Without question the word that best describes Paul Stewart is alive. Even as he sits at the desk in his hotel room, he is a human whirlwind, speaking on the phone, scrawling notes on a yellow legal pad, typing furiously on his laptop. He finishes his call, springs to his feet and pumps my hand exuberantly.

“Sorry. Doing about three things at once.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s not apologizing for being busy; he is apologizing for being able to do three things at once. After a few minutes with him I wonder: “Only three?”

Stewart grins, revealing a bottom row of perfect, hockey player white teeth that look brand new. His face is square, cocked at an angle, and his eyes are steel blue lasers, taking you in. He wears a denim work shirt with “Relay For Life” stitched over the pocket. A baseball cap announcing “Hockey Fights Cancer” on the brim lies on his head. He fidgets with the cap, removes it. A shock of gray hair, bordering on white, spills out. Paul slides a chair over for me, grabs a bottle of water, hands one to me. I ask him how he feels about winning the Gold Whistle Award. He lands back in his chair and soaks up the question.

“When I got the call that I won the award, I was knocked right over. I might be the one being honored but, truthfully, everything I’m credited for doing myself is really a team effort.”

Stewart speaks in a refined Boston lilt; close your eyes and you’re talking to one of the Kennedy clan. He caresses the emblem over his pocket, almost as if he’s rubbing a four-leaf clover for luck.

“This is the second year in a row I’ll be the honorary chairman for Relay for Life, which is a fundraiser in my old neighborhood. These folks are primarily cancer survivors who galvanize their efforts to raise money. But more so, this is a grassroots effort for awareness for all types of cancer. The message is, cancer happens to everyone, in all walks of life. It doesn’t necessarily happen to people who are the most likely to be sick. I’m a big, strong guy and when I was told I had cancer, it was not only devastating, but shocking to my own self image.”

Stewart’s eyes drift, remembering. A moment passes. A splash from the pool a few steps outside his open door cuts the silence.

“When I was ill, the people who were the most supportive of me, besides my family — which includes the National Hockey League, which I consider my family — were the people who live in my neighborhood. If they ask me for something, anything, I’m there for them, just as they were there for me.”

Giving. Sharing. Those virtues are second nature to Paul Stewart and the Stewart family. But as one would imagine, Paul’s scrape with death has had a profound effect on his life.

“This is gonna sound hokey, but I don’t care.”

Paul blinks once, twice, sighs before he speaks. His eyes become small blue pools, glistening with water.

“For the longest time in my life, I was searching for the reason I was here. I never really knew. I tripped over myself and made plenty of mistakes.” Paul sniffs, brushes a finger beneath his nose. “It was only after I became sick and recovered that I finally figured out what I was supposed to be doing. It’s doing the things I’d been doing, only more. And being better at them. That includes on-ice officiating. It includes being a better friend, a better neighbor. It doesn’t excuse me from my human moments. I still have plenty of those. I admit I have a bit of a temper …”

He roars, a booming, contagious laugh that rumbles through the room.

“Being sick brought this out in me. Showed me who I am. But it was there, inbred, from the beginning. I went to a small prep school outside of Boston, the Groton School. It’s famous because of some of our graduates like Franklin Roosevelt and Dean Atcheson. The school motto is ‘Whose Service Is Perfect Freedom.’ In other words, if you’re in the business of service to mankind, you’ve found life’s work. You’ve found what life really should be about. I feel like I’m trying to fulfill what Groton educated me for — to be competent, responsible, and to do good deeds. That complements how my parents brought me up.”

“What was it like,” I ask softly, “when you got the news?”

Paul scrunches his forehead into a small five-lane freeway.

“I sat across the table from this doctor and he told me, ‘Paul, you have cancer.’ In my case, that was a cruel twist because my son, McCauley, had just been born the day before. I felt like I was being punished for all the bad things I had done in my life.”

He leans back, takes a peek at the ceiling. Paul comes back to me, his eyes glued back into mine.

“It’s a funny thing. Maybe it was the way I was raised. But we never made a lot out of the injuries we had. I always had a higher threshold for pain. I don’t know if it’s a genetic thing or just how I admired my father and my grandfather. I know I wanted to emulate them. My grandfather umpired 715 games and never missed one until he had appendicitis. He came back 10 days later. My father broke his leg playing football at Notre Dame. You know what (then-Notre Dame Coach) Frank Leahy said to him? ‘Get up!’ The one thing I’ve learned over the years being in athletics is when you’re defeated, it doesn’t mean you’re finished.”

“Did you think you were going to die?”

Paul Stewart nods several times, slowly.

“It occurred to me. But I felt I had to carry on because I had a wife, Lori, who was young and I’d just had a baby and all these people around me were taking their cue from me. And I’d made a promise to my father. Three days before he died he dropped me at the airport and he said:

“‘Take care of your mother. Of all the children I have, you’re the one who has the ability to get into the most trouble. But you’re also the one who has the greatest capacity to do things well. So I’m leaving it to you to get it done.’

“See, I’m very combative. My whole life I was told that I wouldn’t be able to do the things that I’ve done. People told me I couldn’t play college hockey because I wasn’t good enough. They said I’d never make it to the National Hockey League. Even when I got sick, the doctor said to me, ‘You probably aren’t ever going back to officiating.’

“I said to him, ‘Are you kidding me? (Then-Baltimore Orioles player) Eric Davis went back (after a bout with colon cancer). I can go back. If he can do it, I can do it.’ It never crossed my mind that I would not make it back. I asked my doctor, ‘How many professional athletes have you dealt with? We’re a different breed. I’ve suffered a lot of defeats. This is not gonna be one of them.’”

Suddenly, Paul Stewart’s bottom lip trembles.

“I was a little surly about it,” he says, fighting back tears. “I told my doctors that this was a groundbreaking opportunity for them. They could say, ‘I treated that guy.’ Subsequently, I’ve added them to my list of friends.”

He blinks a couple of times, then pinches his nose. Paul takes a deep breath. The emotions pushed aside, he suddenly grins and says, “I have a Christmas tree farm. I just started it two years ago. I have 400 trees. Every Christmas all my neighbors and friends and family take a tree. That’s something I’ve always wanted to do. I like to do for people. No, I have to do for people. It’s part of my nature. I got it from my dad.”

Paul Stewart, not yet 16, is scrimmaging with his father’s football team after school. The scrimmage ends and Paul heads off the field. His father, Bill Stewart, approaches and slings an arm over his son’s shoulder.

“What size shoes are those?” Bill asks.

Paul shrugs. “Eleven.”

“Take ’em off. I need ’em.”

“What?”

“I’ll get you another pair; don’t worry.”

Paul stares at his father. His father stares back. This is no joke. Paul shakes his head, sits down on a bench and pulls off his cleats. Bill gathers up the shoes, winks at his son and walks off.

The next day, as Paul jogs onto the field, he notices a kid, one of the players, walking by wearing his shoes. Paul looks over at his father. His father smiles. And winks again. This time Paul winks back.

“My old man stuck the shoes in a brown paper bag and left them in the kid’s locker.”

Once again, tears well up in Paul Stewart’s eyes as he punches out the words:

“He eliminated excuses. He never wanted to hear a kid say that he couldn’t do it because he didn’t get a break. He gave people the break. That’s what I want to do. That’s my calling.”

Hockey Fights Cancer. Relay For Life. Celebrity golf tournaments that raise money to fight diseases from cancer to cystic fibrosis. Those are a few of the charities in which Paul Stewart participates. Gladly.

“Paul is truly deserving of this award,” says Andy Van Hellemond, NHL supervisor of officials and Stewart’s boss. “He has met his challenges head on and conquered them. We’re very proud of him.”

Stewart brushes away such praise, bringing the focus back to those who are currently ailing. “These people have to live their whole lives with their disease. I can’t give them one day of my life?”

Every day Stewart receives phone calls or e-mails from people who have friends, family members or loved ones who’ve been diagnosed with cancer. The calls are often pleas for help or guidance. Frequently, the callers ask if Paul would consider contacting the person who’s ill.

“I’m very touched that they think that much of me, that they trust me enough to bring me into their lives. I want to help. I want to do anything I can. And if people see me skating out there, getting slammed around on the ice, maybe it’ll be an inspiration to them.”

“It sounds like you want to give back.”

“It’s more that I want to share what I have.”

He lets that sink in, looks at me patiently, then continues:

“One day I’m in an equipment company and I notice all these boxes. I ask the guy, ‘What are those?’”

“Those are all the uniforms from teams that have changed colors. Gotta get rid of ‘em.”

“I’ll take ‘em off your hands. Got the perfect place for them. Bada boom. Now we got kids in Harlem playing hockey wearing St. Louis Blues colors. When I was a kid, I remember what it was like playing with new pants. It felt great. So if I can do a little thing like that for these kids? I get a kick out of it. After everything that’s happened to me and I can still do this?”

Paul Stewart shakes his head and sniffs, then starts to get to his feet.

“Man, I really am the luckiest guy in the world.”

(Alan Eisenstock, a freelance writer from Pacific Palisades, Calif., has officiated baseball and basketball. He co-authored Inside the Meatgrinder with NFL official Chad Brown. His latest book, Sports Talk, will be available from Pocket Books this fall.)