“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.”