The man walking toward me looked big, even in the dimly-lit distance. I knew exactly who he was.
As he got closer, I felt my stomach do a little flip.
I had a right to be nervous. After all, I was a brand new reporter in my first full-time job and this guy was a hockey legend. I had seen him on TV countless times and now I was about to come face-to-face with him. Or more like face to chest.
It was late summer in 1996 and I was with a colleague from Sports Vue, a weekly sports newspaper in Vancouver. The two of us were walking on the lower concourse of GM Place, which had become the new home of the Vancouver Canucks a year earlier.
Heck, I was still getting used to the idea that I was in an NHL building and was getting paid to be there. And now I was moments away from a close encounter with one of the best-known men in the game.
Quickly, the distance between us and him was gone. My co-worker, who had been around the Canucks for a while, casually said hello and shook the man's hand. Then he introduced me.
I took my turn shaking hands with Pat Quinn, and mine absolutely disappeared inside his massive mitt.
All these years later, I still remember that handshake with Quinn, who passed away last Sunday in Vancouver at the age of 71.
Even though Quinn was dressed in the suit of an executive on that 1996 day (he was general manager of the Canucks at the time), his hand was that of a working man - rough to the touch with that certain indescribable strength just beneath the surface. Had he wanted to, he could have crushed every bone in my insignificant little paw without even exerting himself.
I must have looked star-struck to Quinn. If I did, he never let on. He seemed genuinely happy to meet me.
It was a small moment in time, one I'm sure Quinn quickly forgot about. But the fact he took a minute out of his day to greet me - the new guy with one of Vancouver's lesser-known media outlets - said a lot about him. It spoke to his class and professionalism and showed he didn't put himself on a higher plane of importance. As intimidating as Quinn was physically (he stood six-foot-three, had a hulking upper body and a glare that could wilt anyone who ticked him off) he was a nice guy who put his pants on the same way as everyone else.
Quinn, of course, was also a brilliant hockey man and anybody who is a Canucks fan owes him a debt of gratitude. He was a major reason why the Vancouver teams of the early- to mid-1990s were so successful. The highlight of that era was a run to the Stanley Cup final in 1994 and Quinn was responsible for putting many of the key roster pieces in place - Greg Adams, Kirk McLean, Trevor Linden, Pavel Bure, Cliff Ronning and others.
Quinn, it should not be forgotten, was also head coach of Canada's gold-medal entry at the 2002 Winter Olympics. With him at the helm, Canada ended 50 years of falling short of its golden goal.
Quinn's death leaves a huge hole in the hockey world. I feel fortunate to have met him, even briefly.
Everything I thought I knew about Quinn - my impressions coming from television interviews, as well as clips from games and practices - turned out to be true.
With some people, that can't always be said. But Quinn was exactly as he appeared: a fiery competitor and an unfailing gentleman at the same time.
