The Final Call (24 page)

The ensuing faceoff was to be held in the neutral zone, and Crawford refused to put his penalty killers on the ice for the faceoff. I had been in the league 15 years by now, so I knew what he was trying to do. He wanted me to skate over to the bench so he could
vent his frustration on me. I could have chosen to wait him out, I could have assessed a delay-of-game penalty that would serve no purpose, or I could approach the bench and let him get it off his chest so we could finish the game. Never in my wildest nightmare could I have imagined the garbage that would spew out of Crawford’s mouth. It’s funny: I’d seen him as a rookie player in 1981–82 and throughout his six-year NHL playing career, and I didn’t even know he could talk. I had never heard him say anything. He had obviously found his voice.

I stood directly in front of him and politely said, “Marc, I need four guys on the ice now, please.” He paused, then said, “Kerry, you really fucked us tonight. As a matter of fact, you fucked us right up the ass without a condom.” Blood drained from my face and my mouth ran dry. Marc wasn’t finished. “You were fucking horrible tonight and you really put it to us. That was the worst fucking game I’ve ever seen refereed in my entire fucking career.” Which, I thought to myself, amounted to 42 games as an NHL coach, but I let him continue. He went on for another 20 seconds or so as I remained outwardly stoic, even though I was ready to explode. Finally, I asked, “Are you just about done?”

He said, “Yeah, I’m done.”

I guess he thought I was going to throw him out of the game. Not tonight, Bucko. Forcing words through the sawdust in my mouth, I replied, “Marc, that is the most disgusting, unprofessional dialogue I have ever heard from a coach in this league or any other, and it’s totally unwarranted. There isn’t one guy sitting on this bench who believes what you just said. Your team didn’t show up tonight and they deserved every penalty they got, and could have probably gotten more, but you and I will save that for another day because
right now
, I need you to put your players on the ice and I need them NOW, please!”

As I skated across the ice, the muscles in my arms were twitching from an overabundance of adrenaline flowing and no place to
discharge it. Four players followed me to the faceoff location, and when the game ended I was still burning up inside. I entered our dressing room and felt physically sick.

I had just taken my skates and sweater off when there was a knock at our dressing room door. I always sit closest to the door, just for moments like this. I opened it, and there stood Crawford with his head down. He asked my permission to talk, so I invited him in. The last thing I wanted was for the French-language media to see or hear anything they might blow out of proportion in the papers. I offered him a seat and a beer, both of which he accepted. Marc then offered an apology and confirmed that everything I had said on the ice was correct. He explained that his team, heavily favoured to win the Stanley Cup, was heading south (figuratively, of course, as we were already in Florida!) at the worst possible time, and he just didn’t know what to do.

He asked if his team was the worst culprit when it came to whining and complaining. I referred that question to my two linesmen, Ray Scapinello and Greg Devorski; both of them agreed without reservation or hesitation that the Nords led the league in that category. I then provided Marc with my perspective, gained over 15 years in the league. I talked about the great New York Islanders dynasty and the discipline they demonstrated to achieve their success. I told him it came straight from the man behind the bench, Al Arbour. Scotty Bowman, the other coach I would rank among the two greatest I’ve ever seen, also instilled the same quality in his teams. I told Crawford that when those two men spoke, I listened because they so seldom had anything to say. When they did, I knew I must have screwed up. He got the message, but before he left, I had one last statement to make: “Marc, I accept your apology and want you to know that I don’t hold a grudge, but I need you to understand and agree to what I am about to tell you. Right here in this very room, in front of these two fine colleagues of mine as witnesses, I am issuing you a career
warning—which means that, from this moment forward, if you ever curse or yell at me inappropriately from behind the bench you will receive a bench minor penalty! Do you understand and consent to what I am telling you?” Marc’s handshake sealed the agreement between the two of us.

In late January of the following season, I refereed a game between the Ducks and Avalanche in Anaheim. Midway through the third period, I had assessed minors to Sylvain Lefebvre (for holding) and Craig Wolanin (cross-checking), which put Colorado two men short. Thirteen seconds later, Paul Kariya scored to put the Ducks ahead 2–1. From the Colorado bench, I could hear Crow’s distinctive, high-pitched voice: “Kerry, what the fuh—” That’s as far as he got before I wheeled and gave him a bench penalty. Crawford hung his head the same way he had done that night in Miami and clammed right up. Claude Lemieux, a fantastic guy and one my all-time favourites, came up to me and appealed to me not to extend Anaheim’s two-man advantage. I looked Pepe in the eye and said, “Go say the word ‘Florida’ to Crow.” Claude looked at me as if I had two heads and said, “Flo-ree-da? What da ’ell you mean? We are in Ana-’eim, not Flo-ree-da.” I asked Pepe to please just humour me and deliver the message. I assured him Marc would get it. He got it. A few months later, the Colorado Avalanche won the Stanley Cup by sweeping the “Flo-ree-da” Panthers in four straight games. And I never heard another caw out of the Crow.

One of the most memorable Stanley Cup final series of the dozen I worked was Colorado’s seven-game victory over the New Jersey Devils in 2001. The primary reason for that is because it was Raymond Bourque’s first and only time he would hoist the Stanley Cup. In his 20 full seasons with Boston, the Bruins had come up
short against Edmonton in both 1988 and 1990. This guy was a champion in my mind, even if he had never ended up with a Cup. I give Harry Sinden full marks for arranging a trade at Ray’s request, one that gave him a chance to close out his career with his name engraved on the Cup. At the age of 40, the five-time Norris Trophy winner as the league’s top defenceman led all Avs blue liners in scoring, with 59 points, was named to the first All-Star team, and was a runner-up to Nicklas Lidström of the Detroit Red Wings in the Norris Trophy voting. He also scored the winning goal in Game Three of the final.

I worked Game Seven of that series, and I must tell you the city of Denver was electrified from the moment the sun came up that morning. The only minute of calm I found that day was at 8 a.m., when I went down to the Pepsi Center for a skate before the teams arrived. I skated alone in the empty, dimly lit arena for 30 minutes, while outside the building, television trucks and equipment filled the nearest parking lot. I had never seen so much media coverage for a final, and the big story was Raymond Bourque.

The Avalanche won Game Seven that night, and in a remarkable display of class and respect, team captain Joe Sakic, after posing with the Cup, handed it directly to Ray Bourque so that he could be the first to skate a victory lap. Three days after the Cup victory, Bourque arranged to take the Cup back to Boston for an emotional rally in City Hall Plaza. The event was attended by 20,000 cheering Bostonians. I don’t think there is a hockey fan anywhere, no matter which team they cheered for, that wouldn’t have been happy for Bourque’s Stanley Cup victory.

Over the years, an intense rivalry developed between the Avalanche and the Detroit Red Wings. It began in 1996, during the Western Conference final, when Claude Lemieux checked Kris Draper into
the boards from behind. Draper suffered a broken jaw, shattered cheek and orbital bones, and a concussion. On March 26, 1997, the teams met for the fourth time that season, but it was Lemieux’s first appearance in a game against Detroit. As a result, brawls broke out repeatedly, including one between the goalies, Patrick Roy of the Avs and Mike Vernon of the Wings, at centre ice. Detroit and Colorado would meet again in the 1997 conference final—a series won by the Red Wings—and tempers flared up in Game Four. This time, coaches Scotty Bowman and Marc Crawford went at each other verbally, earning Crow a $10,000 fine.

My final game in Colorado, March 1, 2010, was between these same two teams. While the rivalry isn’t dead in the minds of the fans in either city, many of the players who participated so aggressively in the feud have moved on. But Kris Draper was still playing his usual tenacious checking game for the Wings, while Adam Foote was crashing, as always, from his position on the Avs defence.

This was the first scheduled game played after the Olympics, and I felt refreshed and ready to go again after a much-needed break. The NHL schedule had been compressed to accommodate the shutdown for the Winter Games, so Kathy and I had spent 10 glorious days in Aruba.

I was also especially excited about this last game in Colorado because my youngest daughter, Kara, was with me on this trip. Although Kara is now a college freshman at Mount St. Mary’s University in Emmitsburg, Maryland, she will always be Daddy’s little girl. We flew together from Philadelphia to Denver the night before the game. It was her first trip to this beautiful city. We spent part of the day touring the foothills and had a pre-game lunch in an old mining town outside of Golden, Colorado. Our eight-year-old grandson, Harrison, had given Aunt Kara the task of getting an autograph from his new favourite player, Avs forward Paul
Stastny, who was fresh from winning a silver medal at the Vancouver Games. Behind the Red Wings bench tonight was the gold medal–winning coach of Team Canada, Mike Babcock.

The game featured lots of energy and speed right from the get-go. It appeared that the players recognized that if a playoff spot was to be gained, the push must start now. Tomas “Homer” Holmström, the nightmare of every goalie
and
referee, hadn’t lost a beat, as he jammed the crease and made contact with Avs netminder Craig Anderson, resulting in a Red Wings goal being disallowed and two minutes for goalie interference for Homer. At the end of the night, however, the pesky forward was chosen as the game’s third star after scoring a goal and assisting on both of Detroit’s others in a 3–2 Red Wings victory.

Nicklas Lidström, the first star, scored the winner on a power play after I called a tripping penalty on Kyle Quincey when he hauled down a Red Wing behind the Avs’ goal. With Anderson pulled for an extra attacker, the Avalanche peppered Detroit goalie Jimmy Howard, who made several big saves. For me, it was a pleasure to see young Paul Stastny one last time. His father, Peter, was not only a tremendous player but a wonderful person. Kathy and I spent some time with Paul’s mom and dad in Bratislava at the start of the 2008-09 pre-season when the Tampa Bay Lightning played the locals before moving to Prague to open the NHL season against the NY Rangers. It is certainly easy to see why young Paul is such a respectful and talented kid. After the game, my daughter Kara and I caught up with Paul, who was on his way out of the building, and he insisted that she put his silver medal around her neck as they posed for a picture together. I told Paul that the game I remember most from the Quebec Nordiques era was Game Seven of the Adams Division final in 1985, when his father scored the winner in overtime against the Montreal Canadiens, propelling the team to the Wales Conference final. Paul commented that it was ironic I should bring that up, since he and his teammates had
talked about that very game during their morning skate. The game certainly has no generation gaps. Peter’s goal will be remembered forever, and I am sure that Paul will also be remembered for many contributions he will make. I find it remarkable that I am four years older than Peter, and that I have had the honour to be on NHL ice with two generations of Stastny superstars.

As Kara and I left the Pepsi Center, in sharp contrast to my first NHL game in Denver, there were no fans waiting to assault me, verbally or otherwise. The assistance of Glen Sharpley wouldn’t be needed this night, either. Just as well, because I’d seen Sharp fight, too!