The Tournament

by Angelo Kontos

  “Want help with that?”

  Diana’s father turned around and saw Alex standing at the foot of the driveway.

  After a moment, Mr. Cross replied: “Diana’s not here and I asked you –”

  “The last time I was here…and I’m not sure I remember all of it clearly,” Alex began, “I was rude and disrespectful.”

  “So, you show up here after all these months to apologize for that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re planning on seeing my daughter again, Alex?” Mr. Cross asked.

  “I never said that.”

  “Then why come here now?” Mr. Cross asked. “I know you’ve never liked me or her mother.”

  “That’s not true,” Alex said. “I grew to dislike you and her mother, but I tried for a long time.”

  Diana’s father wiped his sweaty brow again. “You told me that I wasn’t good enough for my own daughter.”

  “I’d been drinking,” Alex replied. “I came here to take responsibility for the way I acted that day. I’m sorry.”

  Mr. Cross approached Alex and looked him up and down.

  “You were under a lot of pressure,” Mr. Cross finally said, “with your mother’s illness.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “But you still believe it, right? What you said?” Diana’s father prodded. “That I’m not a good enough father for my little girl?”

  “I’m not sure anyone has been good enough for her, to be honest,” Alex answered. “Especially me.”

  Alex walked past Mr. Cross and grabbed the cardboard sheet. He tugged with all his strength and the television nearly flew out of the SUV. Diana’s father came over, and together they lifted it all the way out and placed it on a small trolley by the car.

  “Alex?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why do you think I didn’t approve of you being with Diana?” Mr. Cross asked.

  “Because I’m white,” Alex replied without hesitation.

  “It’s because I didn’t believe that if the chips were down you’d put her first,” Mr. Cross countered. “And you didn’t, did you?”

  Alex felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and he took a deep breath. Unsure of what to say next, he turned to leave.

  “Alex?” Diana’s father called out.

  “Yes?”

  “She misses you.”

  56.

  Isaac contemplated going back to the park where he was jumped by those three little shits. He pictured himself hiding behind a tree near the bench where they’d spotted him, and then beating the hell out of them with a loaded sock.

  Inside his apartment, Isaac did what he always did when he really needed to relax. He went over to his old turntable and put on The Record.

  As he listened, he thought of how much he wanted to see his little Sophia and how he wanted his ex Melanie to hate him less.

  Right then, someone knocked loudly on the door.

  Isaac got up and opened it. A young delivery guy stood there holding a long rectangular box.

  “Isaac Banee-ien?” the delivery guy asked.

  “That’s me, I think.”

  The delivery guy stepped past Isaac and put the large box inside by the door. “This okay here?”

  “What is it?”

  “Not sure. Sign here.”

  Isaac scribbled something on the clipboard and smiled. The guy glanced at the signature quickly.

  “Mr. Big Time?” he asked.

  Isaac pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on. “You don’t know the half of it, my man.”

  The delivery guy shook his head and took off down the stairs. Isaac closed the door and stared at the package for a minute before opening it.

  The top came off easily, and Isaac set his eyes on a beautiful new guitar.

  There was a note on it:

  Shut up and play. This is your captain speaking.

  57.

  Just ahead of Toronto’s next home game, there was a new sheriff in town and his name was Freddy Rozelli. At practice he took to the ice for the first time as Ken’s assistant coach.

  Reporters were now lurking everywhere. When Isaac left the ice for a quick toilet break and ducked into the public washroom because it was closer than the dressing room, he counted four reporters on his way to the urinal.

  Isaac smiled at Brooks Edwards, who was washing his hands in the sink.

  “What’s happenin’, baby?”

  Brooks did not look amused. He dried his hands and left.

  Ken and Freddy had met in Ken’s office early that morning to discuss strategies for today’s practice. Their general plan was that Ken would focus on defence while Freddy drilled some offensive magic into the players’ heads.

  The media circus was new and made it harder to focus. The only person who really seemed to be enjoying it was Corey, who was in the stands trying to chat up reporters. He introduced himself as “team president” to as many people as he could.

  On the ice, Freddy explained to the players that creating goal-scoring opportunities required hockey sense and creativity as well as skill. He believed all the Toronto players had hockey sense and adequate skill, so this meant they could explore creative ways to generate offence.

  “Start with this,” Freddy called out. “Keep the puck.”

  He pointed at Eddie. “You have a centre who wins almost every draw he takes.”

  Freddy then pointed at Mike.

  “And then you have another centre who consistently wins sixty percent of his draws,” he continued, “so how do you guys not keep the puck more? The longer you control the puck, the better chance you have to score.”

  Freddy went on in this vein before organizing a few drills. He talked about turning on speed through the neutral zone and creating continuous two-on-ones around the puck carrier – supporting each other closely and quickly. He would show them effective ways to cycle the puck once they gained the other team’s zone and how to drive the middle lane.

  When they were lining up for their first drill, Curtis leaned over to Alex.

  “Looks like he’s done this before,” Curtis said.

  58.

  Diana was now visiting her doctor twice a week before starting her shift at the hospital. As they both sat down, Dr. Williams inquired about her physical condition.

  “I’m okay,” Diana responded. “My hands tremble a bit sometimes, but that’s about it. Sleep isn’t always great either.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, Dr. Williams changed course and asked about Diana’s childhood. For someone who did not have a background in clinical psychology, Dr. Williams had a methodical and soft-spoken approach to their conversations. Although she’d known the Cross family from the time Diana and Tamara were born, she wanted Diana to walk her through what it had been like growing up.

  At first, Diana provided vague answers, but Dr. Williams did not let her off the hook that easily.

  “What were your parents like?” she asked.

  “They were okay. My mother was strict, but my father not as much,” Diana replied.

  “Give me an example.”

  “I don’t know,” Diana shrugged. “I guess she had this view of how she expected us to behave.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like…I don’t know…like if we brought home grades that weren’t as good as what she expected, it meant we weren’t good students. And she always wanted us to dress a certain way, and if we didn’t we weren’t acting like proper young ladies…that kind of thing.”

  “And Tamara didn’t react well to that?” Dr. Williams asked.

  “You know she didn’t.”

  The doctor nodded.

  “I mean, it got to the point where I think she went against our mother just to be difficult,” Diana said. “We were two years apart, but my first memories are of her doing her own thing. She just didn’t care. By the time we were teenagers there was so much tension in our house that I hated coming home from school.”

 
; “How do you think that affected you?”

  “Who cares how it affected me?” Diana replied. “I wasn’t the problem.”

  “No, Diana, you weren’t.”

  “I had straight A’s in school,” Diana continued. “I volunteered in a hospital and did a million chores around the house. I never argued with my parents or gave them any problems…I mean, I had to be…”

  “Perfect?” Dr. Williams asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Her doctor sat back and swivelled in her chair. “Okay. What were you going to say?”

  “I was going to say that I had to be…I don’t know,” Diana replied. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You were taking medication for twenty years and you can’t see what that has to do with anything?” Dr. Williams asked.

  “I don’t think it’s relevant. I was fine.”

  An alarm beeped somewhere in the office.

  “Time’s up,” her doctor announced. “See you next week.”

  59.

  The day before Toronto’s next home game against Montreal, freelance reporter Brooks Edwards wrote a widely distributed article in which he now extolled the virtues of The Tournament.

  There was something likeable about these games, he argued, especially when the two sides in the pro lockout continued to be at a crossroads.

  With the pro season officially cancelled, there was no sense of urgency to reach an agreement. Earlier that morning, the commissioner had put out a gloomy statement.

  “We profoundly regret the suffering this has caused our fans and the thousands of people who depend on our industry for their livelihoods,” the commissioner wrote. “I can tell you how I feel – crappy.”

  Brooks read the statement on a press release and thought it would have been funny if the commissioner added, “But there’s this tournament you can watch in the meantime.”

  Based on the number of hits his social media accounts were getting after his most recent article and blogs, Brooks almost felt like a real sports reporter again. When he arrived at the Arena Gardens, he learned the game was sold out.

  He looked around the empty rink and wondered if he could request something more fitting for a reporter of his stature, like a press box.

  Of the eight thousand or so people expected to fill the seats, most of them arrived before game time. They were the most raucous crowd to date. The noise permeating the walls of the Toronto dressing room was a special kind of loud. Some of the players looked rattled, but they soon took their cues from the team’s core group.

  Alex taped his sticks calmly, and the rest of the Deep Six looked unfazed as they put on their equipment and prepared to take the ice. To a man, Alex, Mike, Eddie, Isaac, Curtis and the goaltender Matt all appeared poised and ready to go.

  Ken told his players not to be distracted by the attention Freddy would get on the Toronto bench. There was just no way to tell how the fans would react to him.

  “After tonight it’s going to be old news,” Ken told them.

  “And that’s exactly how I want it,” Freddy added.

  When the dressing-room door opened, the players, led by Matt, hit the ice, and after a minute or so they were all out and Ken appeared with Freddy who was holding a clipboard.

  Upon seeing Freddy, most of the capacity crowd erupted in cheers. There was also a smattering of boos, but they were quickly drowned out. Camera flashes were going off every which way and Freddy started to feel like an attraction at the zoo. He waved at the fans before focusing on the clipboard.

  And there he is, folks. Yes, sir. They call him Freddy “The Flash” Rozelli. He’s been a dynamite goal-scorer the past three seasons. And of course, since this lockout he’s had a rough time of it – brought it on himself, really – but now he’s stepped up to help Ken Hornsby coach this Toronto team.

  Freddy worked his way up and down the bench and called out instructions to the forwards. The first ten minutes went back and forth at a very entertaining pace before Alex joined what initially appeared to be a harmless two-on-two rush. He skated up the middle before moving to his right to trail Mike Hill, the puck carrier.

  Mike faked a drop pass to Alex and after drawing three Montreal players toward them, he fed a perfect pass across to Isaac who looked like he was going to slap a one-timer. Instead, he threw the puck back toward the slot just as Alex zoomed in.

  While fighting off a check Alex snapped the puck into the far side of the net, right under the top corner, for the first goal of the game.

  Scores!!! Alex Bucco joins the rush and scores with a bullet shot! And would you listen to this crowd!

  As the game went on, Mike looked impossible to contain and seemed to be everywhere. By the end of the second period, he set up three beautiful goals: another one from Alex, a hard shot from Barry that found the back of the net, and another one from one of the newer players.

  Going into the third, Toronto led 5–0. Montreal players were feisty and would not give up, but in the opening seconds of the period, Alex lined up and levelled their number-one centre – a clean, open-ice hit.

  The crowd went wild on Alex’s hit and a Montreal winger stalked Alex back up the ice before slashing him. Alex slashed back and they both dropped their gloves and took off their helmets.

  By the time the Montreal winger’s fist came around to land his first punch, Alex had clocked him two or three times on the side of his face. The player tried to keep his balance and throw another punch, but Alex sidestepped it before nailing him again and then pulling him in close, as he realized the fight was becoming very one-sided. The referee and linesman jumped in to separate them. Alex patted his opponent on the back respectfully before the linesman pulled him away and escorted him to the penalty box.

  The eight thousand or so in attendance were deafening. Players on both benches tapped their sticks to show appreciation for their teammates.

  Shortly afterward, the final buzzer rang, and Toronto won handily, 5–0. The crowd gave the players a standing ovation as they left the ice.

  The only person in the building who did not appear to be standing was a guy known as Havock.

  60.

  Diana took steps to ensure she was not overdoing it at work anymore. She agreed to work full shifts at the hospital, but made it clear she would not do more unless a catastrophe occurred and the ER really needed her. Other doctors could take turns burning out for a change.

  Tonight, she still felt tired as the time neared 11:00 p.m. and her shift was coming to an end. The night had been moving along until Diana had to treat three guys in their twenties who crashed into each other during a game of trampoline dodgeball.

  As she was finishing updating her charts for the overnight staff, a nurse came over and handed her an envelope.

  “Dr. Cross, this was left for you.”

  “Thank you,” Diana replied as she put her pen down and opened the envelope.

  There appeared to be coupons or tickets of some sort inside. No note or anything else. She pulled them out and had a closer look.

  Two tickets to Toronto’s last home game of the round robin.

  61.

  For Curtis, it was like he woke up one day and started looking at the world through a different set of eyes. He had gone from never having been close to a woman to being with Megan over and over again. He was now very familiar with all her tattoos.

  Megan appeared to be as crazy and passionate about Curtis as he was about her, but she was also constantly mindful of her son Jimmy, who completely avoided Curtis.

  On one of the few occasions in which all three of them were free at the same time, Megan insisted they have a meal together. Jimmy sat there looking unhappy and just stared at his plate the entire time without saying a word before retreating to his room. A few hours later, Megan and Curtis lay in bed and Megan was in Curtis’s embrace. They were examining one of the tattoos she had on her arm.

  The image was of three small birds flying together.

 
“Why birds?” Curtis asked.

  “Birds symbolize freedom,” Megan replied. “Come on, Curtis. Everyone knows that.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Curtis laughed. “But wait, doesn’t it depend on the bird?”

  “Yes and no,” Megan answered. “Different birds mean different things. I almost got a cardinal because they’re fiery and full of life. But all birds can fly in the air and walk on the ground. Most can go on water too. Birds are free spirits.”

  “Unless someone cages them up.”

  “A bird should never be caged up. Not ever.”

  Curtis and Megan heard a door opening and closing loudly. Jimmy sounded like he’d left his bedroom and was now in the bathroom. Megan and Curtis made every effort to be discreet and quiet, but Curtis still felt uncomfortable that he was in Megan’s bed while her son was walking around inside the home. It was late and they both thought he would have been asleep by now.

  “You know, honestly, maybe I need to go,” Curtis said.

  “He has to get used to things,” Megan responded. “He’s been through a lot. He’s just angry.”

  A loud gurgling sound could be heard from the bathroom. Megan paused a moment to strain her ears and listen. The front door to the house opened and then slammed.

  “What if he doesn’t?” Curtis asked. “You’re not picking me over your son.”

  “I would never pick anyone over my son.”

  She swung her leg around and straddled him.

  “You’ll be good for him,” she said. “That is, if me having a kid still doesn’t freak you out.”

  Megan leaned in to kiss him again, but Curtis saw something out of the corner of his eye and pulled her off. He pointed at the bedroom door.

  “Um, Meg,” he said urgently.

  Megan turned and looked. Water was slowly seeping through the bottom of the doorframe. She jumped off him and they both hastily threw on some clothes.

  Curtis ran to the door and opened it. Water was making its way down the hall. He rushed to the bathroom and saw the toilet overflowing. The sink was on full blast and water was spilling over the top and splashing onto the floor. Curtis waddled through the water and slammed the single tap on the sink shut. The drain was jammed.