The Final Call (2 page)

Depending on the tone that the game takes, I suspect that violence between fans will be a foregone conclusion. (Fortunately, we on-ice officials won’t be called on to break it up.) The passion the fans from these two cities feel for their respective teams, and the animosity they demonstrate for each other, whether on the football field, the baseball diamond, or in the hockey arena, runs deep. And hockey fans are a special breed, one that takes team loyalty to a whole different level, especially when it comes to the Flyers and the Rangers.

When this type of energy is generated by the hockey faithful, it spurs athletes and officials alike to reach their peak of performance. I feel the juice running through my soon-to-be-58-year-old-body (considered ancient in this occupation) as I take my first turn around the Wachovia ice. The first lap is always the litmus test as to how my body feels and will respond to the demands that I am
about to make on it. Over the course of my career, I’ve learned to utilize my internal thermometer to gauge the physical and emotional signals my body sends me. When necessary, I use positive self-talk to overcome any deficiencies that I detect, whether it is a lack of energy, heavy legs, aches, pains, or a need for heightened awareness and mental focus. The brain is the strongest muscle I have packed into my diminutive frame. Today, mission control tells me that all systems are go. My blades glide effortlessly over the ice as I fly around the 200-by-85-foot surface with the enthusiasm of a rookie.

Looking at the excited faces on the other side of the glass, I recognize many that are familiar. There are no lingering gazes today, however, as I quickly scan past the masses to find the box where my wife, Kathy, our children, grandchildren, and other family members are located. I catch a glimpse of them standing and waving, cheering on their hero. A tear forms in my eye as I consider the love and pride I feel for each of them—and them for me.

I’m transported back to a magical evening spent last night at our home with Kathy, all of our seven children and their spouses, five grandchildren and other extended family. We are joined by my fellow officials for this game: referee Kelly Sutherland, linesmen Don Henderson and Darren Gibbs, and their wives. It was a casual and relaxed evening, sharing a barbecue, but the love that our family feels for one another was clearly demonstrated and visible to our first-time guests. Throughout the evening, we shared stories and laughter. From time to time, each of the officials would remark on the magnitude of this game and the opportunity we were being given in this final moment of my career. I was presented with beautiful, heartfelt gifts from my family and friends, and I was deeply touched by all the love our home held.

The evening ended at a reasonable hour, all of us knowing full well the importance of the game at three o’clock the next afternoon. The NY Rangers had beaten the Flyers the night before at
Madison Square Garden creating a tie for the final playoff spot between the two rival franchises. The entire regular season boiled down to this one last game and had all the makings of a Cinderella story.

Our house overflowed with laughter and music as my brother Rick and our sons Ryan and Matthew played their guitars and sang well past midnight, though by then I had long since retired for the evening. I would sleep restlessly, but my final thought as I dozed off was how blessed I was, not only to have had this magnificent career, but more importantly, the love and devotion of a very special family.

When I awoke, in the still-dark room, on Sunday morning, I realized I had guests with me, ones who hadn’t been formally invited yet are always welcome. They came from another place and a previous time in my life. Now that I think of it, they’ve always been there to guide me.

My father was the first of them, followed by John McCauley, my mentor, former colleague, and NHL director of officiating. They were joined by Chief Dennis Ryan, the NHL’s former security representative for the New York Rangers—I knew who he’d be cheering for—and his son-in-law Mikey O’Laughlin, a former security representative for the New Jersey Devils who had succumbed to an horrendous form of cancer, leaving his wife, Mary Katherine, and their young children behind. I felt their presence, and I recognized them. I was startled by it all; I also had the sense that, while their visit was supportive and friendly, it was stirring up emotions that I couldn’t allow to carry me away. I had to focus on the task at hand: the game. I pushed them aside in my thoughts and extended an invitation to visit another time.

Then I heard two of our granddaughters, Madyn and baby Daryn, enjoying the morning excitement of waking up in Mama and Papa’s house for the first time. It made me smile, but it also reminded me that, as I had been forced to do when I sent the
visitors away, I needed to insulate myself from all distractions until after the game. I quickly showered and dressed and told Kathy I was heading off, alone, to Mass—the Feast of Divine Mercy—and that I would see her after the game.

My equipment bag had been packed the night before, and it sat waiting for me at the back door, as did a second duffle bag containing the nine number-two jerseys I would wear that day. I wanted my kids to be able to share this moment with me forever, so I planned on changing in the penalty box during every commercial time out so that I could give each a game-worn jersey. My waiting bags were a common sight for the Fraser family, but on this solemn morning I grabbed them to leave one last time and waved goodbye to Kathy and the kids. At that moment, they stopped what they were doing amid the usual bustle of a weekend morning, their heads popping out from various rooms and activities to wish me good luck. I turned and met the teary eyes of each of them; their sadness began to materialize for me, too. But I had to hold back that flood, so I quickly exited the house.

I went by myself to church, followed by breakfast alone at a local diner, and then off to the rink. As I pulled into the players’ parking lot, my phone beeped with a text message that had been sent at 11:34 a.m. It read: “Congratulations to u and your family on an outstanding career! U without question made the game better! Best wishes to u on the next step of life! 99.” The peace I had gained at morning Mass was immediately replaced with an adrenaline rush, thanks to that message from Wayne Gretzky.

Rolling my equipment bag toward the entrance, I noticed some loyal Flyers fans had already assembled along the fence above the parking lot to offer support as their heroes entered the bowels of the arena. Several of them called down to me, wishing me luck in retirement and to have a great last game. Once inside, I was greeted by the familiar and always friendly faces of the Wachovia Center staff, standing at their posts by the door and in the corridor.

On this game day I arrived 45 minutes earlier than normal and two hours prior to the opening faceoff. I wanted to savour all the day had to offer as well as fulfill media requests. I met with Michael Newall, a reporter with the
Philadelphia Inquirer
, at one o’clock to conclude a feature on my retirement game. At 1:30 I taped a television interview, to be aired during the second intermission, with my good friend Steve Coates, a Flyers colour analyst. Coatsie is a former player from the Broad Street Bullies days and he brings lots of energy to the Flyers’ broadcast while reporting from ice level between the benches.

My colleagues arrived in our dressing room just after I finished up with Coatsie. We revisited the wonderful evening we’d spent at our home last night as their equipment was unpacked and laid out. I stepped into the hall outside our dressing room and was greeted by Mark Messier, whose trademark smile lit up the hallway as he stopped by to congratulate me on a great career and wish me the very best in retirement. Mess was not only one of the greatest players—and leaders—in the history of the game but a special individual as well. I felt extremely privileged and humbled to have him visit. Mark graciously accepted my invitation into the officials’ room to say hello to my colleagues. I knew it would mean a great deal to them as well. Added to the text I had received from Gretz, I felt I was being touched by greatness a second time.

Now, though, it was time to put on my game face. Hanging up my light grey pinstripe suit, I put on my work clothes and stepped back into the hall with my exercise bands. Darren Gibbs and I broke a sweat as we performed a stretch-and-resistance routine with the bands. While working out in the hall I also got a chance to say hi to Glen Sather, the Rangers’ president and general manager; Jim Schoenfeld, their assistant GM; and Peter Luukko, president and chief operating officer of Comcast-Spectacor, the owners of the Flyers, as they passed by.

After the teams completed their on-ice warm-up, it was time
for us to return to our dressing room to suit up and go over any last-minute details on our mental checklist for the game. I had been in this situation countless times over my 2,164 games, but I didn’t want to leave any stone unturned in this, my last one, so I took a leading role in the discussion. The guys I was sharing the room with this day had been hand-picked, not just because they were loyal friends, but because they were also great officials. They didn’t need a Knute Rockne speech at this point in their career.

I stressed that every decision we made had the potential to impact the game and the season for either team. There could be no guessing on a play, and if one of us didn’t have the best sightline to make a call, the others needed to step up in a supporting role. Finally, I told Kelly, “Let’s make sure that every penalty we call will stand the test of any form of scrutiny.” We all knew what was expected of us, and as we left the dressing room I was confident that the Rangers and Flyers would decide their own fates that day and that we would not have a negative impact on either.

I was the first one through the door. It was now time to take that short walk along the rubber mat to start a game for the very last time.

The sound of my name on the public address system jolts me back to the present. The announcer informs the crowd that this will be Kerry Fraser’s final game in the NHL. A three-minute highlight video, prepared by my daughter Jessica, is shown on the video screens, prompting a standing ovation from the sellout crowd. Both the video and the crowd’s reception are unprecedented for a referee and are tremendously humbling.

What would Fred Shero, the legendary coach of the Broad Street Bullies, have thought as the Philadelphia faithful—and the Ranger fans who had infiltrated the sea of orange and black—recognized a ref in such kindly fashion?

My two grandsons, eight-year-old Harrison and six-year-old Brady, were skated over by one of the Flyers Ice Girls to join me
for a ceremonial faceoff between captains Mike Richards of the Flyers and Chris Drury of the Rangers. Each youngster wore an actual jersey of mine from the 1993 Stanley Cup final between Montreal and Los Angeles, which took place following “The Missed Call” (more on that later). Across the back of each sweater, the name
FRASER
was proudly embroidered. The boys stood beside me and my colleagues at centre ice as Lauren Hart, daughter of the late Flyers broadcaster Gene Hart, started her rendition of “God Bless America.”

I often think of Gene, the Flyers’ original play-by-play voice who helped the City of Brotherly Love fall head over heels in love with the team. I recall the chance meeting my wife and I had with Gene one morning during breakfast at Olga’s Diner in Marlton, New Jersey, just a couple of weeks before Gene passed away in 1999. The entire conversation focused on his talented young daughter (Lauren), whom he was helping to become a professional singer. I consider how proud Gene must be of Lauren, a cancer survivor, right now as he looks down from his heavenly press box.

My knees buckle as Lauren is joined from a higher place by Kate Smith, whose image and voice now appear and boom out from the big screens over my head. This mirage from the days of the Broad Street Bullies transports me across the parking lot to the Spectrum, and back in time to 1985. For a moment I am poised to drop the puck between Mark Messier of the Edmonton Oilers and Dave Poulin of the Flyers to begin my very first Stanley Cup final. As I stand at centre ice today, my heart pounds with such ferocity that I can hear it above the decibels generated by Lauren’s and Kate’s powerful vocal cords.

In this moment, I take refuge in the silent bunker of internal solitude. Suddenly, the delirious crowd is hushed. I am left to complete my final pre-game ritual by talking privately with God as I offer thanks and adoration for all that He has blessed me
with. I have so much to be thankful for, and without Him none of it would be possible.

The anthem is complete, my prayers have been said, my little grandsons have been ushered off the ice, and our team of officials comes together at centre ice. Each of us touches one hand to our shoulder, then to our heart, and then brings our fists together in the middle to show solidarity as a crew and to honour our fallen colleague Stéphane Provost, who was killed in a motorcycle accident during the lockout season. We carry his memory with us every game. With this gesture complete, my colleagues assume their starting positions.

The Wachovia Center seems quiet, almost serene, in this moment before all hell breaks loose. As I hold the puck in my left hand, I put my right hand upon my chest and briefly speak to the opposing centremen, Jeff Carter of the Flyers and Artem Anisimov of the Rangers, just before dropping the puck.

“Boys,” I say, referencing Herb Brooks’s speech to the 1980 U.S. hockey team that carried out the Miracle on Ice at the Winter Olympics in Lake Placid. “This isn’t about me; this game is about you. And this is your time, not mine.”

They both nod slightly.

I look down at my right hand, which now holds the puck with a firm grip. Just as I have done 2,164 times before (between regular season and Stanley Cup playoff games), I ask the two centres to please put their sticks down on the ice—a request I always make politely and which has never been denied. It is now that I normally drop the puck between the waiting sticks, but I find myself hesitating this time. I can’t seem to let go. The muscles in my hand squeeze the puck in a viselike grip for what seems like an entire career.