WIll repost this on St. Patrick's Day thread when one is put up
I met big Pat on a job site one day
Shook hands with him, and my hand disappeared into his big paw, he had hands like steam shovels...a true giant of a man, and a proud Irishman
So goes the story:
Pat Quinn went to a Boston bar after knocking out Bobby Orr in a game… For a moment, Quinn had forgotten where he was and what he had done the night before, and he thought it might be his final mistake.
Quinn was a rookie with the Toronto Maple Leafs, and death threats or no death threats, was expected to fetch the beer for the bus ride. He did what was expected.
Down the street from the Garden, a sportsbar was overflowing with Bruin fans, hard-nosed Bostonians who had been at the game and been angry the great Orr had not played. And the man responsible stepped through the front door - through their front door and into their bar.
Quinn edged through the crowd toward the bartender when a shout came from behind him.
“Hey, it’s Quinn! It’s Quinn!”
The big rookie froze. How could he have been so stupid, so careless? He looked for an escape route. No chance. People were wedged six deep around him. In the tense silence, he waited for the first fist, or bottle or worse.
A hand came at him, but instead of going for Quinn’s granite jaw, landed squarely on his back. Then another.
“Nice hit, Patty boy. Nice hit.”
The men around him smiled, and Quinn felt blessed to be Irish-Catholic in an Irish-Catholic town.
“On the house,” the bartender said.