The Final Call (10 page)

At this point, I’d had enough of Mario as well, and I unloaded on him verbally.

“You’re supposed to be the captain of this team, and you don’t know how to be a captain yet. Your teammates don’t follow you and if you want to know how to be a leader, take a look at that guy.” I pointed to his teammate Paul Coffey. “He’s a leader, he’s a captain.” Mario lowered his stick, as well as his head, and I dropped the puck.

A couple of days later, I had a game on Long Island. The Penguins were the visitors. At the end of the first period, a scrum gathered. I blew my whistle loudly and instructed the players to break it up and go to their dressing rooms. They didn’t respond, so I blew the whistle a second time, louder, and told them more stridently to break it up and get off the ice.

They still weren’t budging. At this point, Mario skated in, looked down at me, and told his teammates, “C’mon, boys, let’s go.” They immediately obeyed the captain’s command. As I stood there, I brushed away a feather from the side of my mouth from the crow I had just been fed by the captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins. In that moment, Mario was clearly in charge of his team, but more important, he let me know it.

Over the next seven years, there was a relaxing of tensions between us, as I worked the All-Star Game in Pittsburgh in 1990 and the Stanley Cup final in 1991, in which the Penguins beat the Minnesota North Stars. It seemed to me that I had developed a professional working relationship with Mario.

There wasn’t a confrontation of any magnitude between us until April 5, 1994, when the Penguins were hosting the Tampa Bay Lightning. The season before, Mario had left hockey for two months for cancer treatment, only to return and still win the scoring title by 12 points over Pat LaFontaine. He then had surgery to repair a herniated disc in his back in July 1993, and missed 58 games in 1993–94 because of recurring back issues.

Against Tampa, he was stripped of the puck and felt he’d been hooked. I deemed it stick-to-stick contact. In frustration, Mario brought his elbow and stick up high into the Lightning player who had trailed him. I raised my arm and called a high-sticking penalty. Once in the box, Mario flipped his stick over the glass and onto the ice in protest. I cruised by the penalty box and gave him a misconduct penalty. Mario immediately charged out of the penalty box in an effort to get at me. Fortunately for both of us, he was restrained by Kevin Stevens, Ron Francis, and others.

This incident occurred just prior to the Stanley Cup playoffs, and a special hearing was held by Brian Burke, the NHL’s senior VP of hockey operations, to investigate and determine what suspension, if any, would be applied. I was not required to attend the hearing; I had filed a report at the end of the game that had gone directly to Burke. Later, Burke asked me about a feud Mario had mentioned in the hearing, one that dated back to when he first became the captain in Pittsburgh.

If anything good came out of this incident, it was that Mario, a bona fide superstar and the face of the game, now had a platform and had gotten the attention of the keepers of the game in an
attempt to effect change and eliminate the trapping and obstruction at the height of their use.

While several failed attempts were made to crack down on obstruction, real change wouldn’t occur until 2005–06, the first season after the lockout, and Mario’s last in the NHL.

In retrospect, given the amazing accomplishments of this special athlete and the adversity he overcame, I have nothing but respect and admiration for Mario Lemieux as a player and as a man. I deeply regret the dressing-down I gave him in his early years, for which he may have harboured resentment toward me until it all rushed out of the penalty box that night in the Igloo in 1994.

After his playing career, he was called upon again to save the franchise, this time as the owner, and then to acquire the next-generation superstar, the next saviour of the Penguins and the new face of the game: Sidney Crosby.

I attended the USA Hockey national tournament at the Ice House in Hackensack, New Jersey, in 2008 as the guest of my friend and former colleague Pat Dapuzzo. While there I enjoyed the company of Mario, who was coaching his son’s team in the tournament. What I noticed most about him in retirement is that he carries himself with the same grace and class that we witnessed while he was on the ice.

To a lesser degree, there is still growth taking place for Crosby, most recently the hero of the Canadian Olympic gold-medal victory in Vancouver.

Sidney brings intensity to every game, has a tremendous work ethic, and competes hard night in and night out. He’s a leader.

He and I experienced some initial growing pains as we tried to build a working relationship, not unlike my experience with his boss and landlord (Sidney moved into Mario’s house with his family when he arrived as a rookie in 2005).

Sid the Kid came into the league with a little bit of an edge to him. For budding superstars like Sidney, their celebrity status is
thrust upon them at a very early age. Some are mustangs who don’t want to be saddled, while others are thoroughbreds willing to race to the finish line under a jockey’s direction. Sidney came in as the wild mustang. My aim was not to break him of it; I just sought a measure of respect that I believe I’d earned and the game deserved.

We had moments of confrontation during his rookie season, usually over his whining. When he continued to direct negative energy toward officials in his sophomore year, I thought it was imperative that he focus more on his game and less on us. But unlike my improper reaction to Mario when he was a young captain, I tried to take a more fatherly approach to the Nova Scotia native.

One night in Toronto, he felt he had been fouled and he retaliated with a slash to the ankle of a Leafs player. I whistled him for the infraction, and on the way to the penalty box he gave me the kind of grief that I deemed inappropriate.

At the time, he was in a neck-and-neck battle with teammate Evgeni Malkin for the league scoring lead. While Crosby was in the penalty box, Malkin scored a short-handed goal. A referee knows he’s living right when that happens. It’s as close to winning as we ever get. You call a penalty, and the penalized team scores a shorthanded goal. This usually alleviates the frustration (or in some cases, even anger) a penalized player might feel.

The Pens went on to kill Sidney’s penalty, and at the first stoppage after he got out of the penalty box, he again revisited his upset over the slashing penalty.

This didn’t make any sense to me. I said to him, “Wait, I have to understand something. Are you still upset with the obvious slashing penalty your team just killed off, or are you now more upset that Malkin scored and got a point while you were sitting there watching him?”

He gave me a dirty look and skated off in a huff. Although I was frustrated with Sidney, I had to admire the way he challenged
himself. That’s why he’s such a great competitor. He wants to win and won’t settle for second best.

At the next commercial break, I decided we needed to have a “father-son” chat. I asked his permission to talk, which he granted. We huddled near the penalty box, and I told him: “You are the face of the game. You are a superstar.”

To which he responded, “No, I’m not.” Perhaps he thought I was chiding him.

“No, I’m serious,” I said. “You are the new face of the NHL. And I say that with the utmost respect for your skill and ability. With that comes huge responsibility, and I’d just like you to be aware of the impression you will leave on youngsters who are watching your every move, and that they will turn around and emulate everything you do. So I recommend that you use that responsibility wisely.”

He seemed to get it, seemed receptive to what I had to say; perhaps equally important was the way the message was delivered.

He nodded, and I said, “Let’s go play.”

He took the faceoff and played on.

There was a game the next season in Philadelphia when he approached me after a play on which he thought he might have been fouled. Now the captain, he skated over with a different, more kindly demeanour and said, “I know you’re not my number-one fan. I just want you to know the guy brought his stick up and caught me.”

“I really am a fan,” I assured him. “I’ve always been a fan of excellence. Concerning your question, I didn’t think the stick had contacted you. If it did, I apologize. I missed it.”

He said, “Okay, no problem,” and skated away.

Over the years, I’ve been blessed to watch at close hand some of the greatest players the game has ever seen. Mario and Sidney, bookend superstars for the Pittsburgh Penguins, certainly fall into that category.

On this night, in my final game in the Igloo, Sidney—returning from an injury—scored a goal and two assists to help beat the Boston Bruins. He was chosen first star, took over the game, and ignited the crowd and his team just like his boss had done so many times not all that long ago. This Pittsburgh Penguins franchise is clearly on a strong footing both off and on the ice for years to come.

I
t only seemed fitting that I would travel from a spiritual retreat directly to a city named after a saint to work my final two games there. It also seemed fitting that I checked into the Marriott Hotel at the old Union Station, where, according to a sign at the front desk, spirits have been seen prowling the halls, walking through walls, and slamming doors.

My previous game, four days earlier, had been in Chicago. From there, I travelled to Malibu, California, at the request of my good friend Ray McKenna, a lawyer from Arlington, Virginia, who founded a faith-based organization called Catholic Athletes for Christ. I was invited to make a presentation at Major League Baseball’s annual retreat, which was attended by such stars as Mike Piazza, Mike Sweeney, Jeff Suppan, and Bobby Keppel.

It was inspiring and refreshing for me to leave behind the madness that sometimes occurs in the NHL and join this grace-filled, humble, and grounded group of men for a couple of days in the beautiful setting of the Serra Retreat Center. The facility sits high atop a hill, and the prayer gardens and chapel offer panoramic views of the Pacific Ocean. From there, it was easy to let go of the noise and stress and “stuff” I’d brought with me.

One of the highlights for me was to be able to sit beside “Jesus” at morning Mass. Of course, I mean Jim Caviezel, the actor and devout Catholic who portrayed Jesus in Mel Gibson’s blockbuster movie
The Passion of the Christ
.

After two and a half glorious days, I was now back in my everyday world of NHL officiating. I prayed the inner peace I’d found in Malibu would sustain me and keep me in the “light,” even if a call I made (or missed) should come under attack from a “darker” place.

I became a daily communicant at Mass after responding to a calling in 1995 that was very mystical in nature. I know miracles happen every day, and I could tell you of many that I have seen and experienced personally. I am far from alone in this belief.

On Monday, May 12, 1986, perhaps some new believers joined the flock from among the 17,801 in attendance as the Blues, on the verge of elimination at the hands of the Calgary Flames, overcame a three-goal deficit with just 12 minutes remaining to force overtime. Seven and a half minutes into overtime, Doug Wickenheiser scored the game winner, sending the series back to Calgary for the final game, the winner of which would compete for the Stanley Cup. Blues fans still refer to Game Six of the 1986 Campbell Conference final as the Monday-Night Miracle.

At the end of the second period of that game, however, there was at least one soul waiting in the shadows for the opportunity to strike—and his intended target was me!

I arrived in St. Louis early in the afternoon the day before the game to prepare physically and mentally for what would be an important match. I was in my sixth season in the NHL, and this was only the second time I’d been assigned to work beyond the second round of playoffs. The previous year, I’d moved to the uppermost rung on the ladder, getting the nod—along with Andy Van Hellemond and Bryan Lewis—to officiate in my first Stanley
Cup final series. The Oilers triumphed over the Flyers to win their second Stanley Cup.

For this game between the Blues and the Flames, I was to be accompanied on the ice by two outstanding linesmen, Ron “Huck” Finn and future Hall of Famer Ray Scapinello. Their experience, as well as the respect and rapport that they enjoyed with players and coaches alike, gave me a great deal of comfort and a major boost of confidence. I had no doubt that they would always have my back—or so I thought!

We gathered for an early dinner that night in Hacks Restaurant off the lobby of the Chase Park Plaza and tucked in early. While the excitement of the playoffs produces adrenaline in surplus quantities, by this stage the action can wear down players and officials alike. The Blues, piloted by coach Jacques Demers, had won the Norris Division by taking their first two rounds to the maximum number of games. They eliminated the Minnesota North Stars three games to two, then beat the Leafs in seven. Bob Johnson’s Calgary Flames, on the other hand, swept the Winnipeg Jets in three straight games before grinding out a seven-game victory over Wayne Gretzky and the Edmonton Oilers to earn the Smythe Division crown.