In the last minute of the game, my new friend the blue center had an open shot at me. He wound up and launched a rocket. No slapshots, my ass. I got a glove on it, knocked it just high enough to hit the crossbar with a loud ringing sound that reverberated through the entire arena.
The game ended. There would be no overtime. The next game was ready to start, as soon as they got us out of there and gave the Zamboni a chance to take a quick run over the ice.
He glared at me, breathing hard.
I look back on that moment now, the two of us facing each other on the ice. I wonder what I would have done if I had known what would happen in the next few days. I probably would have hit him in the face with my hockey stick. Or broken off the end and jabbed him in the neck. But of course, I had no way of knowing. At that moment, he was just another hotshot asshole hockey player, and I was the old man who just took away his third goal.
“No hat trick today,” I said to him. “Looks like the Cowboys and Indians have to settle for a tie.”
CHAPTER TWO
The night was cold. It had to be below zero. My wet hair froze to my head the moment I stepped outside. Across the street the Kewadin Casino was shining proudly. It was a big building and it was decorated with giant triangles meant to remind you of Indian teepees. It was almost midnight on a frozen Thursday night but I could see that the parking lot was full.
The Horns Inn was not far away, just over on the east side of Sault Ste. Marie, overlooking the St. Marys River. As soon as you walk in the place, you see deer heads and bear heads and stuffed coyotes, birds, just about any animal you can think of. I usually don’t spend much time there, but Vinnie was buying that night, so what the hell. It was the least I could do, even if it was American beer.
“Here’s to our new goalie,” he said, raising a glass of Pepsi. We had pushed a couple of tables together in the back of the place. His eight teammates were all there, all quietly working on their second beers.
“Stop right there,” I said. “You said this was a one-night gig, remember?”
“Yeah, but you were great, Alex. You gotta keep playing. Do you realize that those guys had a perfect record before tonight? We just tied them!”
If his teammates shared his enthusiasm, they didn’t show it. I looked at each of them, one by one. A couple you’d know were Indians the moment you saw them. The rest were like Vinnie-a lot of mixed blood. Maybe you’d see it in the cheekbones. Or the dark, careful eyes.
They were all drinking. Most if not all would get drunk that night. More than one would get to a state well past drunk. I knew it bothered Vinnie. “I feel guilty sometimes,” he once told me, “living off the reservation. A lot of my tribe, they think I abandoned them. When I was growing up, I could go down the street and walk in any house I wanted to. Just walk right in. Open the refrigerator, make a sandwich. Go turn the TV on. Everybody was my family.”
He never really told me why he left the reservation. Maybe he wanted to buy his own house instead of living on land owned by the tribe. Or all that family togetherness he was talking about, maybe it was just too much.
He lives in Paradise, right down the road from me. He’s my closest neighbor, maybe my closest friend next to Jackie. He deals blackjack at the Bay Mills Casino when he isn’t doing his Red Sky hunting guide thing. “You know the difference between an Indian blackjack dealer and a white blackjack dealer?” he once asked me. “This is going to sound like a stereotype, but it’s true. The white blackjack dealer never gambles. Those guys in Vegas? They see a thousand people playing blackjack all night long, maybe fifty of them walk away big winners, right? You think those dealers are gonna cash their paychecks and play blackjack with it? I’ve got a couple of cousins who lose every dime, every week, guaranteed. They cash their check, maybe they buy some food and beer, then they go right to the casino and lose the rest of it. Every fucking week, Alex. And nothing I do or say is gonna change it.”
Vinnie sat at the table, staring at a moose head on the wall. Nobody said anything. Just a quiet frozen winter night at the Horns Inn.
Until the blue team showed up.
They busted into the place with a lot of noise and a gust of arctic air that rattled the glasses on our table. “Goddamn,” one of them said, “will ya look at this place?”
They pushed a few tables together at the other end of the room. There were nine men and nine women. Most of them had leather bomber jackets on. Even with the fur collars, they couldn’t be warm enough.
My new buddy the center went up to the bar, told the man to start the pitchers coming. He had one of those hockey haircuts, cut close on the sides and long in the back.
“So who the hell is that guy?” I finally said.
“Who, the center?”
“Yeah, Mr. Personality.”
“That’s Lonnie Bruckman. Some piece of work, eh?”
“He always play high?”
Vinnie laughed. “You noticed, huh?”
“Hard not to.”
“Guy can skate, though, can’t he? I think he played for one of the farm teams somewhere. Most of those guys on his team are ringers. Old teammates from Canada. He brings in a new guy every week.”
Bruckman took a couple pitchers back to the tables. When he came back for more, he spotted us. Our lucky night.
“Hey, it’s the Indians!” he said. As he came and stood over us, I got a good look at him without the hockey gear on. Whatever he was on, he had just taken another dip, probably in the car on the way over here. Coke or speed, maybe both. “Nice game, boys,” he said. “Can I bring a couple of pitchers over?”
Nobody said anything.
He looked at Vinnie’s glass. “What ya got there, LeBlanc? Rum and Coke? Lemme buy you one.”
“It’s Pepsi,” Vinnie said.
“You’re kidding me,” Bruckman said. “An Indian that doesn’t drink?” He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard in weeks.
“We’re all set here,” Vinnie said. “Thanks just the same.”
“Hey, old man,” he said to me, “that was a nice save you made on me. You took away my hat trick, you know that?”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Sorry about that.”
“I’ll get you next time.”
“Won’t be a next time,” I said. “I was just filling in tonight.”
“You gotta play again,” he said. “You’re good. Believe me, I know. I played in the Juniors in Oshawa. I played on the same line as Eric Lindros before he went up. I would’a gone up myself if I wasn’t an American.”
There it is, I thought. There’s always an excuse. All the guys I played ball with, and most of them never went to the major leagues, of course. Maybe one in a hundred guys who starts out in the rookie leagues ever makes it. The other ninety-nine, they all have a story. Coach never gave me a chance. Hurt my knee. Didn’t get enough at-bats. It’s never just “I wasn’t quite good enough.”
This American thing, though, that was a new one, because of course you’re only going to hear that one from a hockey player. I should have let it go. Just nodded at the guy, smiled, let him stand there making a jackass of himself, laughed at him later. But I couldn’t help it.
“That’s a shame,” I said. “They should really let Americans play in the NHL. It’s just not fair. Ain’t that right, Vinnie?”
“It’s gotta be a conspiracy,” Vinnie said.
“How many Americans are there?” I said. “I bet we could count them on one hand. Let’s see… John LeClair, Brian Leetch, Chris Chelios…”
“Doug Weight,” Vinnie said. “Mike Modano, Tony Amonte.”
“Keith Tkachuk,” I said. “Pat LaFontaine, Adam Deadmarsh.”
“Jeremy Roenick, Gary Suter.”
“Shawn McEachern, Joel Otto.”
“Bryan Berard, is he American?”
“I believe so.”
“Derian Hatcher, Kevin Hatcher. Are they brothers?”