Few universally beloved individuals make the kind of impact on a major city (Detroit) and/or an entire nation (Canada) as significant as Gordie Howe did. The National Hockey League’s greatest player was as fierce and merciless a competitor as the game has ever known on the ice, but away from the rink he was an admirable and endearing blend of modesty, kindness, wholesomeness, and patience.

Who says “Mr. Hockey” (a name actually trademarked by Howe’s business-savvy late wife Colleen) was the best ever? Certainly not the man himself; for Howe to even suggest such a thing would have been at odds with his genuine humility. But when all-time great players like Wayne Gretzky, Bobby Orr and the late Maurice Richard, each of whom has a significant following that thinks he is the greatest ever, unanimously testify that the man who led his sport in virtually every meaningful statistical category when he retired for good in 1980 is their superior, well, it’s worth taking heed.

Howe’s office affability was every bit as genuine as his reputation for toughness on it.

I know.

In December 1978, the editor of my college’s student newspaper wanted a feature story on Howe, who was playing three-quarters of an hour or so down the road for the New England Whalers of the World Hockey Association. Fifty years old at the time, Howe was in the midst of what would turn out to be the penultimate season of his unprecedented 32- year playing career.

I was the natural choice for the assignment; I knew a bit about hockey, and outwardly emitted confidence and competence. It was a false front. The reality was I was a mediocre, directionless student with a sports fixation. Even I knew I wasn’t anywhere near athletic enough to make a living competing, and while I was 21 chronologically, I was about 14 socially. Any woman I liked seemed unaware of my existence, and the few who actually did discern I was alive were universally immune to my charms. Lacking any confidence whatsoever, I felt pretty insignificant at the time. And as I have since learned, feeling worthless all too often puts one on the fast road to actual worthlessness.

I spent a sleepless night before my scheduled trip to Hartford preparing deep and meaningful questions for my intended subject. I prayed the Whalers would win, terrified that if they didn’t hockey’s grand old man would be far too distraught over the defeat to talk to some wannabe reporter from a college newspaper.

Naturally, the Whalers got thrashed, and after the game I headed with great trepidation to the locker room, fearing en route that The Great Man wouldn’t want to talk to anyone, let alone some sweater-clad nerd from a college newspaper. I just hoped he’d reject my interview request quietly, rather than increase my inevitable humiliation tenfold by loudly dismissing me in front of others.

Feeling equal parts invisible and irrelevant, I waited for all the real reporters camped in front of Number Nine’s locker to finish their work. When the last one finally departed, I reluctantly slithered in his direction.

“Uh…Mr. Howe?” I meekly squeaked in a high, nervous voice that came out sounding like a cross between Porky Pig and Alvin the Chipmunk. The weary gladiator glanced up, curious to see who was stammering in his space.

Determined to try again, I mumbled, “MynameisAndyYoun gfromtheConnecticutDailyCamp usandIwaswonderingifyoucouldmaybe…”

At that point the seemingly ageless hockey legend mercifully interrupted.

“Where’d you say you were from, son?”

“The University of Connecticut,” I gasped.

He gave me a big smile, heartily slapped me on the back, and said, “That’s OK. I won’t hold that against you!”

For the next few minutes, Gordie Howe patiently and thoughtfully answered questions he had undoubtedly heard hundreds of times before, but did so in a manner suggesting he felt privileged to be talking with me, rather than the other way around. I left the Civic Center that night feeling ten feet tall. More importantly, I never, ever felt completely insignificant again, no matter who I was interacting with.

Perhaps if Gordie Howe hadn’t cheerfully given me his time and attention nearly four decades ago I’d still be the same productive, happy, and reasonably successful fellow I am today.

Or maybe not.

It’s a shame that between Muhammad Ali’s passing earlier this month and the horrific events over the weekend in Orlando, Florida, the death of professional hockey’s greatest player is likely to get lost in the shuffle. But it’s also appropriate. Leaving quietly and without fanfare was most likely exactly how the unassuming, inherently decent Gordie Howe would have wanted to end his ordinary, extraordinary 88-year Earthly existence.

— Andy Young teaches in Kennebunk and lives in Cumberland.