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?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But they’re both American.”

“Mike Richter in goal,” Vinnie said.

“And John Vanbiesbrouck.”

“All right already,” Bruckman said. “You guys are real comedians. I didn’t know Indians could be so funny.”

“We forgot Brett Hull!” Vinnie said.

Bruckman grabbed Vinnie’s shoulder. “I said all right already.” His smile was gone.

“Get your hand off me,” Vinnie said.

“You’re making fun of me and I don’t fucking appreciate it,” he said. “Last guy who made fun of me lost most of his teeth.”

The whole place got quiet. His teammates were all looking at us, as well as the men at the bar. There were maybe a dozen of them. They had all been watching the Red Wings game on the television. The bartender had a shot glass in one hand, a towel in the other. He didn’t look happy.