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Dave had saved bringing out his famous brother until the end of the season. Parents froze at the sight of him 鈥� he was already a hockey legend and Stanley Cup winner 鈥� but one of Ken鈥檚 superpowers was how disarming he was, making everyone feel normal despite his brilliant presence. Ken shook hands with the parents, mussed some kids’ hair and then, inexplicably, he picked me out of the crowd. 鈥淗it me!鈥� he ordered, before running a buttonhook into centre field. I remember how easy the throw felt: the release of the spiral, its elegant arc, its slow looping death into the arms of the great man and goalie.

Dryden sadly died on Friday at the age of 78. He was an insightful author, erudite politician, compassionate thinker, Hockey Hall of Famer and, while I didn’t know it at the time we met, became a compass who helped me discover who I was as a writer, and a person.

I met Dryden briefly at a Trinity-St. Paul church book sale in the 鈥�80s, where he was signing remaindered copies of his first book 鈥淭he Game.鈥� I was on my way to a gig, and because I had my guitar I presented it to him, full of stickers after a cross-Canada tour. He asked me about my Indian Head decal and I told him about stopping there. We talked a little about Saskatchewan and travelling Highway 1, and then I carried on, leaving an empty room behind me on my way to an empty club. It made me think about fame, and Canada, and books, and how every Hall of Famer eventually ends up at a table alongside their life鈥檚 work, hoping to tell their story to a new listener.

After publishing my second book “Tropic of Hockey” in 2000, I sent out a postcard invite to its launch addressed simply to: Ken Dryden, President, 色色啦 Maple Leafs.

My event was at the Steam Whistle Brewery along Bremner Blvd. and that evening, just before I was set to read, the great wooden door to the brewhouse opened. Dryden walked in. Remarkably, the invite had made it to him. If I鈥檇 sent it unaddressed to a dozen other figures from the sport 鈥� any sport 鈥� I doubt many of them would have shown up.

Getting my book published was a big deal, and having Dryden at the launch brought me and the work out of the wilderness, a little. It validated that someone who wasn鈥檛 part of the game could write about the game. My parents were there, along with my long-standing Morningstar teammates and two Transylvanians who brought me a bottle of palinka 鈥� Carpathian moonshine 鈥� which ate away at our paper cups. We were all thrilled to have an unassuming giant of the game in our midst.

At the end of the night, Dryden bought a book, which he asked me to sign. His gesture was genuine, but he was also giving me the gift of offering my signature to him years after he鈥檇 done the same for me. I rode this feeling of recognition and achievement all the way to the Wheat Sheaf Tavern 鈥� truth is, I鈥檓 still riding it now 鈥� where, several cups in, I asked the waitress if I could buy a bottle of champagne from the bar to celebrate. She laughed and whipped my neck with her dish cloth.

Later, in Whitehorse, Dryden was a guest of 鈥淗ockey Day in Canada鈥� and former Yukon premier Ranj Pillai. It was astonishing to see how much of his time he gave to every stranger who approached him, falling into involved conversations about life, hockey, the world; leaning over from his great height and tipping an ear to hear the person鈥檚 story. We shared a coffee and talked about what was next 鈥� after completing a project, this was his common refrain: 鈥淲hat鈥檚 next?鈥澛犫�� and I told him that I was thinking of travelling around with a Newfoundland wrestling troupe, appearing in my grappler鈥檚 persona: the Ugly Nun. Dryden laughed his great, deep-bellied laugh and then grew serious, telling me to do it as long as the body allowed. One of Dryden’s gifts was that whenever you spoke, you knew that what he returned would be deeply thoughtful, considerate, kind and acute. Parsing Dryden’s advice about my wrestling book idea, I realized that being thrown around the ring was a bridge too far. I moved on to my memoir about Dave Keon, and produced the book I was more likely meant to write.

Many years after that 鈥� and many books later 鈥� Dryden and I were together at Stompin鈥� Tom Connors鈥� wake at the Memorial Arena in Peterborough, home of the Petes. Tom had programmed the event from his hospital bed and he鈥檇 asked us both to speak and perform. Before the show started, the musician Mike Plume, standing in the doorway of the Peterborough Petes dressing room that doubled as the artist鈥檚 green room, sighed and said to me: 鈥淲ell, Tom鈥檚 here.鈥�

鈥淵up, you can really feel his spirit,鈥� I returned, blithely.

鈥淣o, I mean he鈥檚 here,鈥� he said, pointing down the hallway.

I looked out to see a hearse backing in through the Zamboni bay, where two Mounties lifted Connors’ coffin on to a stand and wheeled him out to the stage so that he could be up there during the performances, another of his last requests. I found Dryden and told him. His eyes widened and he reared back, gripping the pages of his address. If Ken Dryden was nervous, it was OK for me to be, too. He squeezed my shoulder and made his way to the stage. A few moments later, I played 鈥淏ridge Came Tumblin鈥� Down鈥� with Connors’ band. We both did OK.

At the end of the memorial, Connors’ wife Lena asked all of the performers to return to the stage for a closing version of 鈥淏ud the Spud鈥� and, after leaving my seat in the crowd, I noticed that Dryden had remained sitting. It was my turn to grab him by the shoulder. He stood up and we climbed the stage, where he towered above the sea of musicians, concentrating while clapping in time behind the drummer with those great goalie hands, always commanding, and yet also listening.