The Final Call (26 page)

Late in the second period, New York lost Sean Avery when he injured his knee in a race for the puck on an icing play. While the Rangers bad boy can be a major pain in the butt, he can also be a
very effective player. After establishing acceptable limits, I developed a good working relationship with Sean. I hope he turns the corner and finds some peace in his life, on and off the ice.

After the final TV timeout in the third period, defenceman Dion Phaneuf—a great late-season acquisition by Leafs GM Brian Burke—approached me quietly to offer his congratulations on my retirement. “You always do such a great job, and it has truly been my honour to have played in games that you refereed,” he said. “The game is really going to miss you.” I was humbled by his kind remarks. My sincere objective over these past 30 years had been to make a positive difference to this great game of hockey. To have been appreciated by those who matter most within the game makes any abuse that came my way secondary and insignificant.

That being said, as I left this great Canadian city, I could still hear the chant “Fraser sucks!” ringing in my ears. I have to smile as I wonder how the fans will carry on this tradition in the absence of one Kerry Fraser.

A
nother morning after a game, and another departure at the crack of dawn as I boarded the shuttle outside the Minneapolis Marriott at 5:30 a.m. to catch a flight to Philadelphia at 6:45. This wouldn’t be unusual if I had to work back-to-back games, but my next game wasn’t until the next night—in Montreal. So why the early start and the roundabout route to
la belle province
? Because Kathy would be waiting there for me, to accompany me on this last “official” visit to a city that holds so many memories for both of us.

Growing up in Ontario, both Kathy and I were Leafs fans (she much more devout than I). The Canadiens were the hated archenemy. The Flying Frenchmen combined the speed and skill of Rocket Richard and his brother Henri (the Pocket Rocket), Jean Béliveau, Bernie Geoffrion, Yvan Cournoyer, and Guy Lafleur with the toughness of John Ferguson and Ted Harris. Their defence corps boasted a seemingly endless supply of future Hall of Famers, from Doug Harvey and Butch Bouchard to Jacques Laperrière, Serge Savard, and Guy Lapointe. For decades, the stability and
leadership that had been provided by general manager Frank Selke and coaches Dick Irvin and Toe Blake continued under Sam Pollock, Ronald Corey, Scotty Bowman, Jacques Lemaire, and Jacques Demers. Throughout their storied past, the Canadiens didn’t just do business in a unique way, they espoused a philosophy of pride in the organization that every member was expected to live by. I could feel it in the air each time I entered the old Montreal Forum.

The Habs’ fans were very demanding, expecting nothing less than a Stanley Cup every year. These high expectations were a by-product of the deep sense of pride that flowed both ways between the team and the community. A player walking into the Canadiens’ dressing room for the first time would get an instant history lesson, as the walls were adorned with photographs and names of past players. If anyone brought disgrace to the CH crest, it wasn’t long before they found themselves playing elsewhere. Even the walls of the officials’ dressing room are decorated with photos of past Canadiens legends. If I were asked to describe the Montreal Canadiens organization, the two words I would use would be class and tradition—qualities that the organization possesses in abundance above all others in the NHL.

Upon our arrival in Montreal, Kathy and I had a dinner reservation at Guy Lafleur’s restaurant, aptly named the Bleu, Blanc, Rouge (Blue, White, Red). We wanted to drink deep from the cup of nostalgia that both of us felt. However, this was not the first time that I had arrived early the day before a game involving this famous team in the hockey-crazed city of Montreal.

On May 1, 1985, I packed my bag early in the morning and headed off to the Sarnia Airport to catch a flight to Montreal. Even though my playoff curfew wasn’t until 10 p.m., I wanted to arrive at the
Sheraton Centre on René Lévesque Boulevard around noon. This was only the third time I had been assigned to the Stanley Cup playoffs, and the first time I had been chosen to work Game Seven of a divisional final series. The magnitude of a seventh game is important in any series; after all, once it’s over, one team advances and the other goes golfing. This particular game had taken on a whole life of its own and was unlike any that could have been played in the NHL before or since. This was the Battle of Quebec!

While there have been other provincial or local rivalries—Edmonton vs. Calgary, Toronto vs. Ottawa, Rangers vs. Islanders—the Battle of Quebec transcended the game of hockey and crossed over to the political and corporate arenas. Clashes between the Nordiques and Canadiens pitted the smaller provincial capital against the metropolis. The tradition of the Canadiens against the upstart Nordiques organization, born as part of the “rebel league,” the World Hockey Association. Some even present it as a battle between Quebec separatists and Montreal federalists. The rivalry between the teams was as bitter as the battle for market share between its owners: the Montreal-based Molson brewery owned the Habs, while Carling-O’Keefe, which marketed its products heavily throughout the province, owned the Nordiques. Both sides knew that consumers preferred to drink a winner. When the Canadiens initially opposed a merger between the NHL and WHA, it is said that a boycott of Molson beer by fans in Edmonton, Winnipeg, and Quebec City cost the brewery so much it changed its mind.

Throughout the province, the media—particularly the competitive French-language newspapers in Quebec City and Montreal—were relentless in their coverage and would pull no punches in their pursuit of sensational headlines. On more than one occasion, I was advised by John McCauley to be very careful about what I did or said in public in either city. Even the officials were fair game! Denis Morel found that out after working a Nordiques–Canadiens game.

We weren’t paid a lot then (some might say we still aren’t) and often worked a summer job. Using his hockey connections, Denis got a job in sales and marketing for Molson one summer. The day after this particular game, which Montreal won, a picture of Denis in a Molson bottle cap appeared on the front sports page of a French-language paper. The radio talk shows percolated to the boiling point every day and night. There was no escape from the “controversy.”

As soon as I landed in Montreal and collected my luggage, I noticed how intently I was being stared at by arriving passengers and airport workers. As I passed a skycap, I was greeted with a nod of the head along with
“Bonne chance.”
Once I hit the line for the taxis, it seemed that everyone I met, from the man who loaded my bags in the taxi, to the cab driver, to the doorman at the hotel, to the people at the front desk, greeted me with, “Oh, M’sieur Fraser, it is good to see you here for da big game”…. “We are so happy you are doing the game”…. “I heard you were doing the game on the radio this morning and I tell my wife, Chantal, I be so pleased it’s you.…” My personal favourite: “Who do you think will win?” It was wild. I went for a walk to clear my head and look for a place to eat dinner, but I was stopped so many times on the street that after 10 minutes I returned to the Sheraton, locked myself in my room, and ordered room service. I even avoided television because you couldn’t turn a channel without something about the game popping up. When my linesmen for the game, Ray Scapinello and John D’Amico, arrived that evening, I was already in bed. Scampy called, and I told him I’d see him in the morning for breakfast—I was in for the night.

I woke early with the sensation that something was crawling all over my body. Upon inspection, I discovered I was covered head to toe in big, red, itchy welts. At least they weren’t on my face. I thought,
What the hell is this
? I was too embarrassed to mention it to anybody—I certainly didn’t want McCauley to think
he had made the wrong choice in choosing me for Game Seven. Scampy would have busted my “stones,” while J.D. would have given me a pill from his supply of medicines and told me to wash it down with a Dr Pepper. Actually, John was a hypochondriac, so I was afraid he’d immediately “catch” whatever was ailing me. All I could do was put on a long-sleeved shirt, buttoned at the neck, and go out for the pre-game meal with the guys.

I’m sure that my subconscious was not letting me forget the now-legendary Good Friday brawl that these same two teams engaged in Game Six of their series the year before. That one broke out at the end of the second period, and everyone, including the backup goalies, ended up on the ice. When the teams took to the ice for the third period, the hostilities resumed, even as the penalties were being announced. Some of the players involved at this point had already been ejected, but did not know it yet! It was an impossible situation for referee Bruce Hood and linesmen Bob Hodges and John D’Amico to control. The first five games of the 1985 series had similarly been penalty-filled affairs. The bottom line was that these two teams hated each other. I had no idea what I could expect once I dropped the puck. For now, all I could see when I looked down was red—all over my body.

After lunch, I walked into a pharmacy and discreetly showed the pharmacist my blotches and asked him what I had. We discounted food allergies, and then he asked if I was nervous about anything. After my emphatic “YES!” he recommended an antihistamine that he said wouldn’t make me drowsy. I told the other guys I would meet them at the Forum; my alibi was I had to go ahead and get some equipment repairs. The truth is, I didn’t want to have to change in front of them. By the time Scamp and D’Amico arrived in the room, I was totally concealed by my long underwear.

As soon as I stepped on the ice, all was forgotten, other than the energy inside the Forum. It was an unbelievable, end-to-end
game. Both teams came to play, and there was none of the rough stuff that we might have anticipated. At the end of regulation time, it was all tied up at two.

I can’t tell you what a sense of relief I had with D’Amico and Scapinello working the lines. There were others who would have made me feel the same way, but as a young referee being put into this position for the very first time, I fed off their quiet confidence.

Once I dropped the puck to start the overtime, it didn’t take long for the game and series to end. After a faceoff in the Montreal zone, Peter Stastny drew the puck back cleanly to Pat Price on the left point and headed toward the Montreal net. Price drove a slapshot right at Steve Penney in the Montreal goal. Stastny pounced on the rebound, and Penney made another stop but still couldn’t control the rebound. Stastny would make no mistake the second time, putting the game and series in his pocket at 2:22 of overtime.

I remember driving to the net from my position on the goal line as the scramble for the loose puck took place, and as I signaled the goal I felt an overwhelming sense of relief that it could not be disputed. All three of us were jubilant as we returned to the officials’ room, not because we had scored a tangible victory, but because we knew we had performed our duties well and the game was better for it.

Cautiously removing my long underwear, this time in front of my colleagues, to my pleasant surprise, the only thing I saw was my lily-white skin. Either the antihistamine had kicked in or, more likely, I had avoided controversy with the help of my two colleagues.

As Bruce Hood can probably attest, a year or two can make a big difference. I got caught in the crossfire between these two bitter rivals in Game Five of the Adams Division final on April 28, 1987. The Nordiques had stunned the Canadiens by taking the first two games in Montreal, while the Habs won the next two at
Le Colisée. Late in the third period of the fifth game, with the score tied at two, I disallowed a goal by Alain Côté, and Nordiques coach Michel Bergeron was transformed from
“Le Petit Tigre”
into a roaring lion—or, depending on your perspective, a raving maniac. To this day, the thought or mention of that call causes Bergeron’s already high blood pressure to boil out of control.