I was saddened to learn that Jack McIlhargey -- an NHL tough guy defenseman of the 1970s to early 1980s, longtime NHL assistant coach, former AHL head coach and then longtime NHL scout -- passed away on Saturday at the age of 68. "Bucky" was a rough customer on the ice, and a delightful guy away from the rink; funny, kindly and engaging.

We never got to be close friends, but were friendly acquaintances after our playing days. I'm sure we would have been good friends if we'd spent more than passing time in each other's company off the ice. One thing about Bucky is that he had quite the scowl on the ice and a warm smile and infectious laugh hours before or right after a game.

I have three stories to share about how my own career overlapped with Jack's; three distinct points in our respective years around the rink.

When I was a student-athlete at the University of Pennsylvania, I was a rink attendant at the Class of 1923 Rink, which doubled as the Broad Street Bullies era Flyers' practice facility. I remember Jack as a first-year pro who was battling uphill to try to make the team. His legs and his butt were so thick that none of the hockey pants he was supplied fit him properly. I also observed that he was a fearsome competitor on the ice; no quarters asked or given.

Fast-forward to 1979-80, when I was the enforcer on a Quebec Nordiques team that lacked muscle and toughness. We had a game at the Spectrum in Philadelphia against Pat Quinn's Flyers. I had to wear a visor on my helmet, because I'd suffered a scratched cornea in my previous game, which was against Vancouver.

In this game, Flyers rookie Brian Propp -- a highly skilled player who was also rather chippy with his stick, especially in his early years -- pulled a hit-and-run on me. He butt-ended me with his stick and then turned and went back toward his bench.

I went right after Propp to make him answer for it, but there was no way the Flyers tough guy contingent was going to let me get my hands on him. Immediately, McIlhargey, Behn Wilson and John Paddock all came at me. We were about have a brawl.

"Take that bucket off!" one of the Flyers shouted.

"OK," I obliged. "Now, who am I fighting?"

Bucky said nothing verbally. He just stepped up in his own way. Last think I remember was that I got walloped as hard as I ever got hit in my career. I've never seen video of exactly how it all happened but McIlhargey busted me up right to the bone. Got me for 32 stitches. Our head coach Jacques Demers told me that I was done for the night.

Old-school stuff: the doctor tending to me froze the area after inserting the stitching needle, went out in the hallway to smoke a cigarette, and then came back. I was quite numb by this point, and I was sewn back together. Afterwards, I returned alone to the team hotel at the Holiday Inn across the parking lot from Veterans Stadium and the Spectrum.

That was my last fight in the NHL -- and my last game in terms of ones where I actually got out on the ice. I did have another one where I dressed for the game but never saw a shift. I took my skates off midway through the third period. Jacques finally told me to go out for the final 15 seconds, but I couldn't. Getting KOed by McIlhargey combined with the fact that I was getting paid in U.S. dollars rather than Canadian dollars probably hastened the Nordiques' decision not to offer me a new contract after the season.

I would have loved another chance to fight Jack; not out of anger or animosity, but strictly as a challenge. I fought some of the toughest guys of that era in the WHA and NHL -- Terry O'Reilly, Dave Hanson, Jack Carlson, Nick Fotiu (in Rangers training camp) and many more -- and I never felt a punch as devastating as McIlhargey's. Just out of mutual respect and a desire to redeem myself, I'd have wanted to Jack to do me the honor of giving me a second chance. He would have, too, because he lived by "the Code" as much as I did.

Memory No. 3: Fast-forward to the 1990-91 season. I was an NHL referee by this point. Quinn was now the head coach of the Vancouver Canucks and McIlhargey was one of his assistants. Pat and I liked one another off the ice but we also had our share of verbal sparring matches over calls. Quinner fought hard for any edge he could give his team, which often entailed "working" the refs all night, every night. He was incessant, and I wasn't one to take much guff. Two hard-headed Irishmen, who could forget everything but the grudge. It's why we verbally jousted, and why we got along well off the ice.

On this particular night, Pat simply would not shut up. I didn't give him a bench minor, but I was getting tired of it. Perhaps it wasn't my best night. Bucky wasn't usually one to say much on the bench but after one particular play, he was patiently waiting for Quinner to stop yelling at me so he could have his say. I cut off Jack before he could get going.

"Don't YOU start on me, too," I said. "I'm still pissed at you."

With my index finger, I tapped the area where the scar remained from all those stitches I took a decade earlier that night in Philly. Jack knew exactly what I meant. He grinned at me.

That became an inside joke between us. I'd tap the spot. He'd smile, and I'd wink back at him.

Jack battled cancer before he died; fought the hell out of it, and kept working right until near the end. That did not surprise me, one little bit. Rest in peace, Bucky.

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A 2018 inductee into the U.S. Hockey Hall of Fame, Paul Stewart holds the distinction of being the first U.S.-born citizen to make it to the NHL as both a player and referee. On March 15, 2003, he became the first American-born referee to officiate in 1,000 NHL games.

Visit Paul's official websites, YaWannaGo.com and Officiating by Stewart.