What are friends for?

For those of you who mistakenly believe that Santa Claus doesn’t exist, you should have been at our home on Christmas morning. Tucked away among the trains, trucks and puzzles was a very tall and slender wrapped present from the Jolly Old Elf.

To the trained eye, the item was no mystery. It was a hockey stick. The mystery, though, was to whom it belonged. One look at the tag, written in red ink, showed the present was a gift to my son, Colin, 4, from "Santa-opoulos."

For those who know Colin, I’m not bragging when I say that he’s pretty smart. He, too, knew it was a hockey stick. Still, he tore off the wrapping paper with enthusiasm, trying to determine its ownership.

As the paper fell to the carpeted floor, it was clear that the game-used stick once belonged to Boston Bruins star Patrice Bergeron. Colin, having seen the name many times, even recognized the lettering on the shaft.

"Daddy," he exclaimed, "it’s Patrice’s stick! It’s Patrice’s stick! Santa brought me Patrice’s stick!"

Fast forward, now, to the day after Christmas. We find ourselves in Wilmington, Mass., dodging raindrops in the parking lot of the Bruins practice facility. A large, black truck pulls into a parking space. Bergeron hops out.

As Bergeron makes his way to the locker room, Colin’s voice rings out: "Hey, Patrice. Gonna sign my stick?"

I didn’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed. All I could do was laugh.

Bergeron, who has come to recognize the voice through their many meetings and the trading of autographed photos, stops in his tracks, turns around and smiles.

"Sure, Colin," he says.