The Final Call (31 page)

The sound of a beeping metal detector brought me back to the present day. I rolled my bag past security and entered Joe Louis Arena on the afternoon of my final game at “The Joe.”

Forty-seven years after I stood in line to receive Mr. Hockey’s autograph, I rounded the corner to enter my dressing room and ran smack into a famous Gordie Howe elbow, one that so many players had the misfortune to experience and so few referees ever caught. I sure didn’t see this one, either!

I’m no different than his millions of adoring fans. I am mesmerized by the aura that surrounds Gordie Howe. In this moment, I felt a special connection to the game of hockey and its unrivalled history, similar to the way I feel every time I enter the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto. This meeting was even more special, however, because being in the presence of Gordie Howe actually brought the game and its history to life. I felt like a 10-year-old kid again. There was no hero-worship at work here; nearly 30 years had passed since Gordie scored his last goal and hung up his skates in retirement—for the second time. I have worked in more than 2,000 NHL games myself and skated beside many of the greatest players the game has known. But this was something different. There is an ease and comfort that Gordie makes everyone around him feel, even though he is a hockey icon.

He congratulated me on my fine officiating career and we chatted for a few minutes about other legends of the game—Rocket Richard, Sid Abel, even the Great One, Wayne Gretzky—but he also talked about officiating greats: Red Storey, Frank Udvari, and Bill Friday. I could have spent all day with this living encyclopedia of hockey knowledge, but I knew it would have to wait for another time. I had to concentrate on the present, and the game that would begin in just over an hour. Gordie wished me all the best and took note of the time I would now have to enjoy with kids, grandchildren, and Kathy. He advised me not to take anything for granted and to use the time wisely. It was clear to me his good counsel came from the wisdom and life experience one acquires through sadness, as he continues to bear the loss of his dear wife, Colleen, who succumbed to Alzheimer’s. Our time together had come to an end; there were others waiting up the hall to be graced by his presence. I vowed to hold this great man’s words of wisdom close to my heart for the rest of my life.

Now it was time to refocus. In the dressing room, my fellow referee, Wes McCauley, and I discussed the game and its significance for both teams. The Predators, with three games left to play, had 96 points and sat fifth in the Western Conference. The Wings, with five games left, had 95 point and were sixth. The winner would clinch a playoff berth. Close behind, in seventh, were the Los Angeles Kings. Wes and I had worked a number of games together and meshed well both on and off the ice. We moved and thought a lot alike. He has a very good feel for the game from his experience as a Division I collegiate player at Michigan State University and as a pro player after being drafted by this same Detroit Red Wings organization. Wes is following in the footsteps of his late father, John, a dear friend and mentor of mine. This would be the last time we worked together, and I was savouring the moment.

It would also be my last game alongside linesman Mark Paré, the 31-year NHL veteran who, as noted in the Montreal chapter,
was also retiring at the end of the season. Mark lives in Windsor, and this would be his final game at Joe Louis Arena as well. We both found it hard to get a handle on how fast the years had passed. As we prepared to share the ice one last time, I reflected on the mutual respect we had for each other and the friendship that will last long after the whistle and skates are put away. We share a long history in the business together, with lots of memories—good, bad, and ugly!

Very early in both of our careers, it turned real ugly one night. We were working together, along with linesman Leon Stickle, at Joe Louis Arena when I unknowingly made NHL history. It was February 11, 1982, and the Vancouver Canucks, coached by Harry Neale, were in Detroit to play against Wayne Maxner’s Red Wings. It was a lean period in Red Wings history; that season, they finished last in the Norris Division (and 20th in the 21-team league) with 54 points, just five ahead of the bottom-dwelling Colorado Rockies. The Red Wings were leading 4–2 midway through the third period when Detroit defenceman Jim Schoenfeld grabbed the puck with his hand in the goal crease during a scramble around the net. I immediately blew my whistle and assessed a penalty shot to Vancouver. The shot could be taken by any Canuck player who had been on the ice at the time of the infraction. Neale selected Thomas Gradin, and he buried it against Detroit goalie Gilles Gilbert. The score was now 4–3 Detroit and remained that way with just over a minute to play, as Neale gave the signal to his goalie, Richard Brodeur, to come to the bench for an extra attacker in an effort to tie it up.

With the Canucks’ net empty, Detroit turned the puck over, all their players focusing on trying to score on the open net instead of defending the lead. Stan Smyl picked up a loose puck at the
Vancouver blue line and raced in the other direction on a breakaway. Detroit defenceman Reed Larson was the closest Red Wing to Smyl and chased him down from behind. Just as Smyl was about to let a shot go from about 15 feet out to the left of Gilbert, Larson took a two-handed swing and chopped the Stanley Steamer down, causing the Canuck forward to slide into the goalpost and injure his leg. With just 30 seconds left in the game and the Red Wings up by one goal, I blew my whistle and pointed to centre ice to signal another penalty shot for the Canucks. It was the first time in NHL history a team had been awarded two penalty shots in the same period. I was later informed that only once before had two penalty shots even been called in the same game. The referee to do that was former NHL president Clarence Campbell.

The safest thing for me to do (and the easy way out, especially in those years) would have been to call a two-minute slashing penalty. Penalty shots were rarely awarded. A referee in that era might be lucky to call two in his career, and I had just handed out two in the same period—against the home team. It certainly didn’t make me a popular figure with Detroit coach Wayne Maxner, any of the Red Wings players, or the entire crowd of about 11,000.

Vancouver trainer Larry Ashley had to come out and assist Stan Smyl off the ice. The injury he had sustained on the play meant he wouldn’t be able to take the shot. Once again, Harry Neale had to select one of the players who had been on the ice at the time of the infraction. Czech star Ivan Hlinka was his choice. Neale told me later that his instructions to Hlinka were very clear: “If you don’t score on this penalty shot, just keep skating right out the end of the rink, all the way back to Czechoslovakia!” At the time, I wondered why Ivan looked so nervous as he bore down on Gilles Gilbert. Lucky for Ivan Hlinka—and unlucky for Kerry Fraser—he scored. The moment I signalled the goal, beer cups (many of them still full) and everything else that wasn’t nailed down in the arena rained down in my direction.

After the debris was cleaned up, we still had another 30 seconds left to play. I dropped the puck and held my breath, hoping nothing else stupid happened. The horn sounded and I made a beeline for the end of the rink. Then I saw Reed Larson, with a powerful arm worthy of a Detroit Lions quarterback, launch a water bottle 30 yards—and I, or perhaps my head, was the intended receiver. I didn’t drop the ball on this one, either; I gave Larson a 10-minute misconduct (instead of a 10-yard penalty), even though the game was over. The fans were still firing any debris that remained as Paré, Stickle, and I headed for cover in the officials’ room. Mark was driving back to Windsor, so he left the room on his own. Leon and I left with a police officer by my side. Approaching our exit, we noticed that a fan stood by the iron gate, blocking our path. From 20 feet away, the police officer said, “Oh no, not this guy—he’s a real pain in the ass. We’ve had trouble with him before.”

I said, “If you want to get him, just hang back about 10 feet, but be ready to jump in if I need you.” I felt pretty brave with big Leon right behind me. As I got closer, this guy removed his glasses and put them in his shirt pocket. I walked right up to him, not taking my eyes off of him, and dropped my bag at his feet. He started on me about the rotten calls I had made. I said, “Listen, I don’t know who you are or what you do, but I notice you took your glasses off and I assume you did so for a reason. Either you get out of my way right now, or I’m going to go right through you. The choice is yours to make.”

The guy pulled his glasses out of his pocket, stepped aside, and—to the policeman’s amazement—we walked right past. Turns out the guy was all mouth.

The veteran hockey columnist with the Montreal
Gazette
, Red Fisher, wrote a column the day after the incident and likened me, this new little referee in the NHL, to Popeye, with forearms of steel and carrying anchors in both hands, just for having the
courage to call two penalty shots against the home team, especially in light of the time remaining and the score of the game. John McCauley called me the day after the game, told me about Red’s article, and congratulated me on making those calls. Late in the next season, the referees attended a meeting prior to the playoffs. Scotty Morrison, the referee-in-chief, commented that a total of eight penalty shots had been called in the NHL to that point, and one guy (by the name of Fraser) had called six of them. He urged all of us to call penalty shots whenever warranted to restore a scoring opportunity that had been lost.

I know that the league recognized the excitement that penalty shots created for the fans. They certainly were excited that night in Detroit, perhaps for the wrong reason, but nonetheless, there was a dramatic increase in the number of penalty shots after Scotty’s appeal. For me, it was just another call. Personal consequences that might result from making any tough call were never part of my decision-making process. If I clearly saw a play, it either was or wasn’t a penalty. I didn’t alter my judgment according to who might get most upset by it. Courage and integrity are two qualities that officials in any sport must possess. The integrity of the game rests squarely on the shoulders of its game officials.

Tonight, as every other night, that integrity is what would be expected of us. With two minutes showing on the digital clock in our dressing room, it was time for us to take to the ice before the teams arrived for the introductions of the starting lineups and the national anthem. As Wes McCauley, Mark Paré, Mark Shewchyk, and I exited the officials’ dressing room, we were escorted to the ice by two Detroit police officers. My hope for this afternoon was that this short walk would be the only time we required their services. I felt the energy in the building as the Red Wings’ fans
showed their appreciation for the surge their team had been on since the Olympic break. Not that long ago, there was fear that this powerful team might miss the playoffs. With the return of some key performers from injuries, they were now hitting on all cylinders—teams like that are always dangerous in the post-season.