If you ever met Bernie Parent, you'd walk away smiling.
It didn't matter who you were. Friend, family, former teammate, fan, just someone off the street. He'd introduce himself with that bright, unmistakable grin, ask about you, treat you like he's known you for years, even if you only just met a minute ago.
He was happy. He made people happy. That was just the kind of person he was, and what he'll be remembered for among the many, many other incredible reasons to.
Parent passed away on Sunday. He was 80 years old.
He was an icon of the Flyers, the star goalie of the notorious "Broad Street Bullies" from the 1970s, who won Vezinas, Conn Smythes, and those back-to-back Stanley Cup championships that made the city embrace such a foreign sport and a bunch of rough around the edges Canadians.
He was an icon of Philadelphia, too.
When his career was done, Parent, a Montreal native, chose to stay here. He was always around, making appearances on behalf of the Flyers or even the other teams, going hands-on and introducing countless kids to the sport of hockey through the Ed Snider Youth Hockey and Education Foundation (the beloved late Flyers owner's namesake), or just being willing to stop and talk with anyone who recognized him anywhere.
He was everyone's friend, or at least that's how he made you feel.
When news broke of his passing, former teammates and generations of Flyers who succeeded his era shared stories of how much Parent meant, to the organization, to the city, and to them.
And it feels like anyone who ever had even the slightest interest in the Philadelphia Flyers has their own Bernie Parent story to share.
Here's mine…
It's a school night in late October 2011, and the Flyers and the NHL were both suddenly re-shaped.
Mike Richards and Jeff Carter were gone, Claude Giroux and Chris Pronger were the new faces of the team, and hopes were being poured into Ilya Bryzgalov being the $51 million answer in goal.
That summer was a jarring shakeup for the Flyers, and all while that was happening, the Atlanta Thrashers stopped being a thing. They became the new version of the Winnipeg Jets.
I wanted to see what this version of the Flyers was going to be, and the league's new (returning? relocated?) team. My Grandpa, who always pleads that he's not the biggest hockey fan yet always has stories to tell about how fun those '70s Bullies teams were, would always try to surprise me with tickets, and had some curiosity himself.
So he came up with two: Oct. 27, 2011, against Winnipeg.
When we arrived to what used to be the Wells Fargo Center that night, we both immediately saw Bob Kelly and Bernie Parent on the concourse taking pictures and chatting with other fans.
"That's Bernie and 'The Hound,'" my Grandpa told me as he pointed over. "Bob Kelly used to be mean back in his day."
We went over. An awkward, uncertain high schooler at the time, I was a bit starstruck. These guys were way before my time, but they won the Stanley Cup, twice, something I've never seen a Flyers team do, and changed the entire NHL while they were at it.
I only ever heard stories about them growing up, about how good they were, about how beloved they are here, despised pretty much everywhere else (except for when they beat up on the Russians), and how huge the parades were.
They were legends. I didn't know what to say.
My Grandpa? He turned to Parent, asked how he was doing, and started telling him about his bum knee (that he absolutely refused to get replaced for another couple of years). Parent's eyes lit up as he let out a laugh. They both started exchanging long-nagging ailments that quickly looped in Kelly, in a conversation that flowed so naturally in other directions that it was like three friends of decades from the old neighborhood.
But it was my Grandpa, a lifelong contractor and a proud Italian through and through, and two larger-than-life Canadians who carved out a place in both Philly sports and hockey immortality. That was a beautiful thing.
Then Parent turned to me.
We shook hands, he seemed to know I was late into high school and asked me how it was going, and if I had started thinking about colleges and what I wanted to do.
I shyly told him I was interested in journalism and really wanted to go to Temple. He was emphatic about that, so was Kelly. They both wished me the best. Then I handed them my bright orange Flyers hat, asked if they could sign it, and if they could take a picture with my Grandpa and I.
It was no problem.
It's a bit dusty now, but I still have that hat. My Grandpa and I both have that picture, and we both remember how effortlessly he talked to Parent and how we both walked away smiling for having met him – plus how we ended up seeing 17 combined goals that night.
Bernie Parent was just that kind of person.
Past the hockey player, past the accolades, he was the guy who could make anyone smile. He was everyone's friend.
That was a beautiful thing.
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