to grab his jersey with his left hand while throwing haymakers with his right.

  “Alex! Enough!” Ken yelled.

  At that point, other players jumped in to break up the fight. Alex stopped throwing punches, but Barry was still try
ing to get at him while being restrained.

  “That’s our best player, you idiot!” Alex yelled.

  Barry kept growling at Alex. Mike and Eddie stood in front of Alex and pushed him further away.

  “Come on, Bucs, leave it alone,” Mike said. “I’m good.”

  Ken blew the whistler again. “Alright! That’s enough!”

  “Run over our best player…” Alex continued. “How stupid are you?”

  “Alex, shut up!” Ken shouted.

  That latest salvo from the coach quieted all the players, like a group of students who had just been scolded by their teacher.

  “We are starting in two days, gentlemen!” Ken barked. “Get your heads out of your asses! We run it again! And again until we get it right!”

  Right before the drill was set to resume, the gate at the north end of the rink opened. Ken and the players looked over and saw Matt “The Cat” Richards step onto the ice in full goalie equipment. His mask was raised, and his face was visible. He glanced over at the guys and then skated over to relieve the current number-one goalie.

  Ken let out a sigh of relief.

  “Meow,” Isaac said.

  54.

  Curtis hung on to restaurant shifts as long as he could prior to the start of The Tournament. Now that the first game was a day or so away, he had to take a leave from that job. Surprisingly, his eternally grumpy, racist manager Earl did not object when he brought up the subject of taking some time off.

  Operating the forklift on overnight shifts was another matter. He could push himself after home games and work the graveyard shifts. Curtis was used to functioning without much sleep. The way he saw it, he was substituting hockey for time he would normally put in at the restaurant. There was no reason to pull out of the warehouse work as well and cut off that income. He could handle it and no one on the team needed to know. He would just cut back when the team played road games.

  Exhausted as usual, Curtis walked up the front steps to his house after practice and searched his pockets for the key. His eyes felt heavy, and he blinked several times to focus. The door opened from the inside and his mother stood there looking upset. She was dressed in her bathrobe with curlers in her hair.

  “Curtis, I called the restaurant looking for you tonight because you were not answering your phone,” she said.

  “You’re not supposed to call me there,” he replied.

  “I spoke to your manager. What’s this about you asking for time off?”

  Curtis quietly cursed Earl. He had no business telling Curtis’s mother anything. Curtis was not some teenage kid.

  “What’s this about you asking for time off?” she repeated.

  Curtis did not know how to lie to his mother, but right now he was tempted to figure out a way.

  “Curtis?”

  “I’m playing hockey.”

  “What?”

  “I’m playing hockey,” he answered. “A bunch of the guys from university…Bucs, Chief, Coach Hornsby, we’re all back together to play in a tournament.”

  “Curtis Lewis! Are you out of your mind?” his mother asked angrily.

  Curtis took his jacket off. He was hungry. His mother followed him to the kitchen.

  “Giving up work to play hockey? Curtis, we can’t afford that.”

  “It’s just for a few months.”

  Curtis noticed the door to the refrigerator was slightly ajar. He opened it all the way and stuck his face inside, enjoying the cool temperature and the fact that he could avoid his mother’s glare for a few seconds while he decided what to eat. There were always takeout containers in the fridge, usually from the restaurant.

  “Mom, the fridge door isn’t closed.”

  “A few months?” she repeated incredulously.

  Curtis studied a foil container and tried to remember which day he brought that one home. He grabbed it, stood up and closed the refrigerator.

  “It’s just for a little while,” he said. “It’ll be okay.”

  “Oh, my sweet Lord,” his mother said and limped toward the table. Curtis never could figure out her limp. It was on and off and seemed more “on” when she was upset.

  “Curtis, you know I can’t work.”

  Curtis looked at her and she looked right back.

  “Don’t you give me that look,” she fumed. “The doctor said that I might have Epstein-Barr. Do you think I enjoy being like this?”

  “That’s not what he said,” Curtis replied. “He said you should be test –”

  “Excuse me?!”

  “Forget it.”

  Curtis went to the counter and transferred the contents of the container onto a plate before putting it in the microwave and hitting a few buttons.

  “I’m going to keep the warehouse as much as I can until The Tournament is done, and then I’ll go back to the restaurant,” Curtis said. “It’s just for a little while.”

  Curtis’s mother leaned on a chair to steady herself.

  “Now you listen to me, Curtis Lewis!” she said. “You will live up to your responsibilities and quit this ridiculous hockey tournament.”

  Curtis’s fatigue washed over him, and it was difficult to keep his thoughts clear as the microwave beeped. His food was ready.

  “I’m not quitting the team,” he said.

  She limped over to him. Curtis towered over his mother, but she pointed a finger skyward.

  “This is childish, Curtis,” she said emphatically. “You are nearly forty years old. Now call Earl at the restaurant and get your shifts back. I don’t want to hear any more about this.”

  Curtis watched his mother walk out of the kitchen. It took him a second to register that her limp seemed to magically disappear again.

  55.

  Matt Richards grew up wealthy compared to his friends. During university, he had enough money to pay off his tuition without taking on student debt. His father was initially a successful bank manager who specialized in attracting overseas investments. He was so good at it that he quit the bank and contracted himself out to various financial institutions. Matt’s dad soon became a hired gun for private entities that wanted to attract international capital. No one could bring in that cash the way he could.

  He set up an office in Toronto and Matt, an only child, grew up with more money than he knew what to do with. His father was ten years older than his mother, who in addition to being younger was a beautiful woman. As the years went on, Mr. Richards developed several habits that were directly related to excess. He purchased Matt’s boat as a graduation present when Matt finished high school.

  Out of all the potential luxuries and vices that Matt’s father had, the one that eventually destroyed their family was his addiction to women. He regularly paid escorts to come to his office for sex. Around the time that Matt was starting university, his dad began arranging for women to meet Matt at the boat for a late-night rendezvous. It was time for Matt to “become a man,” according to his father. He also taught his son to treat women as if they were disposable.

  “Fuck ’em and leave ’em,” he told Matt more than once.

  Matt’s mother had been well on her way to building a career as an interior designer when she became pregnant with Matt. Prior to this, she was being headhunted by two reputable firms who were impressed with her portfolio. After Matt was born, she agreed to stay home for a year. One year quickly became two, and as Matt’s father made more money and worked longer hours, two years became three and so on.

  Mrs. Richards convinced her husband to purchase a large house in Toronto’s uber-wealthy Forest Hill neighbourhood and then completely re-designed the home. The back was excavated to put in a swimming pool. The deck was replaced with a larger one. There was top-of-the-line furniture, appliances and entertainment systems. Top-of-the-line everything, including a spacious weight room in the basement.

  Then came the vacations. Growing up in a modest, working-class family, Matt’s mother always dreamed of travelling, and she now booked a trip every three or f
our months. In the few years before everything went to hell, Matt’s father used work as an excuse to avoid going on these excursions, so it was always just Matt and his mother.

  As the years passed and Matt grew into his teens, his father ate more, drank more and gained weight. Back then, most people who met him were impressed by his charm, but Matt’s grandparents on his mother’s side thought he was sneaky and manipulative. Like most kids, Matt’s mother could not stand it when her parents were right, and she didn’t want to face it.

  Her focus became Matt. She busied herself by taking care of him. When Matt became a senior in high school, she was still cleaning up his room and picking up his dirty socks off the floor. She and her son were close, but after Matt’s father bought him that blasted boat, things changed dramatically.

  When Matt’s mother learned her husband was sending girls to the boat to have sex with her son, she nearly pulled her hair out. One fateful night, she berated Matt’s dad in the kitchen while he was eating dinner.

  “The boy has to grow up,” Mr. Richards responded while eating reheated spaghetti straight out of a plastic container.

  “What if he gets one of them pregnant? What if he catches something from them and gets sick?”

  “I told him to use condoms,” Matt’s father replied. “I’m not stupid. Stop yelling.”

  “You are stupid!” his mother screamed. “I will not stop yelling until –”

  Matt’s father suddenly jumped up from his chair, and with spaghetti hanging from his mouth he slapped his wife hard across her face with such force that she immediately fell to the floor. Matt was in his room listening. After hearing the slap, he ran down the stairs to the kitchen.

  Matt’s mother stared at his father from the floor with a hand pressed against her cheek. Matt’s father just laughed. He grabbed a napkin and wiped the loose pasta from his mouth before sitting back down to continue his meal.

  Matt’s mother turned to look at Matt, who stood there and did nothing. After a few moments, she got up and ran to her room. Matt’s father winked at Matt as he continued to stuff his face with pasta.