Here's what happened: We were standing beneath a gazebo in a park in Mimico, a tightly connected working-class neighborhood on the west side. Dave Bolland, the Chicago Blackhawks center, a native of Mimico, was signing autographs beside the Stanley Cup. Howie Borrow was looking down, checking his cell phone, not paying attention. I doubt he saw anything. It happened so fast, and frankly, once it was over, and the horror passed -- once I had processed what had happened and that Howie probably hadn't seen any of it and was therefore calm -- I didn't have the heart to tell him. His blood pressure would have skyrocketed. His face would have turned red the way it does. His voice would have made that transition it makes -- from painfully modest to pleading, the voice of a teenager whose parents are gone for the weekend and his friends are spilling beer on the new sofa.

What happened was that a man molested the Stanley Cup.Â

Howie is 47, and Canada nice, and his job is guarding the Cup. Moments before the line at the Cup began forming, he made a brief announcement to the several thousand who had assembled and were waiting for a picture with the Cup or Bolland or both: "You can hug the Stanley Cup, and you can kiss the Cup, but the main thing I ask is you never try to lift or to move it." By those rules, the guy who molested the Stanley Cup did nothing out of bounds. But he fondled it with a ferocity some would discourage. The man was elderly. Like everyone, he had waited a half-hour. When it was his turn for a photo, he removed his shirt. He circled the Cup, sizing it up. Then he wrapped his long arms around it, bear-hugging the trophy. The day was sticky and as he released the chalice from his embrace, his wet skin made a loud squish. People groaned. He grinned. But that's the magic of the Stanley Cup.

"Folks start normal around it," Howie said later, "and gradually go insane."

Howie's job is more stressful than it sounds. He travels with the Cup. He reminds the hockey players who cart it around what they can and can't do with it. But most important, he watches, anticipates.

He mentally plans escape routes for the Cup, should fans grow too excited. This is when he reminds the public that they have breached decorum and are now molesting the Stanley Cup, which the Hockey Hall of Fame and National Hockey League would undoubtedly frown upon.

See, the Cup comes with a lot of rules, outlined to players and Keepers in a five-page pamphlet distributed by the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto, which preserves the Cup. According to NHL tradition, once a team has won the Cup, anyone vital to making that championship possible â€” players, coaches, trainers, equipment managers â€” is allowed a day with it. They can do what they want, within reason. This continent-spanning bacchanal lasts 100 days.

Anyway, decorum.

New rules are added, old rules rarely amended. Last year, after the Cup was thrown into the swimming pool of Pittsburgh Penguins captain Mario Lemieux (a repeat of a 1991 incident involving Lemieux), a mandate went out: The Cup was absolutely not allowed inside swimming pools anymore. For many years it hasn't been allowed inside strip clubs, casinos or anywhere a picture could be taken connecting the Cup with seediness; this rule was introduced in 1995 after Mark Messier (then with the New York Rangers) took the Cup to a Manhattan strip club. There are many other rules: The Cup is not allowed to endorse products or corporations (though charities are generally fine). When the Cup is outside of its velvet-lined travel case and crossing water, it should wear a life jacket. The Cup may ride in a car but must wear a seat belt. Under no conditions is the Cup allowed to skydive.

Also, the Cup has a midnight curfew. Which, if you are an NHL player high off your Cup win, you may find restrictive. "But the majority of (players), if they don't see the guy with white gloves, they get upset," said Phil Pritchard, curator of the Hockey Hall of Fame. "They want the complete experience. And that's why we're here."

On Saturday, at their home opener, the Blackhawks' time with the Cup will be over, more or less. The Keepers of the Cup will be on hand, wearing white gloves as always, "more a symbol of respect and tradition than a necessity," Howie said. He has been on the job about a year. He's the least experienced of the Keepers. There are five. All are men, and all are Canadian. The most experienced is Pritchard. He resembles an aging surfer, with sandy blond hair parted down the middle. The most dedicated is the perfectly named Mike Bolt, described by those close to the Cup as the most "badass" of the Cup's security detail, a guy who likes wraparound shades and travels 260 days a year with the Cup. He has no hobbies, no wife, no kids and no commitments. "No, the best relationship I have had in the past 10 years? That's with the Stanley Cup.

"But I only hang out with winners, eh."

Howie wanted this all his life.

When he was young, his family moved around Canada. But his father is from Parry Sound, on Georgian Bay, north of Toronto, and Parry Sound is also the hometown of Bobby Orr, so Howie relates most with Parry Sound.

Six years ago, he began volunteering at the Hockey Hall of Fame, then working part time for the Hall, "networking, doing whatever I could, letting people know I was available." Now, when he's not watching the Cup, he's an off-ice hockey official for the Toronto Maple Leafs, the American Hockey League and a few other leagues. When he's not an official, he's coaching youth hockey.

"Howie is a bad peanut butter sandwich," Pritchard said, "spread way too thin."