The Tournament

by Angelo Kontos

  Diana sat beside her and started evaluating what was going on. Alex gave them space and went to get his mother some water. A minute later, Diana met Alex in the hall.

  “She has a fever, Alex,” Diana said. “And she says that she’s had a tugging kind of pain in her left side for a few months now.”

  “Yeah, I took her to our family doctor, and he said it was probably just wear and tear on her bowel because of her age,” Alex replied. “He told her to take Metamucil.”

  “We should go for tests,” Diana said.

  Alex wrapped his mother in a blanket, picked her up and carried her to the car.

  They drove to the hospital.

  60.

  It took sports agent Greg Sloane a few days to get over the chaos of rushing Freddy “The Flash” Rozelli into a private, upscale rehabilitation facility away from the city.

  Now Sloane was visiting Freddy there for the first time. A few weeks had gone by and a nurse led Sloane to the back of the building. He could see Freddy sitting in a gazebo and staring off into the distance.

  “Hi Freddy,” Sloane said as he approached.

  “Hey,” Freddy replied.

  Freddy was dressed in a loose T-shirt and baggy pants. Sloane was certain Freddy must have lost somewhere between ten and fifteen pounds. His eyes were tired-looking and puffy. For the first time he could remember, Sloane saw no trace of arrogance from his former hotshot client.

  “Why’d you come, Sloane?” Freddy asked. “I mean, why’d you even bother bringing me here?”

  “You were in a real bad way when I found you up at that lodge, Freddy,” Sloane answered. “I needed to do something, and I wanted to contain the situation to make sure no one found out.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I still owe you money?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  They sat silently for a few minutes and watched a squirrel climbing a tree.

  “I brought you here because this place is supposed to be the best,” Sloane said.

  “It’s okay,” Freddy replied. “The first four or five days were hell, but they told me the worst is over.”

  “That’s great.”

  “They also told me the road ahead will be difficult, but that I need to find my motivation and then I will purse-ever.”

  “Persevere.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Your parents?”

  “My mom’s at a motel up the street. She comes twice a day…sometimes three times.”

  “They give you any idea of when you might get out of here?”

  “Not yet. Sloane, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “When did I become such a…you know, such an asshole?” Freddy asked.

  “Well, I mean, it’s hard to say. You’ve been one for a long time.”

  “Yeah, I been thinking the same thing,” Freddy chuckled. “You know when it really hit me?”

  “This place has an asshole-detector and it just kept beeping around you?”

  “Don’t be a dick.”

  “Sorry.”

  “When my mother came the other day,” Freddy said. “We were sitting back here and then she left to go back to the motel. I went up to my room and I could see her through the window. The motel’s about two miles away and a bus goes by her, but she just keeps walking…because she thinks that spending two or three bucks on a bus is a waste of money. She’s always been like that. Walking, working, cleaning, cooking. Just so I could…”

  Freddy took a minute to compose himself before continuing.

  “I have money, man. Even if I never play hockey again, I’ve made money…she doesn’t have to do that.”

  “That’s just how she is, Freddy,” Sloane said. “Why does it bother you so much now?”

  “Because I look at my mother,” Freddy said with some difficulty, “and I wonder how I can be her son.”

  A loud bell went off. Some of the other patients and Tranquility staff who were out back started making their way to the building.

  “What’s that?” Sloane asked.

  “Dinner time,” Freddy answered.

  Freddy slowly got to his feet and shuffled along toward the building. Sloane walked alongside him just in case. Freddy seemed fragile.

  “I’ve got to change things,” Freddy said.

  Freddy rested a hand on Sloane’s shoulder and leaned on him for additional support as they walked up a small incline toward the door.

  “I’m sorry that I turned my back on you, Freddy,” Sloane said. “I didn’t feel good about it. Everything just got to be a little much.”

  “It’s alright,” Freddy replied. “I get it.”

  “Take some time and get better,” Sloane said. “Call me when you’re ready and I’ll help you figure things out.”

  “Thanks, Sloane.”

  61.

  Diana kept herself distracted by adding to her already-feverish pace at the hospital. Already working eleven- to twelve-hour days, she now willingly took on extra shifts in the emergency room.

  Many years ago when her sister Tamara died, Diana tried to busy herself to keep her mind occupied. She obsessed over school, worked two part-time jobs and started volunteering at the very hospital she now worked in – and when all of that was not enough, she took up new hobbies like knitting, so she never had to spend more than a few minutes in deep thought about anything.

  Diana didn’t need to be a doctor to know that her current routine of work, work and more work was not sustainable. Her mind felt as though it was constantly in a tired fog and it concerned her colleagues, who could tell she was dead on her feet. Ironically, that’s how she wanted it: the foggier the better.

  Lately, Diana was surviving on coffee and vending-machine sandwiches. Earlier that night while she sat for ten minutes in the staff lounge and drank her umpteenth cup of coffee, the hospital chief of staff came by to inform her that she was taking the next two days off. It was not up for discussion.

  “Just do your laundry or something,” he told her. “Get some rest.”

  Like many people dependent on drugs, Diana had become good at concealing it. After walking into a staff washroom and locking herself in a stall, she took a small vial out of her purse, opened it and dry-swallowed a pill. As usual, she grimaced at the unpleasant taste. Diana turned the sink on and managed to throw some cold water on her face before she heard herself being paged.

  As she rushed out of the bathroom and back into the emergency ward, paramedics were frantically trying to resuscitate a young woman who was lying unconscious on a gurney with an oxygen mask over her mouth. One of the paramedics was administering chest compressions while his partner counted.

  Diana hurriedly put on a pair of gloves and said:

  “Talk to me.”

  “She’s ODing,” one of the paramedics replied. “Some stupid party.”

  A defibrillator arrived on a cart.

  The girl could not be more than sixteen or seventeen years old; a slender black teenager who was very pretty. Over the years, Diana had dealt with numerous substance abuse cases. Every once in a while, a particular case would stand out, like one girl who was so high that police officers found her nude and incoherent in the washroom of a shopping mall. Despite all her experience, Diana had never seen anyone who looked quite like this girl.

  The nurses prepared the defib machine for Diana to try to stop the girl’s heart from seizing.

  Diana studied the young woman’s face under the oxygen mask. She could not help but notice this patient had a striking resemblance to her late sister.

  62.

  Alex could not recall ever feeling this nervous. In many ways, he felt more scared sitting in the doctor’s office now than on that night so many years ago when he leapt over fences and fell desperately into the street to wave down police.

  It should not have come as a surprise that his mother, who was moments away from learning the details of her medical situation, was unflap
pable. She sat there calmly in a chair beside Alex with her purse resting on her lap. As she looked around the office at photos of the doctor’s family that he kept on his desk and some art that was hung up on the walls, it seemed like she could have been anywhere. Maria Bucco turned to her son, whose knees were bouncing up and down as he sat there waiting. She reached over and rubbed his arm.

  “Stop worrying, Alex. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

  Before Alex could respond, the door to the office flew open and the doctor walked quickly over to his desk. Diana followed slowly behind. She closed the door and leaned against it. As soon as Alex saw her face, he knew something was wrong.

  The doctor held a clipboard and grabbed a pencil from his desk.

  “Alright, Mrs.…um, Boo-ko… is that right?”

  “Yes,” Alex’s mother replied.

  “I’m Dr. Hanover…and I’m afraid I have bad news,” he said in an even tone. “There are a small group of tumours we’ve found in the area that’s been causing you discomfort. Unfortunately, the tumours have metastasized significantly, especially around your liver.”

  Alex waited for a “but,” as in, “The tumours have metastasized, but we’re going to operate, or start treatment.”

  Instead, Dr. Hanover drew on his clipboard.

  “So…in cases like this, typically your odds, statistically speaking, go like this.” Dr. Hanover held the clipboard up for Alex and his mother to see. There were a series of numbers scrawled on it.

  “Fifty-fifty to survive one year, forty-sixty for two years, and then obviously it gets less and less,” the doctor explained.

  “Excuse me, Doctor,” Alex said as he fought the urge to explode. “What about an operation to remove the tumours? Chemotherapy? Radiation?”

  “You’re her son, is that right?”

  “Yes. My name is Alex.”

  “Alright, well, Alex,” the doctor replied. “You and your mother, and perhaps Diana, will have to make a decision about quality of life versus quantity of life.”

  Alex’s mother and Diana were looking down at the floor. His mother was calm and smiled politely, but Diana wiped a tear from her face.

  “So, what does that mean? We’re not going to do anything?” Alex asked angrily.

  “I can refer her for chemotherapy,” the doctor responded. “But it would be a difficult experience and barring a miracle all we would be doing is prolonging her life for maybe three to six months if we’re lucky.”

  The room filled with silence for a long minute. Finally, Alex spoke up again.

  “Doctor, let me ask you something,” Alex began. “If this were your mother, is this how you would handle it?”

  Diana walked up to Alex and put a hand on his shoulder. She grimaced as though she wished she’d been able to stop him from asking that question.

  “If this were my mother, I would be too personally involved and it would obviously affect my ability to be objective,” the doctor answered in a firm tone. “So, I would have my colleagues intervene and I would trust their judgment.”

  Alex’s mother spoke up. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Let me know if you’d like the referral for chemotherapy,” Dr. Hanover said. “Take a few minutes if you need before you leave…I’m sorry, Mrs. Bucco.”

  He walked briskly past Alex and Diana and left the three of them in his office.

  Diana walked right over to Mrs. Bucco and hugged her while she was sitting in the chair. Alex stared blankly off into space.

  “I’m going to give you and Alex some time,” Diana said quietly.

  Alex’s mother kissed Diana on the cheek and squeezed her hand. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  After Diana left, Alex jumped out of his chair and started pacing.

  “Screw him!” Alex ranted as he paced. “He can go to hell. We’re going to fight this.”

  “Alex…”

  “I don’t care what he says,” Alex continued. “Quality of life versus…he can go screw himself.”

  “Alex…listen to me.”

  “I’m going to research. We’ll go to other doctors. We’re going to fight this all the way. You’re not going to die.”

  Alex’s mother stood up and grabbed him.

  “Alex!” she said, raising her voice. “Stop!”

  Alex exhaled loudly through his nostrils.

  “Now you listen to me, son,” his mother said. “After your father died, I prayed that I would be healthy enough to raise you. I prayed every single night that I would be able to provide for us…for you. And my prayers were answered.”

  She rubbed Alex’s arm and squeezed him.

  “I’m so proud of you, Alex…of the man you’ve become. You’re building a life for yourself and you’re a good person. So, whatever happens to me now…is fine.”

  “Promise me you’ll fight.”

  “I promise.”

  63.

  On the night before the start of The Tournament, Alex Bucco sat on his balcony and contemplated what time he should turn in to sleep. His saving grace, for the time being at least, was immersing himself in playing hockey again.

  Hockey always felt like a perfect vehicle for Alex. He could literally feel stress leaving his body with every player he hit and every shot he took. Every goal he scored or assisted on felt like a small victory. Every time he defended a teammate it felt like he was making up for something.

  There were still nightmares every night – every single night.

  Alex looked at the clock on the wall in his kitchen and saw that it was close to midnight. It was tough going to sleep knowing he would wake up at 3:00 a.m. with the regularity of a baby who needed to be fed.

  On the night before the start of The Tournament, Mike Hill fell asleep in bed with his boys. Two of them rested on either side of Mike’s chest and the third was lying on a pillow beside his head.

  Since there was no room for her on the bed, his wife Becky kissed Mike and each of her sons on the forehead and headed off to sleep in the guest bedroom. Before she turned out the light, she took photos of them with her cellphone.

  On the night before the start of The Tournament, Eddie Mark decided to get some air. Within fifteen minutes, he ended up at the elementary school where he had first met his old friend Tommy. As he walked down the street beside the school and looked at the field where he and Tommy played growing up, Eddie thought of how much fun they had.

  He was pushing forty now and was still able to turn on his jets and play hockey. He’d vowed never to do so again after Tommy’s catastrophic injuries, but that was exactly what he was doing.

  If only he could figure out why the heck he could not win faceoffs anymore.

  On the night before the start of The Tournament, Isaac Banion was back inside his “headquarters.” His landlord told Alex what the outstanding amount of rent was, and Alex calmly wrote a cheque. The padlock was removed, and Isaac hugged Alex before going inside.

  “I love you, baby,” Isaac said.

  His hockey bag and sticks were leaning against the door creating a fire hazard, but he had nowhere else to put them. He stacked all the empty beer bottles and old pizza boxes in one corner and plopped down on his bed hugging a photo frame. He tried turning on the television, but it didn’t work. He hadn’t paid that bill either.

  Isaac decided to put The Record on his old turntable and just listen to it. Nothing else could ever come close to helping him unwind like this, not even when he was jamming on his beloved guitar. After about half an hour, Isaac felt sleepy, so he turned The Record off and picked the framed photo back up. He kissed the picture before turning over on his side to fall asleep.

  On the night before the start of The Tournament, Matt Richards was sitting on his boat drinking a beer. Since coming out of rehab, he was not supposed to drink at all and he’d managed to stay clean, but an occasional beer? That had to be okay.

  Going back to hockey seemed like a blessing, as it allowed him to escape into a world that he understood. The mindset involve
d in being a goalie always made sense to Matt. Someone shot the puck at the net and it was his job to stop it. Defend the net.

  A few people who knew him well sometimes wondered if he could have taken a shot at going pro had his family situation been more stable. After his parents split and he was alone with the boat, Matt fell into numerous bad habits with drugs and women, and as good a goalie as he was, he stopped putting in the work on the ice. He became less sharp in goal and once university was over, so were his days playing hockey.

  One of the ladies who frequently came by his boat was now walking up the dock toward him. Her name was Rachel.

  “Hey, Mattie, baby,” Rachel called out and held up her purse. “Lots of fun for us in here.”

  “Listen, I can’t get fucked up with you tonight,” Matt replied.

  Rachel looked surprised. “You serious?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious. I’m playing in a hockey tournament tomorrow and I can’t get messed up.”

  “That tournament I heard about on the news?” she asked.

  “You saw it on the news?”

  Matt did not own a television set.

  “Yeah, the old Gardens, or something? They said it’s gonna be on TV and everything.”

  “Cool.”

  Rachel leaned in and started kissing Matt. He looked at her. This was probably not the best idea, but he needed it.

  “Okay, but no drugs, alright?”

  “Alright.”

  On the night before the start of The Tournament, Curtis Lewis fell asleep while operating a forklift during one of his overnight shifts at the warehouse. Fortunately, other than smashing into a stack of crates and destroying some inventory, no one was hurt, and the damage was minimal.

  Something about the repetitive motion of stacking crates onto the lift lulled Curtis into a state of unconsciousness. The sound of the crash woke him up instantly, and now he was sitting in his supervisor’s office waiting to be fired.

  His warehouse supervisor, unlike his jerk manager Earl at the restaurant, was a decent guy. Curtis figured the supervisor didn’t want to humiliate him in front of everyone else on the warehouse floor by publicly firing him.