The Final Call (38 page)

After 30 years in the hockey business, which, prior to the game at Fenway, included more than 2,100 games in the NHL, two All-Star Games, a dozen Stanley Cup finals, the World Cup of Hockey, the Winter Olympic Games, and opening the 2008–09 season in Prague, Czechoslovakia, I have to admit that I caught the Winter Classic fever, too. This wasn’t an ordinary event where I would just show up and go to work. This was way more than just another regular-season game that meant two points for someone.

Two years ago, when I negotiated a succession-planning agreement with Terry Gregson and Stephen Walkom, who was then the NHL’s senior VP of officiating, one of my “demands” was to be able to work the Winter Classic of my choice. I knew
how special this event would turn out to be, and I wanted to be a part of it. When Walkom reneged and assigned Bill McCreary and Tim Peel to work the 2009 game at Wrigley Field in Chicago, my only recourse was to accept the 2010 game, at a location that had yet to be determined. I couldn’t believe my good fortune when Fenway was chosen.

I wasn’t the only one who was excited about the trip to Boston for this extravaganza. Most of our children were able to make it to Boston, and Kara said she’d even bring her own tea to the party. Accommodation was booked well in advance at the historic Marriott Custom House, near the wharf and Faneuil Hall. We set up camp the day after Christmas and prepared to take in all that the wonderful city of Boston had to offer.

I had to leave briefly for a game in Ottawa between the Senators and Montreal Canadiens on December 28, then flew back into Boston the following day to rejoin my family. It was a bitterly cold day as Kathy, Kara, and I walked through Boston Common on our way to Fenway to pick up our credentials. The wind felt like it was eating our faces, so we ducked into Filene’s, made some unfashionable but smart purchases, and then grabbed a taxi in Copley Square to take us the rest of the way to Fenway.

As we entered an old residential area, it appeared that the only ballpark in this confined space would be a sandlot. Pulling up to the old brick structure, I was reminded of what Roger Clemens said when he arrived in Boston for the first time in 1984 and told the cab driver at Logan Airport to take him to Fenway Park. As the taxi pulled up in front of the stadium, Clemens told the driver, “No, Fenway Park. It’s a baseball stadium.… This is a warehouse.” It wasn’t until he saw the light towers that he realized it was a ballpark. I now understood his confusion. My perspective would change in a couple of days.

Before we got a chance to skate in centre field, I had a Bruins game to work on Wednesday, December 30, as the Atlanta
Thrashers visited TD Garden. The Bruins won 4–0, limiting the Thrashers to just 18 shots on Tuukka Rask while combining for 30 on Johan Hedberg and Ondrej Pavelec. The Bruins put on a defensive clinic.

When I witnessed this shutout recorded by Boston, I couldn’t help but wonder about the effect that assistant coach Craig Ramsay has had on this team. His defensive prowess as a Selke Trophy winner in Buffalo has obviously carried over from his playing days in the 1980s, to his coaching over the past 15 years in the NHL. As a player Craig was very methodical, utilizing angles to cut down the ice space of his opponents, always “thinking” the game instead of just playing it. As a coach, Rammer is the consummate teacher to young and old players alike and I can’t help but think that his quiet but studious influence has already made its mark on Boston.

After the Thrashers game, Terry Gregson, who replaced Walkom as senior VP of officiating when the latter returned to refereeing, informed us that our time slot for a family-and-friends skate on the ice at Fenway was scheduled for between 9 and 10 a.m. So the next morning, New Year’s Eve Day, my small army of 20 assembled early at the press gate. My gang excitedly joined the other officials’ families and friends to fill in the paperwork, signing waivers before being allowed to enter Fenway. Between Chris Rooney’s large family and mine (Chris was the other referee assigned to the Winter Classic), it was suggested there were enough of us to play a game.

After only a few steps past the press gate turnstile, I had the sense I was walking into a mausoleum. Entering through a green door (everything was green) in a plywood wall, we were transported into another world of vendors’ booths and an underside of the bleachers that displayed construction from the stadium’s opening in 1912. We were ushered through a gate where I imagined gentlemen with straw hats and spats and ladies with frilled dresses and
parasols must have entered back in the day. As I walked beyond the darkness of this dimly lit corridor, the world of 1912 meshed with the Winter Classic of 2010 and exploded in the bright sunlight and crisp air. I stood, frozen in my tracks. Not by the cold, but by the sheer awe I felt in this intimately historic setting. Looking through the backstop behind home plate and scanning the field, I felt as though I was looking at a lithograph. The Green Monster, with Fisk Foul Pole atop it, Pesky’s Pole down the right field line, and “the Triangle,” which encroached centre field at its deepest part, all seemed within my grasp. And then, as though it had been air-dropped into this hallowed ground, stood the rink. It rose up from the ground and awaited our arrival to glide and play and pay our respects to the two historic sports leagues that joined forces to ring in the new year in such a spectacular fashion. I looked at my children as their eyes widened and their jaws dropped. Everyone was spellbound in that instant.

The frozen moment quickly gave way to excited energy as the inviting ice surface, freshly flooded and made pristine by the superstar talent of Dan Craig and his all-star staff selected from various arenas around the league, waited. The ice looked like a piece of artwork that was too perfect to blemish with the slashing of skate blades, but no one could resist. Our “field of dreams” beckoned us as we walked through our make-believe cornfield and the open players’ bench door. Stepping onto the artificial ice that seemed as natural as Whitey Stapleton’s outdoor rink back home in Sarnia, we were all transported back in time to a place that held special memories for each of us. In that magical moment, we all became kids again.

When our hour of play had concluded, I gathered my troops and headed back to the Marriott to feed the army made ravenous by the fresh air and exercise. It started to snow quite heavily after brunch, resulting in a scene befitting our Canadian heritage. That afternoon, the snow was too inviting to watch from the window,
so we all decided to go for a walk through the streets of Boston and take in the beauty of this historic city. Our oldest daughter, Marcie, a 35-year-old mother of three, was the first to make a snowball and pitch it straight at the back of my head. Everyone, including me, burst out laughing, and before we knew it, the Fraser family was hurling snowballs back and forth, right in front of the aquarium on the waterfront. Our grandsons, Harrison and Brady, found themselves in the middle of an adult battle and laughed with glee as they popped one off Papa’s chest. The tour guide operators and the line of out-of-towners waiting to board a trolley must have thought the Hatfields and McCoys had just arrived. What an afternoon!

Back at the hotel, we all sipped coffee or hot chocolate and decided we had better get ready for New Year’s Eve. Silently, I had already started to prepare for the game the next afternoon. I was filled with joy at the thought of spending the evening with my family, but was especially excited that they were here to share this memorable game with me.

Because of the size of our group, not to mention varying tastes, we split up for dinner, then gathered back at the hotel, with its large clock tower and walk-around balcony from which the entire city can be seen. We huddled together by the rail at midnight, overlooking the river basin, with Logan Airport off in the distance. From here, we had the best seat in the city to take in the fireworks that were being launched off a number of barges, and illuminating the clear night sky. It was an unforgettable display that began at midnight, as we all embraced as a loving family and looked forward to a new year with much hope for all.

After a good night’s sleep, I awoke in game mode. I would have to leave my family for the ballpark (strange not to say
rink
) well in advance of my normal pre-game arrival time, due to the sheer size of the crowds and the many street activities that were taking place around Fenway. I was advised to take the T, the
underground metro. Dragging my equipment bag through the snow that hadn’t stopped until early this morning, I boarded the already jammed T car at 9 a.m. (Kathy and the kids would follow on their own later.) At the stop for Fenway Park, I moved with the crowd up the stairs and squinted like a groundhog as I stepped into the bright sunlight on this glorious New Year’s Day. The scene surrounding Fenway was incredible. The streets were jammed with mobs of people. They weren’t stragglers from the New Year’s Eve celebrations; these were hockey fans participating in and savouring every special moment. I fought my way through the crowd and heard many calls from fans to “call ’em fair” and to “be good to us today, Fraser.” All were in a joyous and festive mood.

Walking through that same little green door I had used for the family skate the day before, I now clearly knew that I was in a ballpark. The space under the stands bustled with activity as vendors and hawkers stocked their stands. The smell of beer, grilled onions, and bratwurst wafted in clouds of billowing smoke that hung in the air.

It was time to seek the shelter of the umpires’ room and prepare physically and mentally for the game. A smorgasbord of hot chicken noodle soup, fresh fruit, and sandwiches had been set out for after the game. Hot chocolate and coffee were at the ready should we need to warm up between periods—in case Jack Frost came out to play. We were provided with special undergarments, gloves, and hooded masks that are used in the NFL. All I would need was the underwear to keep me warm.

Each of us tried to prepare for the game according to his normal routines of stretching and biking, even though it was impossible to see anything about this game as normal or routine. Before we put on our skates, the officiating crew—referee Chris Rooney and linesmen Lyle Seitz (also retiring at the end the season) and Brian Murphy—were summoned to home plate for a ceremonial exchange of lineups. Bruins coach Claude Julien sported a fedora as a
homage to Toe Blake, who led the Montreal Canadiens to eight Stanley Cups between 1955 and 1968. His assistant coach, Craig Ramsay, looked like famous Dallas Cowboys coach Tom Landry in his fedora. After the lineups were given to the “umpires”/referees, I asked both coaches if they wanted me to go over the ground rules and mentioned that the Green Monster was in play. The intertwining of baseball and hockey made me feel blessed to be standing in this spot. Before walking out of the umpires’ room, I had touched the pictures that hung on the wall of the first two umpires inducted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York: Bill Klem, known as the “father of baseball umpires,” who worked in 18 World Series; and Tom Connolly, known for standing firm against the toughest players of the game in defence of the rules. As I touched their pictures, I carried them in my thoughts to home plate, along with my very dear friend, retired umpire and umpiring supervisor Marty Springstead. I was walking on their turf now, and home plate at Fenway Park, where I was about to stand for the very first time, was their sacred ground.

The warm-up now over, we returned to our borrowed dressing room, laced up our skates, and vowed to one another to enjoy the moment. To get to the ice, we had to traverse a corner of the visiting team’s locker room, and proceed down a tunnel to the dugout and ultimately the field. I saw a different form of excitement on the Flyers’ faces as I strolled by. They also knew this was a special moment that they would remember long after their playing days were done. I walked down three steps and found myself in a narrow, dimly lit tunnel leading to the dugout. I quickly realized I was walking where so many legends had been before: Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Ted Williams, Carl Yastrzemski, Carlton Fisk, Roger Clemens, and more. I touched the sides of the walls, knowing that so many baseball heroes had brushed against them. At first, there was an eerie silence until I made it up the steps of the dugout and the park came alive. People were standing, cheering wildly as we
stepped into the jammed park and the daylight. They weren’t cheering for us; rather, they cheered because we represented an omen that the arrival of the teams was imminent. Walking to the rink and removing my skate guards before stepping onto the ice, I was greeted by old friend Bobby Clarke. I found it easier to recognize him with his teeth in today than in the early 1980s, when I started my career.

I ripped around the ice with youthful enthusiasm and tried to scour the stands in search of Kathy and the children. For a moment, I had forgotten that I was now in a baseball stadium, and locating fans in the seats from deep at shortstop or in shallow centre field was not an easy task. But for a fleeting second, I thought I heard my sometimes overenthusiastic daughter Jessica screaming, “Go Fraser!”

I was drunk on the taste of the crisp air and the sunshine that reflected off the polished ice. Although the temperature was 40 degrees Fahrenheit when we arrived on the ice, the wind against my face felt frigid as I sped along. I noticed my eyes were watering; since I don’t skate quite as fast as I used to, I thought perhaps I was just caught up in the emotion of it all and they were real tears. Either way, I glided along and danced on this frozen river a little longer, then gave way to the teams, stood by the penalty box, and drank it all in. Between the players’ benches, two diminutive ex-goaltenders turned television analysts, Darren Pang and Glenn Healy, stood ready to broadcast. The smell of bratwurst wafted over their heads.

Bobby Clarke and Bobby Orr lined up at centre ice for a ceremonial faceoff. I dearly wanted to drop the puck between these two legends, but that honour was reserved, deservedly so, for U.S. Army staff sergeant Ryan R. LaFrance, who had served multiple tours in Afghanistan and Iraq.