The Final Call (32 page)

Right from the opening faceoff, both teams showed tremendous speed through the neutral zone and attacked the net. At this crucial point in the schedule, teams do everything they can to manufacture goals, especially when they are playing against a hot goalie. This game had one at each end, in Jimmy Howard of the Red Wings and Pekka Rinne of the Predators. Each team had at least one player we had placed on a “watch list” for goal-crease violations: Patric Hörnqvist of Nashville and the biggest “crease pest” in the entire league, Detroit’s Tomas Holmström.

The other guy I kept an eye on and gave a wide berth to was Nashville’s Jordin Tootoo. Ever since Jordin separated my rib in a game between Detroit and the Predators in Nashville on November 22, 2007, I’ve been sure to steer clear. In that game, after I signalled a Detroit goal, I backed away toward the corner and side boards as Tootoo and Detroit tough-guy Aaron Downey circled in front of me. Downey gave Toots a little bump, and Jordin, who has been known to embellish (i.e., dive) on more than one occasion, launched himself into the boards—back first—and threw a fist against the boards, hoping to make a big noise and sell a call that wasn’t warranted. The problem was, the sound that was made was from the air that left my lungs, along with a loud groan of pain
—aaaagghh
—I let out when his fist nailed me right in the sternum. I thought I had been shot. My rib popped out and I was flat on my back, unable to breathe.

I was gasping for air and turning blue as big Detroit defenceman Andreas Lilja stood over me with a concerned look on his face and shouted at me, in a thick Swedish accent, “Breathe, Kerry,
breathe!” Just as it seemed as though I was going to pass out, some oxygen returned to my lungs. I finished the period and went to the medical room for an X-ray. My rib had been displaced, but nothing was broken, and for the next couple of months tears came to my eyes every time I coughed, sneezed, or farted! I found it easier to suppress the first two of those bodily functions.

Nashville and Detroit played hard, and as I anticipated, I would have to step up from my position at the blue line and call a penalty on Holmström at 19:04 of the first period. Mickey Redmond, a former 50-goal scorer for Detroit and long-time colour commentator on Wings television broadcasts, didn’t agree (imagine that), but it was a phenomenal call. Some things that the untrained eye might take several replays, even in slow motion, to detect, we officials only have a fraction of a millisecond to see and make a judgment on. This was one of those times, and from 65 feet away.

The Wings were cycling the puck low in the Nashville end zone. Holmström came out of the corner from a scramble behind the net and occupied his favourite real estate, right at the top of—if not inside—the blue paint of the goal crease, his back and butt in the face of Pekka Rinne. As one of the non–puck carriers, Tomas was part of my area of coverage, along with the other players who weren’t immediately involved in the action around the puck. Wes covered everything to do with action on the puck.

Tomas never seems to want to take up space on his own; he usually attracts a crowd, which he uses to his advantage by jamming up the goal crease even more. With the puck on its way to the front of the net, Tomas grabbed the stick of Nashville defenceman Shea Weber, tap-danced over Rinne’s pads, and pulled Weber down to the side of the goal crease, all the while flipping a one-handed shot at the goal with his stick. Before the puck floated overtop of the net, I had my hand in the air to signal a penalty against Holmström. With all the action around him, Pekka Rinne
didn’t realize there was a delayed penalty being called against Detroit, so he remained in his crease until the whistle blew once Detroit gained possession of the puck. Tomas had that confused look of innocence on his face as he went to the penalty box for the remaining 56 seconds of the period.

Prior to the start of the second period, I was standing near the penalty box when Holmström skated over to occupy the real estate
I
had rented him for the next 64 seconds. Again flashing me that confused look, Tomas asked me what I’d seen—notice, not what he’d done! I explained that I’d seen him engage the Nashville defenceman at the edge of the crease, grab his stick, and pull him down, while trying to make it look as though he was the one being fouled. A wide grin broke out across Holmström’s face, as he smiled and said, “That’s why you’re the
best!
” and then stepped into the penalty box.

Tomas Holmström makes things happen. He creates opportunities for his team and takes a huge beating in front of the net to do so. He is just as valuable to the Detroit Red Wings as any of their other star players, and they have a boatload of them, including Nicklas Lidström, Henrik Zetterberg, Pavel Datsyuk, Johan Franzén, Todd Bertuzzi, and Brian Rafalski.

The Nashville Predators grabbed a 3–2 lead with just 43 seconds remaining in the second period when J.P. Dumont scored. It looked as though that lead would hold up, until Datsyuk tied the score for the Red Wings on a beautiful effort with just 37 seconds remaining in regulation, and Jimmy Howard removed from the Detroit goal for an extra attacker. When the horn sounded, we were heading to overtime.

Fans who had gone to grab one last slice of Little Caesars Pizza didn’t even have time to return to their seats as Nashville defenceman Ryan Suter scored just 16 seconds after Wes McCauley dropped the puck for the opening faceoff of overtime. It was a clean goal, and there were no beer cups or debris thrown by the Joe Louis
fans at the end of this game. I would be able to walk out of the building without the police riding shotgun.

Leaving behind the memories of Gordie Howe, Stevie Yzerman, Scotty Bowman, and the fabulous Russian Five (defencemen Vyacheslav Fetisov and Vladimir Konstantinov and forwards Igor Larionov, Sergei Federov, and Slava Kozlov) that Bowman assembled in 1997 to return the Stanley Cup to Detroit, I rushed to the airport to catch a flight to Chicago for an Easter Sunday game the next afternoon—and a date with Scotty Bowman, the Blackhawks’ director of player personnel and his son Stan, their general manager. Together, they are busy assembling another potential Stanley Cup champion, this time in the Windy City.

While I was editing this book, it was announced that Steve Yzerman was hired as the general manager of the Tampa Bay Lightning. Having just returned from my niece Lynsey’s wedding on Mackinac Island, Michigan, I can tell you first-hand the fans of that state are heartbroken. It was all I heard about from the locals the entire weekend. It comes as no surprise to me, however, that Stevie Y was lured away from the franchise that he played his entire career for and, as I documented extensively in this chapter, took the Red Wings from obscurity to Stanley Cup champions with his stellar play and leadership. The depth that the Wings possess is not just limited to the players on the ice. The same is true of their management team. General manager Ken Holland has done a fantastic job in putting together a collection of talent and is a pillar of the organization. His assistant general manager for 12 seasons, Jim Nill, is a guy that could also be in charge of his own NHL team but has been retained by Holland. While I still believe Steve Yzerman will always be the face of Red Wings hockey, he is a “front-line player” that needs to be challenged and lead. The
Tampa job will do just that. New owner Jeff Vinik has placed his franchise on very solid ground. Acquiring Stevie Y demonstrates Mr. Vinik’s commitment to assembling a winning team on and off the ice. They have a great nucleus of players but have been rudderless since the return from the lockout season. “The Captain” will no doubt right the ship just as he did as an 18-year-old rookie in the Motor City. Mark my words, “Lightning” will strike again!

I
n the summer of 2009, the management of the United Center in Chicago announced that part of the arena’s upper level was being renamed the Madhouse on Madison. The name conjured up images of the old Chicago Stadium, which stood across the street from 1929 until 1995 and deserved the nickname. A visitor to the stadium couldn’t help but revel in the sights and sounds of the massive Barton pipe organ, the steep, overhanging balconies, and the dignified way in which the old barn had aged. There came a point when you felt the fans couldn’t possibly cheer any louder, but then the national anthem, often sung by Wayne Messmer, would reach its crescendo and your eardrums felt like they were going to rupture from the incalculable decibel levels. If your heart didn’t get pumping when you stood on that ice, you were probably dead.

Chicago Stadium was my favourite place to work in those days—I loved it. Everything about the arena smelled historic—the musty seats that had seen so many triumphs and defeats, the faint waxy residue of the scuffed wood floors, the hint of the hockey equipment worn by some of the greatest players the game has known. Whenever I stood at centre ice, the monumental horn,
taken from the owners’ yacht, the
Black Hawk
, hung overhead and never failed to scare the hell out of me whenever Chicago scored. It sounded like a ship was being scuttled upon the waves of avid hockey fans. When you walked down the stairs—yes, stairs!—to get to the dressing rooms, you passed vast numbers of beer kegs waiting to be served to the thirsty patrons above.

It was October 14, 1993, and the Blackhawks were battling it out with the Hartford Whalers in the Hawks’ third home game to the start the 1993–94 season. Rookie defenceman Chris Pronger sat on the visitors’ bench, wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into. There was 3:19 left in the third period with Chicago trailing 6–2. It had been a rough game from the start for the Blackhawks, and now it seemed like they were bent on making their opponents pay for it. Chicago centre Jeremy Roenick had already earned a reputation for playing full out all the time. He only knew one speed and that was pedal to the metal, never letting the score of a game slow down his legs—or his mouth. That’s why he was so much fun for the fans to watch and for me to referee. I always had to be aware, as did his opponents, of when JR was on the ice, especially when he was on the forecheck. If a defenceman didn’t hustle back to retrieve a puck, JR was on him in a flash.

On this night, the Whalers were ready to roll out of the Stadium with a nice early-season road win. The problem was that somebody had forgotten to tell veteran defenceman Brad “the Beast” McCrimmon that Jeremy Roenick could neither tell the time nor the score. Brad sauntered into the corner to pick up a loose puck. Before he had even touched the puck, JR had given him a decent tap with his stick, then slammed the Hartford defenceman into the boards. The whistle blew and a pod of Whales swam around Roenick. Brian Propp confronted him, and the two
engaged in some verbal sparring. Chicago defenceman Chris Chelios, who had knocked Propp out with an elbow in the 1989 Wales Conference final (at the time, Propp was a Philadelphia Flyer while Chelios was with the Montreal Canadiens), came flying in and challenged him. Before Propp knew what hit him, Chelios was throwing bombs. All Propp could do was cover up as linesman Bernie DeGrace and I attempted to pull Chelios off him. Linesman Randy Mitton blanketed Propp to protect him from taking more of Chelios’s punches.