My wife Tina and I recently returned from a wonderful six-day trip to NYC (to see some plays) and Philadelphia (to see my son Jon and his partner Kelly sing in the choir for the Philadelphia Pops Concert). The highlight of that trip got me right into the holiday spirit.

On our first night we were sitting in the Winter Garden Theatre on 50th Street and Broadway, awaiting the start of “School of Rock,” a magnificent production featuring amazingly talented young performers. I turned to the older woman on my left and asked, “Do you live locally?” “No,” she replied, “I live in Arlington, Virginia and my son (who was sitting next to her) lives in Bend, Oregon.” We were chatting and she said, “My son is a professional bridge player, and I direct tournaments around the country.”

I said, “Oh, my dad was a top bridge player with 26,000 master points; you probably knew him?” “What was his name?” she asked. “David Treadwell,” I replied. She turned to her son and exclaimed, “This guy’s dad was Dave Treadwell!” The son, with his eyes misting up, said, “In addition to being a terrific bridge player, your dad was the most loved and admired person in the entire bridge world!” The two of them kept singing my dad’s praises and soon my own eyes began misting up. I mentioned that I had written a column about my dad for “Bridge World” magazine shortly before he died. They had both read and loved that piece.

They related a few stories about my dad, including the following. “We were playing bridge in Philadelphia, and the game ended at 1 a.m. Your dad wanted to play some more, but we said we were all too tired. Your dad said, ‘You young people are hopeless. I’m going to Atlantic City to play some blackjack.’ And off he went.” That story occurred, incidentally, when my dad was in his mid-eighties. He was truly one of a kind.

I told them a story about my dad, which occurred a few days before he died at age 97. We were in his room in the hospital and bridge players from the area kept dropping by. One attractive blond woman, perhaps in her 50’s, said to me. “Let me tell you a story about your dad. A few years ago, I got up my nerve and went up to him and asked, ‘Would you fulfill my biggest fantasy and play bridge with me?’ Your dad said, ’I’m too old to fulfill your biggest fantasy, but I’ll play bridge with you.” The woman and her son laughed and said, “Yup, that sounds like him!”

Now what are the odds of those two people sitting right beside me in that theater on that night? And what are the odds of my striking up a conversation with people who didn’t seem on the surface to be the most friendly people in the world. Remember, we’re talking hard-core bridge players who prefer mingling with their own kind to making small talk. But I took the chance, and I’m so glad that I did.

The spirits of the universe were present that night. Call it the Miracle on 50th and Broadway.

David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns at dtreadw575@aol.com.