The Final Call (22 page)

Back in New Jersey, the Devils may have won the game 3–1, but the sport received a bigger black eye than any player involved in the multiple brawls that took place. It all could have been avoided. Jim Schoenfeld’s behaviour in Game Three was an embarrassment to the game. Schoenfeld had been a tough competitor when he played, and nothing changed when he got behind the bench as a coach. That’s commendable, but he should have taken his medicine and sat out the one-game suspension. (He ended up missing Game Five, when John Ziegler returned from abroad and convened a hearing on May 10. Ziegler also fined Schoenfeld $1,000 and the Devils $10,000.)

Back in Detroit, the day after the “yellow jerseys” worked the game in New Jersey, I got a call around 4:30 in the afternoon from Jim Beatty, who said that the matter had been successfully resolved and we were able to work the game that night. As we entered Joe Louis Arena, I encountered an amateur official from my hometown who asked if I was working the game. Much to his disappointment, I told him, “Yes. You can keep your referee bag in your car.”

For the next couple of seasons, Devils fans and management felt they were being paid back by the referees for the doughnut incident. While I would admit to having less tolerance for any abusive conduct Schoenfeld might direct toward us, the issue was dead as far as I was concerned. I told Don he should open a franchise of shops called Koho’s Donuts and retire a millionaire.

I turned in one of the poorest performances of my career in a game at the Meadowlands in October of 1989, a game the Devils won over the visiting Chicago Blackhawks. In the early evening the night before the game, Kathy suffered a miscarriage. We were devastated. I called Bryan Lewis, who had succeeded John McCauley as director of officiating. John had tragically died at the age of 44 from pancreatitis shortly after the 1989 Stanley Cup final. I explained to Bryan the situation at home, and asked if he could send a substitute to New Jersey. He was sympathetic and said he would do his best. Unfortunately, the NHL referee corps had been hit by a rash of injuries and there was absolutely no one to fill in. I had to go up the turnpike and work the game.

I remained with Kathy for as long as I could and rolled into Brendan Byrne Arena an emotional wreck. I couldn’t tell you a thing that happened in that game, other than that, when the final horn sounded, Duane Sutter—who’s really a great guy—approached me and said, “Kerry, this was the worst effin’ game I’ve ever seen you work. You were horrible.” With tears in my eyes, I softly replied, “I know, Suds. I’m really sorry about my poor performance. My wife had a miscarriage last night and they couldn’t get anyone else here to work the game. Please apologize to your team for me.” For a brief moment, our eyes connected in mutual sadness, then I broke away and skated off the ice before the tears began to flow. I quickly showered, dressed, and hurried home to Kathy.

A week passed, and I travelled to Chicago for a game. As soon as I got to Chicago Stadium I found Duane Sutter by my dressing-room door, awaiting my arrival. Duane was heartsick, and he apologized for being so insensitive that night in New Jersey. He had no way of knowing, and I told him not to be so hard on himself. Duane said he had been hardly able to sleep for the past week thinking about it, and when he told his wife what had happened, she was furious with him. He and his wife both understood how difficult this loss was for Kathy and me. As we shared a moment
more, both of us recognized that, while the game was important, it needed to be kept in the proper perspective. I appreciated the kindness and caring that Duane Sutter demonstrated, and for that moment we were on the same team.

The craftsman of the Devils franchise, Lou Lamoriello, continued to change coaches and acquire the right player personnel to legitimately challenge for the Stanley Cup. It finally happened in 1995, with Jacques Lemaire behind the bench and a remarkable group of players Lou had assembled, led by captain Scott Stevens, Scott Niedermayer, Ken Daneyko on defence, and snipers Claude Lemieux, Stéphane Richer, and John MacLean up front. Goaltender Martin Brodeur became the number-one goaltender in 1993 and would be a cornerstone of the franchise for many years to come.

Working that Cup series in 1995, I got to see what an outstanding performer Claude Lemieux truly was. Claude and I became friends in a most unusual fashion. During a playoff series, Matthew Barnaby, the king of agitation and trash talk, was all over Lemieux, trying to get him off his game. During a game at the Meadowlands, Lemieux came to me, emotionally distraught over something Barnaby had said to him on the ice. Not unlike Theo Fleury’s appeal to me, Claude asked me to tell Barnaby not to speak to him about his personal life. He told me he was going through a terrible divorce and that Barnaby made some extremely derogatory and obscene comments about his estranged wife. As I’ve said before, certain things are off limits, and a guy’s family is one of them.

Matthew Barnaby always had that choirboy look to him—minus the halo. He would flash a big smile, complete with the removable silver tooth he used to pull out of his mouth if a stick came up near his face. Barney would then show the referee a
broken tooth that was now visible in his mouth, and tell the referee the opponent had broken his tooth with a high stick. He got me once, but when he tried it again in another game a little later, I caught on.

Anyway, I called Barnaby over to us as soon as Claude told me what had been said. When I asked Matthew if he had said those things about Claude’s wife, he flashed his silver-toothed smile and said proudly, “Yeah, I said those things.” I told him to apologize immediately or I would throw him out of the game by assessing a gross misconduct. Barney said, “You wouldn’t do that,” to which I responded, “Try me!” Matthew gave Claude a half-assed apology, and I told him it wasn’t good enough—it needed to be very sincere. Barney then made what I thought was a pretty good second attempt, and I asked Claude if he was okay with it. Claude thanked both Barnaby and me and then skated away, his face still reflecting the emotional stress of his off-ice difficulties. I gave Barnaby a stern lecture and told him I never wanted to hear that stuff out of him again.

On December 31, 2006, I had an early game in Phoenix, and Kathy and our daughters Jaime and Kara joined us to ring in the new year. After the game, we went to the Sanctuary resort on Camelback Mountain, where we bumped into a now-retired Claude Lemieux and his family and shared a drink and reminisced about old times. Claude took my two daughters aside and told them they should be very proud of their father because he is a “great man.” All he would tell them was that I helped him out during a very difficult time in his life. It’s not just about the game or winning that counts.

Lou Lamoriello had a knack for including all the necessary ingredients on his teams so that the chemistry was right. This was true right
down to the fourth-liners. One such player was six-foot, four-inch, 221-pound Jim McKenzie, who played for nine teams over a 15-year NHL career. Aside from being a heavyweight champion, he was the nicest, most unassuming guy you could ever meet. Aside from Wayne Gretzky, McKenzie is the only other player ever to thank me for giving him a penalty.

It was in his first or second year in the NHL as a member of the Hartford Whalers, a nothing game on the last day of the season in Washington. Both teams just wanted to get the game over with before the playoffs. As I waited for the visiting team to exit the ice ahead of me, one player straggled along behind. It was big Jim McKenzie. His quiet and gentlemanly demeanour did not befit his giant stature or his role as an enforcer. Very quietly and politely, Jim asked whether, if he told me to eff off, I would give him a penalty. He had a grin on his face, and I thought he was kidding. He wasn’t, and went on to explain that he had a bonus in his contract for penalty minutes and he was four minutes short. I looked at Jim and shouted, “What did you say?” Jim quietly responded, “Fuck off.” I then shouted back, “
SAY IT LIKE YOU MEAN IT
.” Practically at the top of his lungs, he thundered, “
FUCK OFF
!” I hollered, “
YOU’VE GOT 10!”
Jim smiled and quietly thanked me before walking up the rubber mat to the dressing room.

One of the things I remember most vividly about my experiences with the Devils involves Game Seven of the 2000 Eastern Conference final, when Captain Crunch, Scott Stevens, laid out Eric Lindros with a legal bodycheck. The bone-shaking, brain-jarring hit resulted in the most frightening outcome from a check that I have ever witnessed. I was following the play and saw the Big E, as was usual for him, carrying the puck up the left side of the ice with his head down. Eric pulled the puck back just as he made the tragic
miscalculation to cut along the blue line into Scott Stevens’s path. The play was offside, and the whistle was approaching the linesman’s lips. Stevens saw the deer in the headlights, lowered his shoulder, and rocked Lindros. A millisecond later, the whistle blew to signal offside. Eric was knocked out from the impact of the hit and crumpled to the ice. I saw him lying there, motionless in the fetal position, and I thought,
Oh my God, he’s dead
. I saw him move and try to raise his head. My initial fear was calmed.

I drew a bead on the remaining Flyers players on the ice, expecting some form of retaliation. Stevens backed away and readied himself in anticipation of the same, but the moment of retribution never materialized. Linesmen Jay Sharrers and Kevin Collins rerouted the Flyers away from Stevens, just to make sure nothing further developed. John Worley, the Flyers’ athletic therapist, flew over the boards to attend to the felled redwood.

I looked at Scott Stevens standing by his team’s bench, and for the very first time in his career I saw fear in his eyes. The blood had drained from his face and I detected a nervous twitch. It appeared to me that this ultimate power hitter might have been thinking he’d gone a little too far this time.

Eric was taken off the ice on wobbly legs. His eyes looked shallow and lost. He was the second Lindros I had seen in this condition; I worked a game with Eric’s younger brother, Brett, before he was forced to retire. I saw in him the effect of one too many hits to the head. Brett, who played for the New York Islanders, brought his elbow dangerously high on an opponent one night. I advised him that he was getting close to penalty territory. There was no response, just a glazed, catatonic look. I spoke louder, almost hollering, as I tried to elicit some response: “
Hello?
Is anybody home?” There was none forthcoming. He skated to the bench, took a seat, and never played another shift. A short time later, I read that Brett Lindros was retiring.