The Final Call (20 page)

I had weathered the storm while Wayne Gretzky was making hockey history. Some nights, I even had the pleasure of being on the ice when he shattered records. One that I got to see from 20 feet away was on December 30, 1981, when Wayne scored five goals against the Philadelphia Flyers (four against goalie Pete Peeters, the fifth into an open net) to reach 50 goals in just 39 games. (He went on to score an incredible 92 goals before the season ended.)

While Wayne Gretzky’s exploits on the ice are legendary, what he contributed off the ice can never be accurately measured or, as we have come to realize, truly appreciated. “The Trade” from
Edmonton to Los Angeles on August 9, 1988, rocked Canada. The New Democratic Party even put forward a motion in Parliament to block the trade, declaring Gretzky a national treasure. The popularity that the NHL enjoys in the United States today would not have been possible had it not been for Wayne’s move south.

I want to share just one story of the kindness that this man displayed to a child in need at a time when some might not have bothered. In 1987–88, Mario Lemieux won the scoring title by 19 points over Gretzky. It was the first time since 1979–80 that Wayne had not won the Art Ross Trophy. The following year, Super Mario was on a real tear and picked up where he had left off, finishing with 199 points to Gretzky’s 168. About the middle of that year, I caught up with Gretzky and his Los Angeles Kings in Calgary, at the end of a lengthy road trip. L.A. had lost every game on the trip. The media in each city asked the same question 99 different ways: Had Mario grabbed Wayne’s throne? Gretzky answered their questions with class as well as respect and reverence for the talent Mario possessed.

Prior to leaving from my home in New Jersey for Calgary, my wife learned of a young boy who was suffering from a serious illness. The youngster had asked if it would be possible to get an autograph from Wayne Gretzky. This is not something I make a habit of doing, or even like to do, but for a sick child I would do practically anything if it brought some cheer. On that night in Calgary, the Kings were being beaten badly once again. Wayne looked physically drained. His eyes were sunk back in his head and he had beard stubble that gave him an unkempt appearance I had never seen on him before. This trip had obviously beaten him up pretty good. During the final commercial timeout, I approached Wayne as he came out to take the faceoff. I apologized for bothering him at a time like this, but quickly explained about the little boy and asked him, if he thought of it after the game, to just sign a piece of paper and I would make sure he got it.

Wayne nodded and dragged himself over for the faceoff. The game ended, and the linesmen and I had just gotten off the ice and into our dressing room. I hadn’t even untied my skates, when there was a knock at the door. It was David Courtney, the Kings’ travelling secretary, who said, “Wayne asked me to give you this and to wish the little boy well for him.” The very first thing Wayne Gretzky did when he left the ice was not to think about how miserable he must have felt before facing another media onslaught, but simply to demonstrate an incredible act of kindness for a sick child back in New Jersey.

There are many stories like this about Wayne Gretzky, and about many other players around the league. What makes Wayne exceptional off the ice is that he never puts himself above anyone. He is a compassionate, quiet gentleman who often said, “Nobody is above the game.” Not only did he often say it, he always lived it. He obviously had been raised this way. Kathy and I have had the pleasure of meeting Wayne’s dad, Walter Gretzky, on a few special occasions. He is an amazingly kind man who is very proud of all his children. Let me give you an example.

During the 1996 World Cup of Hockey, the final series between the U.S. and Canada finished up in Montreal. On the day of the final game, Kathy, my mom and dad, and I entered the lobby of the Marriott Château Champlain from the elevator to find Team Canada and their families enjoying a reunion. My dad was in his glory, rubbing elbows with all these great players, many of whom he had met at the 1990 All-Star Game in Pittsburgh with Kathy and me. As I stood and enjoyed watching my father mingle with these gracious stars, Walter Gretzky approached me. He is such a sweet man, and my recollection of him on that day actually brings tears to my eyes as I write this. Walter extended a hand and said, “Kerry, it’s so good to see you. I have this little friend that lives across the street from me in Brantford and his name is Daniel Eickmeier. He’s a big hockey fan and listens to all the games. He
loves when he can hear Wayne play, but you know, he is a real fan of the officials. I think it’s maybe because the sound of the whistle intrigues him, because he is blind. He would be thrilled if I told him I talked to you, and if you could sign an autograph, I’ll take it back and he’ll be so excited.” I was so touched by this request, and with seven children of our own, I envisioned this youngster sitting by the television or radio, listening to the games. I offered to get one of my referee jerseys made up with my name bar and number two on the back so he could feel the name, number, and NHL crest on the front. Walter was humbled by this offering, and said, “Kerry, you’d do that for me?”

“Oh, please, Mr. Gretzky, anything for you. Your son is one of the most giving guys I’ve ever seen.”

Walter and I exchanged addresses, and I had CCM make up the jersey and sent it off to Walter’s home in Brantford, Ontario, along with one of my new referee whistles. A couple of weeks later, I got a beautiful letter from the young man’s mother, along with a picture of him sitting at the breakfast table, wearing his new referee jersey and spooning cereal into his mouth with the whistle in his hand. “Dear Mr. Fraser,” the letter began. “We thank you for the kindness that you extended to our son Daniel. He is absolutely thrilled to have both of your gifts, as you can see by the photo. I must tell you, however, that your sweater would have been more than sufficient, as we could have done without the whistle. Daniel hasn’t stopped blowing it since Walter brought it over.”

It was Walter’s kindness that made it happen. The apple sure doesn’t fall far from the tree!

Wayne Gretzky’s graciousness extended over his entire career and even after retirement. As I’m about to walk through that same door, eleven years after the Great One hung up his skates, I understand the tears that he shed as he stepped away.

I
n 1979–80, the year before I arrived in the National Hockey League, the New York Islanders had just won the Stanley Cup. At that time, the closest I had been to the Islanders franchise, admitted into the NHL in 1972 to keep the rival World Hockey Association out of the Nassau County Coliseum, was by working games involving their minor-league affiliates, first in New Haven, Connecticut, and then Indianapolis.

The master builder of the franchise, general manager Bill Torrey, started with—and made the correct decision to stick to—a plan to build his team through the amateur draft. Teams that had stockpiled talent by acquiring draft picks preyed on expansion teams in those days. The brilliant GM of the Montreal Canadiens, Sam Pollock, was famously the most hawkish in this regard. But Torrey resisted the pressure to trade for marquee players near the end of their careers, which would deliver short-term benefits on the ice and at the box office at the expense of the team’s future.

In their inaugural season, the Islanders were far and away the worst team in the NHL, with just 12 wins and 6 ties to go with
their 60 losses. The only plus was that they had the first-overall pick in the 1973 amateur draft. Despite several overtures from Pollock, Torrey held on to the pick and used it to select superstar defenceman Denis Potvin from the Ottawa 67’s. Potvin had been a man playing among boys in his last couple of years in junior; NHL rules were all that kept him from turning pro until after his 18th birthday. Potvin arrived with the credentials—and expectations—to be the next Bobby Orr. He did not disappoint, winning the Calder Memorial Trophy as rookie of the year.

Torrey continued to build his team through the draft, selecting the likes of Bryan Trottier, Clark Gillies, Mike Bossy, Bob Bourne, John Tonelli, and Bob Nystrom. He also acquired key players such as Butch Goring and my old childhood friend and teammate Wayne Merrick through trades. Goring won the Conn Smythe Trophy in the Islanders’ 1980–81 Stanley Cup victory, while Wayne Merrick centred the best third line in hockey, lining up between wingers John Tonelli and Bob Nystrom.

Torrey made an acquisition off the ice that turned out to be as important as any he ever made in the draft when he hired Al Arbour to coach his team. Arbour made his NHL debut in 1953–54, the year after I was born, and played his last games in 1970–71. He was a big, steady, stay-at-home defenceman who had earned the nickname “Radar” because his eyesight was so poor that he was forced to play while wearing glasses as thick as the bottoms of Coke bottles. The discipline that Al instilled in his players was something I very quickly became aware of upon my arrival in the NHL. And his patience with the mistakes his young players made was evident to a young referee like me.

In 1982–83, the Islanders had won three consecutive Stanley Cups. But the Edmonton Oilers were coming of age and challenging the dynasty that Torrey and Arbour had assembled. Near the end of that season, I had a game in which the visiting Oilers were down by a goal late in the third period. There was a faceoff in the
neutral zone, and I was positioned in front of the Islanders bench. Very clearly, I could hear the players reminding one another to be careful not to take a penalty. Looking back, I am sure that whoever initiated the pep rally had done it in no small part to plant a seed in the head of the relatively inexperienced referee.

With less than two minutes left in the game, the Oilers were pressing hard but were still down by a goal. A power play was always their best weapon, given the offensive firepower—and collection of future Hall of Famers—Glen Sather had assembled. Jari Kurri was carrying the puck deep into the Islanders’ zone along the boards and was being defended by Potvin. Denis put his stick on Kurri as he had angled the Oiler forward toward the side boards, just past the faceoff circle. Kurri immediately started to “chug” in his motion. Fearing that Kurri might fall in an attempt to draw a penalty, Potvin had the presence of mind to immediately remove his stick from the Oiler player and shadow him to the perimeter. Kurri was forced to carry the puck behind the Islanders’ goal while Potvin moved in front of his own net and called for his defence partner to pick up Kurri when he came out on the other side of the Islanders’ goal. The game of chess that I witnessed all happened in a flash. Potvin showed me such incredible intelligence about the game in that moment, but the words I had heard while standing in front of the team’s bench were still ringing in my ears: “Don’t take a penalty, boys.” Arbour had coached them well.

Very seldom did I ever hear Al Arbour raise his voice behind the Islanders’ bench. If and when he did, I knew it was for good reason and that I probably had screwed up. One night in Chicago Stadium in 1983, I heard his voice just 10 minutes into the game. It gave me a wake-up call I desperately needed, because my head had clearly been up my ass.

It started out as just one of those nights when, for whatever reason, my head just wasn’t in the game from the opening puck drop. I was in a fog that I just couldn’t seem to pull myself out of.
The Islanders took four penalties in the first 10 minutes; not because they were any less disciplined than usual, but because I was that horrible! After the fourth penalty, which now put the Islanders two men short, Arbour stood in the open door of the visitors’ bench with his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. A hundred feet away, I stood waiting in the end zone for him to put three players on the ice so that we could drop the puck. None were forthcoming. We were in a standoff.

Al waved his arm at me and yelled, “Kerry, get over here!” I had such respect for him that I skated over with my head down, ashamed of my performance to this point. When I arrived at the bench, I felt like a little kid standing in front of the school principal. In obvious frustration, Al said, “Kerry, what the
hell
are you doing out here tonight?”