The Tournament

by Angelo Kontos

  “Listen, I came in at the list price. I just want twenty-four hours to consider a new offer,” Chambers said into the phone and then paused to listen. “I don’t care what the other guy’s terms are. All I care about is that my wife wants this house.”

  Corey smiled. This was such a Dave Chambers type of conversation. He was always negotiating, always wheeling and dealing.

  “Okay, let me put it to you this way,” Chambers said testily. “How much more business is this guy going to do with you? You do the math.”

  With that, Chambers hung up. He turned his attention to Corey.

  “Hey Corey, what’s up? Long time. Want a drink?”

  Corey looked at his watch as Chambers walked over to the bar. It was 11:00 a.m.

  “No, I’m good. Thanks,” Corey replied. “What was all that about? You moving?”

  Chambers shook his head and poured himself a drink. Scotch whisky, neat.

  “I’m trying to close on this villa. We were in France for a week and when we got back she found this place on the internet.”

  Chambers swallowed his drink and grimaced.

  “She always does that when we go somewhere,” he said. “It’s annoying, but I’ll get it done. I’m connected.”

  Corey sat down in one of the seats opposite Chambers’ desk without being asked. They were old buddies. Everything was pretty casual. Chambers carried his drink over and sat back down in his big mahogany chair.

  “So, what brings you by?”

  “Well, I have…an opportunity.”

  “How much?” Chambers smiled.

  “Not sure yet, but less than what you’re offering for that villa.”

  “If that’s true, then why are you here? You have that kind of money.”

  “I do, but here’s the thing. And I haven’t discussed this with anyone yet except Helen.” Corey paused for effect. “I’m seriously thinking about running for mayor next year.”

  If Corey were waiting for Chambers to look impressed, he would have to keep waiting. Chambers finally shrugged.

  “Okay. So?”

  “So, this is a chance for me to show people that I can reach out to fat cats like you in the private sector. You’re not the only person I’m hitting up; you’re just the biggest…and I’m going to kick in some of my own cash.”

  One of Chambers’ secretaries poked her head in the door. “I’m sorry, Mr. Chambers. The agent you were just speaking with is on the line. Said it’s important.”

  Chambers nodded and waved her out of the room.

  “Okay, Corey, I’ll bite. What’s this ‘opportunity’?”

  “Alright, everyone knows there’s a hockey lockout going on with no end in sight,” Corey began. “It’s the worst one yet.”

  “So?”

  “So, what’s different this time, and I mean really different, is that everyone is fed up. Rich owners, overpaid athletes. It costs a fortune for some guy to take his wife and kids to a game. People are just sick of it.”

  Chambers looked impatiently at the clock on his desk. “Okay, Corey. So what? Get to your point.”

  “Have you heard of The Tournament?”

  “No.”

  “About a week ago, an organization in New York City floated the idea of setting up a hockey tournament for charity.”

  “What charity?”

  “I don’t know,” Corey replied. “Doesn’t matter. The point is that it’s organized hockey, but not junior or minor level. It’ll be based on tryouts. Each city that participates will need to find a coach and players and a rink. The only rule is the players cannot have ever gone pro.”

  “Who the hell is going to care about some tournament with guys who never went pro?”

  “The idea is to bring hockey back to the people,” Corey answered. “Just a bunch of guys playing because they love hockey. Maybe some of them tried out when they were younger and didn’t make it, but were close. The quality of the hockey could be really good.”

  “How long is this tournament?”

  “Looks like three or four months, start to finish. It would cover the rest of the season, which is going to be cancelled any day now. A fifteen-game round robin and best of seven playoff rounds…a max of three rounds. The old Arena Gardens is sitting there doing nothing. A bit of cash to start things up, uniforms, equipment, a Zamboni and office with a computer and phone. Not much else to it.”

  “Players? Coaches?”

  “Let me worry about that. I’m on it.”

  “You’re on it?” Chambers repeated. “What are you going to do, go find those guys you played with back in university? What were they called again? Deep Throat?”

  “They were called the Deep Six, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  Chambers leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk.

  “So, you get some cash from me, a little bit from somewhere else and this tournament goes on. Any money raised, probably next to nothing, goes to some charity you don’t even know the name of, and what? You show everyone in Toronto that you sympathized with the average loser’s desire to take his kids to watch grown-ups play hockey?”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s such bullshit, Corey,” Chambers laughed. “No one’s going to care.”

  Corey was prepared to argue, but Chambers cut him off.

  “Whatever. If it’s tied to a charity I’ll be able to write off most of what I give you. Send me an e-mail when you figure out what you need. It better not be more than the down payment for the villa.”

  Corey stood and shook Chambers’ hand. “It won’t be.”

  “Hey,” Chambers said as he picked up his phone. He pointed the receiver at Corey. “After this, we’re even. You sure this is how you want to call it in?”

  “I’m sure,” Corey replied. “After this…we’re even.”

  “How’re you going to find these guys? You haven’t seen them in years. How do you know they’re still able to play or that they would even want to?” Chambers asked.

  “I don’t,” Corey answered. “But I’m going to try, and I’m going to start with the captain.”

  10.

  The apartment was dark as usual. Alex was becoming sick of himself. Part of him wanted to deep clean the place and spray air freshener everywhere. The other part of him wanted to stay in bed and hide under the covers forever.

  That part was winning.

  He saved all three of Diana’s messages, but had not yet fully listened to them or picked up the phone to call her back. Alex took a deep breath, dialed into his voicemail, and hit the speaker button.

  “Alex, it’s me. I just want to know that you’re okay and I can’t…I can’t come back there to check. Please just call me or send a text…something. Okay?”

  Alex felt the hairs on his arm stand up. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation going through his body after hearing her voice.

  The message continued:

  “Your mother was a wonderful person, Alex. I miss her too.”

  Alex hit a few buttons on his phone and quickly dialed Diana’s cell before he could think too long about it. He felt his heart racing. What if it went to voicemail? Would he leave her a message or…

  “Hello? Hello?”

  It took Alex a second to register who it was.

  “Hi, Mrs. Cross. It’s Alex.”

  “Oh, Alex. How are you?”

  “I was looking for Diana.”

  “She forgot her phone. I’ll mention that you called.”

  “Sure, okay. Thank you.”

  “Alex. I’m so sorry about your mother.”

  “Yes, thanks,” Alex replied quickly. “Take care.”

  “Alex?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s no easy way to say this and I don’t wish to be insensitive…”

  “Go ahead, Mrs. Cross. What is it?”

  “Well, it’s just that Diana has met someone from our church. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

/>   “Goodbye, Mrs. Cross.”

  11.

  Quitting as Freddy “The Flash” Rozelli’s agent was a liberating experience for Greg Sloane. Using an overnight courier service, he sent Freddy a registered letter stating that he would no longer be acting as his representative. In fact, at the rate Freddy was going he would need the services of a good lawyer soon, not a sports agent.

  In the letter, Sloane mentioned that Freddy violated the terms of their agreement by taking illegal drugs. It was in the small print of the contract that Freddy had not read. In reality, most players never read the small print.

  Freddy must have received the letter earlier that morning because every time Sloane looked at his phone there were seven and then nine and now eleven new messages from him, and Sloane did not respond to any of them. His phone continued vibrating on his desk as though it were having convulsions.

  Sloane knew it was only a matter of time before Freddy showed up, and he was ready for him.

  Sure enough, Sloane soon heard commotion between his secretary and a male voice that he recognized. He got up and opened his door just in time for Freddy to burst through it. Sloane’s secretary followed meekly behind.

  “Mr. Sloane, I couldn’t stop him.”

  “That’s alright. Thank you.”

  Sloane’s secretary gave Freddy a dirty look before retreating to her desk out front. Sloane had told her that if things sounded like they were getting out of control she should call building security and police.

  Sloane left his door open.

  “Hi, Freddy.”

  “I’ve been calling you all morning!” Freddy exploded. “You can’t pick up a phone now?”

  Sloane walked over to his desk and stood behind it. A little distance between him and Freddy seemed like a good idea.

  “I’ve been busy,” he replied calmly. “The whole world does not revolve around you.”

  “Oh really? The whole world revolved around me when you took your fucking piece off my contract!”

  “Are you referring to the massive contract I secured for you which made you and the next few generations of your family financially secure? That contract?”

  “A monkey in a better suit could’ve gotten that deal!”

  “Maybe, but I’m the one who did,” Sloane replied. “I did. All you had to do was shut up and play hockey, but that’s all over now. You can let the players’ union fight your battles and see how they do.”

  “I got an appeal going,” Freddy spat.

  “Yes, and good luck with that. Good luck to the union, too. Defending you after the stunts you pulled and drugs on top of that. Not exactly the image players need right now. As for you and me, we’re done.”

  “You can’t…”

  “Actually, I can.”

  Sloane pulled out a folder and tossed it onto his messy desk.

  “You still owe me for my recent services. It’s all in there. I expect payment soon.”

  Sloane was not sure what was going to happen next, but he was enjoying this. He felt comfortable enough to sit back down at his desk.

  “I have things to do, Freddy. Take the file, or don’t. I can send you that through the courier, too.”

  Freddy grabbed the file and stormed out, but he was back a second later. He had forgotten to slam the door.

  WHAM!

  12.

  It was the beginning of April and the weather was steadily improving. A digital wall clock in Alex’s apartment showed the time – 3:00 a.m. Alex opened the sliding glass door to his small balcony. It was still too cold to have doors or windows open during this time of night, but Alex felt like he was suffocating inside the apartment. He had come to a decision that suddenly made it hard for him to breathe properly, so he stepped out on the balcony to get fresh air.

  A wind picked up and blew inside, which caused some of the newspapers strewn all over his dining room table to spill onto the floor. Alex had been intrigued by Freddy “The Flash” Rozelli’s recent meltdowns. He read and then reread all the stories in the papers over the past few days, and it was all that distracted him from continuing to wallow in his own misery.

  Alex was both amused and irritated by the Freddy Rozelli spectacle. Here was a young guy with the world on a platter and he screwed it up so royally it was hard to believe. When Alex was part of the Deep Six dynasty in university, he dreamed of playing professional hockey. It was just too much of a financial commitment. His mother scraped some money together to buy him used equipment so he could continue playing on the university team, but he stopped there.

  By all accounts, Freddy “The Flash” had it all and became a self-centered baby. All that seemed missing was a huge diaper. And then there was the labour dispute. There seemed to be one every few years now. Alex did not recognize the game he fell in love with as a youngster anymore, at least not at the pro level.

  He sat in his apartment very much alone in the middle of the night. His mother was dead, and Diana was gone. His extended family members were at best distant and at worst indifferent and insincere. Alex’s job at the community college had been exciting when he started there in his mid-to-late twenties, but nearly fifteen years later he felt stuck in neutral. There were also other things…dark things he could not process, and they washed over him like a wave.

  A few years ago, a famous actor who Alex admired committed suicide and left a brief note that read, “Too many things just didn’t work out.” That had stuck in Alex’s head. He stepped back into his apartment shivering, but he kept the door open. He went to the kitchen counter and stared at the three bottles of painkillers, each one purchased from a different drug store to avoid raising suspicion. Alex closed his eyes. He was tired.

  He focused his eyes on two of his favourite photos that he had placed on the counter beside the pills.

  The first one was of him and Diana attending a boat party at Toronto Harbour on a beautiful summer night, looking as happy as ever, with Diana’s arms wrapped around his waist. She was considerably shorter than he was and leaned on his chest so the top of her head was tucked in perfectly under his chin. God, he missed that.

  The other picture was the second favourite photo he ever took of his mother. She was in a giddy mood that day and had snatched his baseball cap from his head. Alex, who was about eighteen at the time, had been annoyed because his hair was messy, but he started to laugh when his mother put the cap on her own head backwards and stood there smiling. His disposable camera had been nearby. Alex looked through the viewfinder and caught his mother’s spirit in that photo. There was another photo of her that he liked even more, but he could not bring himself to look at it now.

  Alex began to unscrew the first pill bottle before he lost his nerve. No more shame. No more pain.

  It was time to let go.

  13.

  Corey was walking through the old Arena Gardens, just east of downtown. The rink had taken the place of the Mutual Street Arena, which used to be the home of Toronto’s first professional hockey team, the Toronto St. Pats, just prior to the start of the First World War. By 1989, Mutual Street had become a relic and was demolished. The Arena Gardens was built as a modest, smaller substitute.

  The old rink sat there idle and was surrounded by tall condominiums, which were going up like trees all over the city. Up until a few years ago, a few hockey camps had operated out of the Arena Gardens and some peewee and bantam games were still played there, but not anymore. Elected officials at City Hall boxed themselves into a corner by not wanting to pay for the arena’s maintenance and instead had let it become a liability.

  The old custodian who looked after the outside park occasionally went into the building. He was a bald, gap-toothed, middle-aged surly guy named Angus Miller and he met Corey by the front door to take him inside. A heavy smoker, Angus had a constant and raspy cough.

  As they walked around the rink, Corey surveyed the area and sighed. It was worse than he imagined. Some of the glass panes along the boards had been removed and never repl
aced; many of the partitions were so dirty or scratched they would simply have to go. The arena had a seating capacity of eight thousand, but as Corey surveyed the damaged and missing seats, he doubted he could convince ten of his closest friends or family to sit down anywhere. The entire place looked like it hadn’t been painted in forever, and it smelled strongly like rotten eggs.

  Corey wasn’t too worried. He could throw some money at the place to get by. It just had to look presentable for a few publicity photos that would resurface when he was running for mayor. Right now, this building represented value for money and it would be cheap.

  When Angus the custodian asked him why he was interested in the decrepit arena, Corey briefly explained that he was looking to host a hockey tournament there.

  “In this old shithole?” Angus asked.

  “It’ll be good enough,” Corey responded.

  14.

  Sixteen-year-old Alex Bucco straddled the top of his backyard fence wondering what to do next. He stared at his open bedroom window which he had just jumped out of, or more accurately was pushed out of. Alex landed hard on his tailbone, but it was on grass so despite the initial jolt of pain he was okay.

  His mother had come running into his room in the middle of this horrific night and told him to leave through the window, but she did not follow him out. Alex kept looking at the window hoping to see her face. Could she leave through the window by herself? He would run back to help her.

  An excruciatingly long minute went by and all Alex could hear was a mix of angry-sounding male voices. Years later his mother would tell him that she expected to be killed that night along with his dad. She did not follow him out the window because the men who invaded their house had seen her and she thought they would come after her, which meant they might find Alex as well. She would not risk that.

  Alex was shaken out of his nervous trance on the fence by piercing shrieks followed by the sound of gunshots. There were at least two or three in rapid succession.

  He jumped down off the fence into his neighbour’s yard and kept scaling fences until he reached the end of the block, which led to a main street. It was just past 3:00 a.m. and the street was well lit and deserted except for a single car driving by. Alex stood trembling on the sidewalk.