Some 12 years ago, I was at a Red Sox game at Fenway Park in Boston.

It was a beautiful summer day, my friends Mike and Annie and I had great seats right behind home plate, and the Sox were playing their biggest rival: the most evil, overpaid bunch of primadonnas and pretty boys to ever lace up cleats, the New York Yankees. As baseball rivalries go, this is the big one.

Halfway through the second inning, a murmur started moving through the crowd. People were craning their necks to get a look higher up in the stands. Fenway can be a rough place sometimes, so I figured it was just a garden-variety brawl and went back to watching the game.

A couple more innings passed and the crowd was still interested in something up above, so I turned to the guy behind me and asked what was up.

“Aw, it’s that fudge George Steinbrenner,” he answered, drunkenly, spraying globules of Fenway Frank and beer all over me (only he didn’t say “fudge”—an accurate transcription would be indecorous for a memorial essay). “He’s sitting up there with his hired goons about 20 rows up.”

Now, it just so happens that I have a special bond with Steinbrenner. Although we attended different schools, on different sides of the continent, we’re both members of the same college fraternity, Delta Kappa Epsilon (nicknamed Deke). As a result, the owner of the New York Yankees and I are fraternity brothers and therefore have a special relationship, even if it’s an admittedly tenuous connection.

With this in mind, and fortified by a couple or three beers, I decide it’s my duty go say hi to Brother Steinbrenner. As I make my way up the steps, wearing my Red Sox cap, the hired goon on the aisle seat sees me coming and stands up to block my access. I feint to the left, the big man takes the bait, and I zip to the right, stick out my hand and in one breath manage to blurt out “BROTHERSTEINBRENNERMY NAMEISDOUGSARTIANDI’MADEKE”.

By now the goon has turned and has his hand on my shoulder, probably ready to kidney punch me, but the boss waves him off. Steinbrenner shakes my hand and says. “Hi Doug, nice to meet you. I’d give you the secret handshake but it’s been so long I can’t remember it”. I laugh and have to admit that I’ve forgotten it too.

Then there’s an awkward moment of silence where neither one of us knows what to say, so I decide to let the guy get back to watching the game. “Okay,” I say, “well it was nice meeting you”. Steinbrenner replied in kind, and then I made the trek back to my seat.

Of course, we’ve all heard the stories about Steinbrenner’s legendary temper. And granted, I wasn’t Billy Martin, or the commissioner of baseball, or an umpire, or an underling, but I must say, to my astonishment, that Steinbrenner was genuinely warm and friendly.

On a hot summer day, in the middle of the Red Sox Nation—enemy territory for the Yanks—George Steinbrenner gave a Sox fan the time of day and was, well, nice.

Rest in peace, brother.