The Final Call (8 page)

For me, camp was over. My ankle blew up before we left the base, and by the time the school bus rolled up to our hotel at Blue Mountain, I couldn’t put any weight on it. It wasn’t all that bad because it was on the same side as my bad knee, which had also blown up due to the running I had done, so I was able to keep my weight off both injuries. Camp broke the next day, and Dave Smith arranged for me to visit Dr. Mike Clarfield’s clinic in downtown Toronto. I’d be good to go in a couple of weeks—or, as they might say on the bayonet range, “It’s only an effin’ flesh wound, you effin’ pussy, Fraser!”

Leaving camp, I was determined not to take any shortcuts—it just isn’t within my makeup to do so. I wanted to be sure I left the game having given everything I had to give. Because of my competitive spirit, I wanted to prove to management that I was an asset to the game, one that would be sorely missed.

One goal I had set was to work deep into the playoffs, and ultimately, the Stanley Cup final. I remain faithful to the belief that superior talent and hard work should be rewarded with selection to perform on that stage. Although players around the league, polled independently by ESPN, chose Kerry Fraser once again as the best referee in the game, I knew full well that all I could control
was the way I worked and not the way anyone evaluated me. Still, in case the opportunity arose and I was deemed worthy, I wanted to be ready. Sadly I came up short of my goal, due to the subjective selection process employed by the Officiating Department and Hockey Operations. The Stanley Cup final would, from this point forward, only occur for me on ESPN Classics.

M
ost hockey officials look forward to the beginning of the season far more than the end. Skates and equipment have been packed away for three months, and cabin fever has reached epidemic proportions throughout the fraternity. We have endured a month of hell in the form of crash diets and (almost full) days spent in conditioning, just to get ready for training camp and the tune-up of pre-season games that follows. The rust built up over the summer months has been shaken free. As opening night nears, the yearning to get back on the road to work is overwhelming—and that’s just how the wives feel! Truly, though, each of us involved on the ice is anxious to reconnect with the game in a meaningful way.

Opening night found me working a game between Ottawa and Toronto, teams that built up a fierce rivalry through four playoff meetings in five years between 2000 and 2004—all of them won by the Leafs. But there was something missing—a certain intensity that I’d come to expect when these two teams had met in previous years. The difference appeared to be in the personnel: while Daniel Alfredsson, Chris Neil, Chris Phillips, and Mike Fisher were still in their familiar Ottawa jerseys, the
Leafs had never made up for the loss of the likes of Darcy Tucker, Gary Roberts, or Mats Sundin. Toronto hadn’t even made the playoffs since 2004.

Nonetheless, it was somehow fitting that I would begin my final season in Toronto.

For the players, no matter how old they are or how long they’ve been in the game, a youthful enthusiasm grabs hold prior to that opening night. Events of the previous season—slumps, injuries, missing the playoffs—are long forgotten, and players and fans alike look forward to the new year with renewed confidence that this will be their year. And a win in that first game takes on added importance because it can put them atop the standings, even if only for a day.

The officials have a similar motivation, as we look to improve upon our rankings within our peer group. The eternal optimists hold out hope that the slate has been wiped clean, pre-existing conditions apply only to health insurance, and everyone starts the season on an equal footing. That is, until the first puck is dropped, at which point it becomes clear that—whether we’re talking about players or officials—some are created more equal than others.

For the fans, opening night is just as special. While “hockey talk” never completely dies down in the major Canadian cities, things really seem to kick into gear as early as August. A buzz can be heard in the streets, in the coffee shops, and on sports-talk radio. Fans retrieve their hockey jackets from the neighbourhood dry cleaners in anticipation of an early cold snap. And Leafs fans are, without a doubt, a breed unto themselves. Nobody knows that better than I do! Not just because I have incurred their wrath for the past 17 years like no other referee in the history of the game, but because, perhaps to your surprise, I used to be one.

As a kid growing up in Sarnia, 180 miles west of Toronto, my brother Rick and I watched the Leafs every Saturday night while wearing our “team uniforms”: Leafs pyjamas complete with attached foot covers and, in the early going, a “trap door” on the backside. I guess that would qualify me as a “Baby Leaf”! Saturday nights with the Leafs became an extended-family tradition, as most of the clan gathered at Grandma and Grandpa Fraser’s, up the street from our house. Prior to Foster Hewitt calling the Leafs game at eight o’clock, we would enjoy Gram’s homemade spaghetti and meatballs. After dinner the house came alive with music and song performed by Grandpa on the fiddle, Uncle Bob on guitar (and eventually his son Bobby), and my dad, Hilt, on guitar and vocals.

They played right up until the opening faceoff, at which point the only sounds you heard were Foster Hewitt’s voice and the groans from the living room whenever the Leafs missed a scoring chance or were scored on. Dad and Uncle Bob had played with Allan Stanley growing up in Timmins, and I felt as though he was part of the family, given the stories they told of their youth. I was mesmerized by the size and skill of Frank Mahovlich, the speed and tenacity of Dave Keon and Ron Ellis, the gentlemanly leadership of the captain, George Armstrong, and the entertaining antics of Eddie Shack. (Dad also played against Randy Ellis, Ron’s father, in the Scottish International Hockey League in the late 1940s and said the senior Mr. Ellis was a great player in his day.)

Whether we were skating on the outdoor rink in the winter or playing street hockey in the summer months, I always took the name of one of my Leafs heroes and tried to emulate his every move. While I concede that wearing Leafs pyjamas with little feet on them (and let’s not forget the trap door) doesn’t necessarily qualify me as a card-carrying member of Joe Bowen’s Leafs fan club, I have to tell you they were my favourite team. (I think Joe might still wear those pyjamas on cold nights.)

Today, as I enter retirement and throw open the closet door with this shocking admission of my Leafs loyalty, I have no doubt that every Leafs fan reading this will undoubtedly ask, “So why did you screw us in ’93?”

So, let’s talk about that, finally!

While this won’t be the first time that I have openly discussed the details and answered questions about the infamous “missed call” in Game Six of the 1993 Campbell (now Western) Conference final between the Leafs and Los Angeles Kings, hopefully it will be my last.

Let me preface by saying I can understand the frustration Leafs fans feel. I watched with you as a 15-year-old in 1967, and celebrated the Leafs’ Stanley Cup victory as George Armstrong paraded the Cup around Maple Leaf Gardens before passing it off to the hands of his waiting teammates. It was, without question, my favourite moment as a hockey fan growing up.

Had I not joined the fraternity of officials, which demands complete impartiality, I could very well have been cheering right alongside you in 1993. But the career path I set out on as a 20-year-old prevented that from happening.

Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, or perhaps I feel the need to seek absolution from Leafs fans for committing the grave sin of missing “The Call” on May 27, 1993, but my many attempts in the confessional have never been private, and on any of those occasions the chief priest, usually a member of the media, has yet to bless me and tell me my sin is forgiven and to go forth and sin no more. In fact, not only have many cast the first stone, they have continually gone back to the quarry to reload.

Anyway, I invite you to take a lap in my skates on that fateful night in the Great Western Forum.

The Leafs were one game away from appearing in the Stanley Cup final for the first time in 26 years. I say “one game away,” but in the minds of most of their fans, to this day, they were one
call
away. After eliminating Detroit and St. Louis in a series that went the full seven games, the Leafs drew Wayne Gretzky and the Los Angeles Kings. After falling behind two games to one, they had rallied to a 3–2 lead in the series. The Montreal Canadiens, having already defeated the New York Islanders for the Wales Conference championship, were waiting, and Toronto fans were buzzing about the potential for a classic matchup between the NHL’s two oldest franchises.

Game Six was in overtime, tied at four, and the Leafs were down a man with Glenn Anderson serving a boarding penalty. About a minute into overtime, Kings defenceman Rob Blake, at the right point, passed the puck forward along the boards to Wayne Gretzky. Gretzky’s shot from the top of the faceoff circle was blocked by defenceman Jamie Macoun. Gretzky and Leafs centre Doug “Killer” Gilmour both went after the loose puck, and Gilmour fell to the ice, injured.

As a referee, the biggest fear I’ve always had is that when I blink, something could occur in that fraction of a second that I will miss. It’s also uncomfortable when a player simply passes in front of your line of vision—you worry something fateful might occur.

Was this one such moment? There was an aching in the pit of my gut, a feeling of helplessness, a sensation so awful I wanted to throw up. The only thing to do in a case like this was to seek out help, like an investigator collecting facts before deciding whether to make an arrest and that’s just what I did. First I approached Gilmour, and I could see as he touched his chin that there was blood, although it wasn’t oozing. My initial thought was that some old scar tissue had been scraped off. God knows, Killer had enough of that on his face.

Next, I asked him what happened. Doug said, “Wayne took a shot and the follow-through struck me on the chin.” To which I responded, “If that’s the case, a normal follow-through of a shot is not a penalty,” because contact made when a shooter is following through is exempt from a penalty for high-sticking.

Doug said, “Okay.” He accepted that no penalty was warranted.

I then noticed that Gretzky had drifted away from “the scene of the crime”; unusual for him, since he was normally right there to provide input when necessary. Upon reflection, that might have been an admission of guilt on Wayne’s part, a sign he thought he was about to receive a four-minute double-minor for high-sticking.

My next course of action was to appeal to both linesmen and hope that, from one of their vantage points, they could give me accurate information about what had happened. I gathered Ron Finn, who had been at the opposite-side blue line, and Kevin Collins, who had conducted the end-zone faceoff and was retreating to his position on the same side of the ice where the incident had occurred.