Honestly, I didn’t watch that much hockey growing up. It’s not like I wasn’t aware of it- I think it’s mostly that I just didn’t skate well and thereby never played. It’s hard to fully appreciate a sport that you’ve never really participated in, even at a very basic level. Cam was different, though- every minute on ice was like watching unbridled aggression distilled to its purest, crystallized form. He could score, he could hit, and boy could he fight; he was always the baddest dude on the ice.

When I was about 10 years old, a friend called to say that Cam was signing autographs at Calverts, a little department store in my hometown that sold factory seconds. I remember running over with the first signable object I could find, an old index card I found floating around in my kitchen. He was smaller than I expected, and much nicer off the ice. He complimented my hat, signed my card and told me to keep rooting for the Bruins. I was smitten.

When the Bruins won the Cup last year, Boston went apeshit. It served as a reminder that deep in its guts, Boston really is a hockey town. I was excited for the team and felt an overwhelming sense of civic pride. More than anything though, I was happy for Cam. As President of the Bruins, his fingerprints were all over that team. They finished checks, dropped the gloves for each other and repeatedly stared down long odds. As an executive, Cam finally had the Cup that had eluded him as a player. The first thing I did? I went digging in a shoebox, looking for a certain index card- slightly yellowed, but otherwise good as new.