Last weekend, I was in Minsk, Belarus, to see the Russian KHL’s All-Star Game. After the game, I was standing in the mixed zone, listening to former NHLer Ville Peltonen, also a Finnish national hero thanks to his hat trick in a World Championship final against Sweden in 1995, when some fans showed up.

They said, “pleez, pleez” and gave Peltonen some small flags, posters, and a pen. He said, “sure,” and signed a half a dozen autographs, and posed for a few photos.

(Some of my colleagues thought it was such a no-no that the KHL should be fined, but my story’s not going there).

I’ve been asked for my autograph once. Coincidentally, it was during the year that Ville’s father, Esa, also a Team Finland legend, but a generation earlier, was my coach.

I came walking from the dressing room, and opened the door to the lobby of the arena. It wasn’t huge, there was just a Coke machine, a janitor’s booth, and a staircase to an upstairs cafeteria. Usually the girlfriends and wives were waiting there – the ones that didn’t have kids – and usually I just kept on walking out the front door.

Except, this one time, there were two young boys, with pen and paper, and they stopped me by politely standing in my way, and shoving the pen and paper to my chest.

I was amazed. Never before had I been asked for an autograph. Never before had someone wanted to touch my life in such a way. Never before had someone wanted to get a piece of me like that. A memento.

I’ve never been an autograph hunter. Probably because I haven’t been in the presence of great celebrities, or because I’m just too shy to approach anybody and have them sign a piece of paper for me just because I happen to share a space with them for a second.

In fact, I’ve only asked for an autograph once in my life, and I did that just to get somebody else – who was an autograph hunter, but also shy – to do it. At that point, I was in my thirties. During the 2003 Hockey World Championship in Helsinki, Brother-in-Law and I saw legendary Soviet coach Viktor Tikhonov outside the Helsinki arena. Brother-in-Law wanted to get an autograph of the coach that saw the Miracle on Ice from behind the losers’ bench.

So, for moral support, I did it. And I’m glad I did. Because I could tell he was glad to sign my little piece of paper.

I do have some other autographs. When I was 13, a friend of mine sent me Bobby Hull’s autograph. And in Canada, a radio host friend of mine told me, on his way to backstage area, that he’d get me something. He did. I have a ticket stub that says “To Reestow, lots of love, Nancy xxx”. Nancy is Nancy Wilson of Heart.

Bobby Hull, Heart, Viktor Tikhonov. Happy to have all their autographs, and happy to have that special connection to them all. (I also have all of the Tampa Bay Lightning players’ autographs on a hat that Cookie sent me, and for that reason alone, that team has a special place in my heart).

There is one autograph I know better than the others, though. It used to be the first thing I saw when I woke up in my teens. It was the one that was plastered all over the margins in all my books in high school. It belonged to a hockey player whose photo I used on my bus pass for months. The first name started with upside-down Golden Arches, and the last name with a G that was so different from the one I had learned at school that it seemed more like a musical note than a letter to me.

But I could copy it perfectly.

“Wayne Gretzky”, and a little “#99” underneath, on a poster above my bed.

Even if I never seem to be able to throw anything away, I’ve never been a collector, either. I don’t have a complete collection of anything. But the things I have, I keep. That’s why there’s still one of the 1978 soccer World Cup collectible cards floating around my desk somewhere. Oddly enough, it’s a photo of Team Sweden, of all countries.

I’ve never been able to collect hockey cards,don’t have the perseverance, but I do have a couple of Gretzkys, and a Mats Sundin. I have saved several special Gretzky retirement magazines. I have that old Toronto Maple Leafs game program where I first read about this great player, then called The Kid. I have the ticket stub to his last game in the NHL. A friend sent it to me.

I’ve read two Gretzky biographies dozens of times, and all through high school, I had an Oilers sticker – “Go 2 it” – on the splash guard of my green Peugeot bike.

The only collectible thing I have ever bought, just to have, is the August 10 issue of the Edmonton Sun. The one detailing the trade that took Gretzky from the Edmonton Oilers to the Los Angeles Kings.

Well, I do have two Wayne Gretzky action figures, one with an Oiler Wayne hoisting the Stanley Cup above his head, and another, an LA King Gretzky.

Wife calls them dolls.

If there ever was an autograph I wanted, it was Gretzky’s.

Five hours before I was standing in the mixed zone watching Ville Peltonen talk to the press and fans, I was in a hotel, a conference room, in Minsk, Belarus. There were about 50 journalists there, a few camera crews, and a half a dozen photographers.

A colleague placed my dictaphone on the table next to the mikes, so I could record what was being said. I found a spot in the back, in an open area, where I could see the door.

Twelve hours earlier, I had heard that Wayne Gretzky was in town and that I was invited to a press conference he would have. I was even under the impression that I might get some one-on-one time with the Great One, so when I saw him walk into the room, my heart was beating and my mind was racing.

What would I ask him? What would I ask him? Would I waste a minute on his opinions on the Russian league, or would I ask him about the good old days. He must be tired of talking about that, I decided. What about being The Great One? He’s not going to tell me, he doesn’t know me.

Should I ask for his autograph? No. I’m working.

I moved to the other side of the conference room, so I could get closer, and take some photos.

I was trying to see what he saw: a room full of journalists – he looked surprised to see so many people there – and a guy with a camera to his right, staring, smiling, cocking his head to the left.

Would he know that I was his biggest fan? Could he tell? What would he say if I told him so? But of course, I wouldn’t, not now, not here, not … probably ever.

I looked at him. Wayne’s not 18, or 25 anymore. Neither am I. Then he looked at me. And I think he looked into my eyes. And I think he smiled.

After the press conference, I went to get my recorder when all the other journalists approached Gretzky, to ask one more question. I snuck behind the table, looking for my Olympus, but couldn’t see it anywhere. I heard somebody ask Wayne something about Jari Kurri, and sighed, because I had heard the answer a hundred times before.

I felt a slight panic for having lost my recorder, and a Gretzky press conference on it so I moved to the left, and felt the table cloth with my hand, to see if my recorder had maybe somehow ended up underneath it.

And then I felt my shoulder touch something. I looked up, and there was Wayne Gretzky.

I was rubbing shoulders with Wayne Gretzky.

For real. I decided that I didn’t need his autograph. I could still do one myself.

”Me?” I asked the boys. “You want my autograph?”

“Yeah, yeah,” they said.

I looked around to see if any of the girlfriends saw this. If they did, they didn’t care. I took the pen and paper, and wrote my name on it. No number underneath, just my name. After all, I hadn’t even played in the game, I’d been a healthy scratch, as I had been all season.

“Thanks,” the boys said.

“You’re welcome,” I replied, and walked towards the door, to get to my sky-blue 1966 Volkswagen Beetle as fast as possible when I heard one of the boys talk again.

“Who was he?” he asked his friend.