The Tournament

by Angelo Kontos

  He looked at the toilet and saw that it had been loaded with about a roll and a half of toilet paper. Curtis grabbed the plunger and tried to fish it all out. A face towel had been stuck in there as well.

  Megan stood beside Curtis and leaned on his massive shoulder.

  “He’s just angry,” she sighed.

  62.

  Matt sat at a small table in his boat with his bags packed for the final two-game road trip before playoffs. He was on his laptop reviewing e-mails and clicked on “Sent Messages.” As clear as day, Matt counted nine e-mails he’d sent to the same address over the past few months. They were all delivered successfully, and not one had been responded to.

  He contemplated typing another message when he was startled by a knock on the cabin door. Matt was not accustomed to getting visitors on his boat unless he invited them. Perhaps it was Rachel, although they had arrangements to meet when he returned for the last home game. He had enough supply to last until then. He got up and opened the door.

  His father.

  Father and son looked at each other for a moment before the elder Mr. Richards spoke.

  “Hey, Mattie. Wanna grab dinner?”

  At Matt’s suggestion, they found an outdoor patio along Toronto’s Harbourfront. If he was going to sit down and have a meal with his father after so many years, Matt was going to make him pay for dinner and enjoy the scenery of the water.

  They had barely sat down before Matt waved at a waitress and ordered a beer to start running up the bill. His father seemed unfazed.

  “You look great, Mattie,” his father said.

  “Thanks, I guess,” Matt replied.

  “I’ve been watching this tournament.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah, and I’m proud of you,” his father declared. “It’s so great watching you play again. You look like you haven’t lost a step.”

  The beers arrived. Matt ordered nachos with pulled pork and a pound of chicken wings for himself.

  “Our wings come in two sizes,” the waitress said. “Jumbo and –”

  “Jumbo’s good,” Matt interjected. “And some fries too.”

  The waitress nodded and looked at Matt’s father. “Anything for you, sir?”

  “I’m okay for now,” Matt’s father said before studying the waitress’s figure as she walked away. He then watched Matt chug his beer.

  “Listen, son, I’m sorry that I haven’t been in touch. I wasn’t sure you’d want me to be.”

  “Why now?”

  “Look, Mattie, here’s the thing,” his father said as he leaned in closer. “I’ve made some mistakes.”

  Matt couldn’t decide if he wanted to keep listening or throw a punch.

  “I should’ve done a whole bunch of things better,” he continued. “Then someone tells me there’s this tournament and you’re in it. So, I turn on a game and there you are. Reminded me of how proud I was when you played.”

  “You came to like, one or two games,” Matt pointed out. “Mom’s the one who always came.”

  “I was busy making us a lot of money.”

  “Sure.”

  “I didn’t come here to argue with you, Mattie.”

  “So, then why’d you come?”

  “I’m sorry, okay?” his father said. “I came to say I’m sorry. There’s a lot of things I regret, and I wish I could go back and change.”

  “That’s it? Really?”

  “Yes. You think there’s another reason?” Matt’s father responded, sounding hurt.

  Matt’s second beer arrived. He held it up.

  “Cheers to that, I guess.”

  “I’m hoping you give me a chance to make things right,” Matt’s father said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been a better father, but you’re my son and I want to fix that.”

  Matt nodded slowly. “You’re serious?’

  “Yes, I’m serious,” Matt’s father answered. “Want to have dinner again next week, after you guys get back?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  Matt’s father leaned back in his chair and started unfolding his dinner napkin. He smiled and looked relieved.

  “Want to see some ass tonight?” he asked.

  63.

  “Do you miss him?”

  “Well, yes, of course I miss him,” Diana told her doctor.

  “So, what’s the problem? This is obviously his way of reaching out,” Dr. Williams said.

  “By leaving me tickets to go see him play hockey?”

  “Maybe that’s all he can do right now,” Dr. Williams replied. “Better than not reaching out at all, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not so sure,” Diana said. “I haven’t tried calling him either, but I’m not the reason we broke up.”

  “Didn’t you say that you left him?”

  “I walked out, but he had already left me. I was a ghost.”

  “Could it be there were other things going on?”

  “Alex wouldn’t cheat on me.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. You’ve told me that he became obsessed with saving his mother – that he was haunted by what happened when he was younger…”

  “Yes, but he never really talked about what happened. He talked about everything except that.”

  “Did you ever talk to him about what happened to Tamara?” Dr. Williams asked.

  “He knew.”

  “Yes, but did you ever talk to him about it?”

  “I talked about how it affected our home, my parents. I needed Alex to understand why they were like that,” Diana answered.

  “But did you talk to him about how it affected you?” her doctor asked.

  “No. Not really.”

  “So, didn’t you do the same thing he did?” Dr. Williams asked.

  “No…it’s not the same thing,” Diana stammered. “No one came into my home and murdered my father.”

  “And he didn’t have a sister who died from an overdose,” Dr. Williams said matter-of-factly.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m just wondering, Diana,” Dr. Williams said. “How could you two be so close and never discuss the most significant tragedies that occurred in both of your lives? I mean, was it really all about him taking care of his sick mother?”

  “Yes…maybe…look,” Diana said, flustered. “Everything with us was fine before his mother got cancer…everything. We were strong together. He was compassionate and he was loving. We never argued or…”

  “Or talked about the singular, horrific events that shook both of you to your core.”

  “That’s not what I was going to say.”

  The alarm beeped. Diana got up and slung her purse over her shoulder.

  “What do you think I should do?” Diana asked.

  “Well, you used to watch him play hockey…Didn’t you?”

  64.

  Corey could not believe how well things were going. The Tournament was practically roaring at this point. After a horrible start, Toronto was unbeaten in ten games and had a lock on a playoff spot. The only question was where they would finish in the standings.

  Since adding Freddy “The Flash” Rozelli as assistant coach, their scoring was night and day from before. Their defence was stifling, and their goaltending was sharp. They were firing on all cylinders. Based on the fans’ reaction, the majority welcomed Freddy’s presence on the team’s bench and seemed to forgive his past transgressions.

  With two thousand extra seats added in time for the final home game, tickets became a hot commodity. While it certainly was not the same as watching the more polished players in the big leagues, word had gotten out that The Tournament was worthwhile.

  Helen barged into the dressing room as players started to change and prepare for the game. Isaac covered his bare chest with a towel.

  “Heyyyyy baby!” Isaac called out. “What’cha doin’?”

  She ignored him and went right for Alex, who was sitting in his stall preparing to tape his sticks.

  “You need to say
something to the crowd tonight before the game,” Helen said plainly.

  Everyone stopped and stared at Helen and Alex.

  “Like what?” Alex asked.

  “It’ll come to you.”

  Toronto’s final home game was against Chicago, another American city with a long and proud hockey history. The crowd was so loud it felt like the Arena Gardens was vibrating as the players hit the ice for their warm-up.

  Cole Foster agreed to acknowledge fans at centre ice and introduce Toronto’s captain. As Cole grabbed the microphone and walked along a thin red carpet, Alex and Isaac were leaning against the bench.

  “What’re you gonna say?” Isaac inquired.

  “Not sure yet,” Alex replied.

  As soon as Cole’s booming voice said, “And good evening hockey fans from coast to coast…” the crowd went wild for the legendary broadcaster.

  Cole basked in the warmth he received from the fans. He thanked them for coming and supporting this “fabulous tournament” before introducing Alex, Toronto’s team captain, “…who would like to say a few words to all of you. Alex, come on out here.”

  “Do you know now?” Isaac asked.

  “Sort of,” Alex said before skating toward Cole at centre ice.

  “Talk about me,” Isaac called out.

  “Shut up.”

  Alex skated to centre and removed one of his hockey gloves to shake Cole’s hand. He waved at the crowd and tried to focus his eyes on a particular seat behind the Toronto net at the far end. It was hard to see with all the bright lights on his face.

  He momentarily froze up and became light-headed, but pulled himself together and started talking.

  “On behalf of everyone on this team, I just want to say thank you,” Alex began. “This tournament came out of nowhere and we’re just…we’re really just a bunch of guys who got a chance to play again. It’s been amazing and all of you are a big part of that. Thank you for your support.”

  When the cheering died down, he held up his hand.

  “And we’re not done,” Alex announced.

  He looked over at his teammates and his coach – and new assistant coach – and then back at the crowd.

  “We’re… uh, we’re going to do something special for all of you. Thank you.”

  Alex handed the mic to Cole as the home crowd continued to stand and cheer while he skated back to the bench.

  “Not bad,” Isaac said while strapping on his helmet. “What’s this special thing we’re gonna do?”

  Alex grabbed his own helmet and put it on. “We’re going to win.”

  65.

  Macdonald sat in his wheelchair and asked to be moved in front of the gas fireplace even though the pilot light had been turned off with summer approaching. He had been watching Toronto’s game against Chicago on television, and he felt himself becoming angry every time the TV cameras showed Ken Hornsby on the bench. Due to the fact the other residents were into The Tournament, he couldn’t change the damn channel. Instead of watching the post-game coverage, he preferred to stare at an empty fireplace.

  Someone may as well just pinch the cords of his IV and prevent him from getting his saline.

  How could this be happening? How could Hornsby be behind a bench again? On television? In the media? Doing press conferences? Macdonald thought he’d buried that little Nancy years ago.

  A male orderly came into the room and approached him.

  “Time for your bath, Mr. Macdonald,” he said cheerfully. “Anything I should know about? Did you have an accident again?”

  “No,” Macdonald grumbled. “I did not.”

  “Okay, then, off we go,” the orderly said as he grabbed the wheelchair by the back handles.

  “I want to make a phone call first.”

  The orderly turned the wheelchair around so he could face Macdonald.

  “Mr. Macdonald, we’ve been through this,” the orderly said. “Your daughter asked us to not have you call. I’m sorry.”

  “Not her,” Macdonald replied. “I want to call someone else. Just get me to a damn phone.”

  Brooks Edwards sat at a large table in one of the newspaper offices that provided him with work space because he was a regular contributor to their publication. Brooks hated the accommodations because of the lack of privacy. They didn’t even have cubicles anymore. The bosses argued that with everything wireless nowadays, individual cubicles were no longer necessary.

  It was true that reporters could do almost everything remotely now, and Brooks imagined guys like him were not too far off from being told to just work out of their homes one hundred percent of the time. How much longer would it be before there was no more travel to road games, or press passes for local games? Just live-stream everything and report on what you see. That was why he was constantly trying to get noticed with his articles and blogs. The more attention he generated, the harder it would be to get rid of him.

  There was a phone in the area where Brooks sat, and it started ringing. Everyone had to use the same phone. Brutal. Since there was no one else around and he needed a good stretch anyway, he got up to answer it.

  “Brooks Edwards here,” he said into the phone. “Yes, that one. Who is this?”

  Brooks listened and his eyes widened. “Is that right? Well, yes, that is very interesting. Hold on.”

  He scrambled over to the table and grabbed a pen and paper before running back to the phone.

  “What did you say your name was?” he asked. “No, I would never reveal my sources… Sure, I can come there.”

  Brooks listened some more.

  “Well, yes, Mr. Macdonald. If this is true, I would agree that it’s a big deal.”

  66.

  After Alex took his mother to the hospital in the middle of that horrific night, she was stabilized and Diana was only peripherally involved. Everyone knew her personal connection to Alex’s mother. Hospital protocol. Dealing with patients had to be as objective as possible.

  The most immediate action was to dope his mother up on strong opiates, mostly morphine, so she would not feel any pain from her failing body. They also drained fluid from almost everywhere, especially her legs, and helped ease her constipation for the time being. Dr. Hanover asked Alex if he was agreeable to the morphine dosage being increased.

  “So, what does that mean?” Alex asked. “She doesn’t wake up?”

  “Alex, to be quite honest, we shouldn’t want her to wake up again,” Dr. Hanover said.

  Alex stared at his sleeping mother.

  “Do it,” he told the doctor.

  Shortly after that conversation, his mother went into a coma and Dr. Hanover told Alex that she would likely pass away peacefully in her sleep over the next few days, maybe a week. It was hard to be precise in these situations.

  Alex said that he understood and put his hand out. Dr. Hanover shook it and gave a sympathetic smile.

  “I’m very sorry, Alex.”

  “Thank you.”

  Alex may have slept one or possibly two full hours over the next few days. He practically lived at the hospital. He tried every item on their cafeteria menu in addition to whatever the vending machines offered, not to mention he was averaging ten cups of coffee a day and it was hurting his stomach. He took a few antacids and could care less about how he felt.

  His Aunt Irene finally made an appearance, and Alex found her in his mother’s room with a man peddling religious pamphlets. Alex felt no obligation to be polite to him and kicked him out.

  Aunt Irene and Alex didn’t say much to each other. She’d just returned from a holiday and Alex had dutifully left her a message about what was going on. His original plan was to drop an icy comment like “Nice of you to show up” or “Oh, you remembered that you have a sister?” – but he backed off when he saw how devastated his aunt truly was. It occurred to him that perhaps he had been too critical of her. He walked over and gave her a hug.

  Eventually, a nurse convinced Alex to go home and get some sleep. She promised tha
t someone would call him if his mother’s condition changed.

  After taking a hot shower where he just stood under the water for twenty minutes, Alex put on clean clothes and fell asleep in the middle of the bed. His cellphone was in his hand, and after an hour or so it vibrated and woke him up.

  “Alex, it’s Diana.”

  “Hey.”

  “Your mother is very ‘low,’” Diana said. “You need to come now.”

  Alex ran to his car and for the second time in a week gunned it all the way to the hospital. He parked illegally and ran up five flights of stairs to his mother’s room. When he got there, Aunt Irene was standing in a corner of the room crying and holding a Kleenex up to her face. A nurse looked on solemnly. Diana stood there as well in her doctor’s uniform and was crying quietly.

  His mother’s eyes were open. She was struggling to breathe.

  “She waited for you, Alex,” Diana said softly. “She waited to say goodbye.”

  Alex forced himself to move close to his mother. She was unable to speak, but she looked at him as she gasped. Alex grabbed her hand and held it.

  “It’s okay, Mom. I’m here.”

  Alex would have preferred not to have tears streaming down his face while speaking.

  “Don’t worry about me. Don’t worry about anything,” he continued. “You’ve been the best mother I could have ever asked for. Can you understand what I’m saying?”

  His mother blinked at him a few times and grunted.

  “Whatever’s going to happen now, you’ll be in a better place,” Alex continued. “Just let go and stop fighting. It’s okay.”

  Alex leaned in and kissed his mother’s forehead for the last time.

  His mother nodded slightly. Her eyes closed again and with Alex holding her hand, the pace of her breathing slowed until it finally stopped.

  PART THREE

  The Playoffs