The Final Call (12 page)

In a city named after a saint, could that something have been a miracle? Most of the 17,801 in the stands that night still think so, and so does one referee!

For nearly a quarter of a century, I wondered if my message for Jacques Demers at the end of the second period was ever delivered by Rob Ramage. As I prepared for this book I spoke with Jacques, for whom I have the utmost respect, not only as a tremendous coach and motivator, but even more so as the good, kind, caring human being that he is. The world would be a better place if there were more Jacques Demerses around.

He told me he did get the message. He knew that his team had some strong leaders, including Sutter, Ramage, and Gilmour. Jacques’s team had accomplished a great deal that season even though they were underdogs—and underfinanced under the ownership of Harry Ornest. The work ethic that he promoted and his players displayed had brought the fans back into the building. Jacques did not want to disappoint those fans and end their season the way the second period had finished.

These are some of the points Jacques told me he touched on during that second intermission: the team was trying to do too much and had put themselves in the position they were in; he appealed to them not to take any more stupid penalties; he sensed that everybody was frustrated—even he had lost some control; they needed to get back in the game early; and they needed to score a goal every five minutes.

Jacques also told me that, aside from Game Two of the 1993 Stanley Cup final, which the Montreal Canadiens won in overtime after tying the game while Marty McSorley of Los Angeles sat in the penalty box for using an illegal stick, the Monday-Night
Miracle was the greatest game he’d ever coached. Call it coincidence, call it fate, but it was a tremendous honour for me to have been the referee in both games that the Honourable Jacques Demers, now a Canadian senator, considers his greatest games.

O
ne of the realities of being a member of the “third team” on the ice is that, unless you live in a National Hockey League market, you never have a home game. Over the course of a season, we log between 120,000 and 150,000 miles in the air. Elements of it can be very enjoyable: getting to see some of the greatest cities in North America (and sometimes Europe) is a definite perk, especially when you get to bring your spouse or family along. It’s the getting there that is not all it’s cracked up to be. Since 9/11, travel has been much more difficult and taxing, both mentally and physically, than ever. NHL officials deal with the long security lines, flight delays, and winter-weather issues on pretty much a daily basis for 10 months of the year. Trust me when I say it’s not the life of a jetsetter! The road warriors of the business world know exactly what I’m talking about.

We joke in the officiating business that NHL really stands for
N
o
H
ome
L
ife. In a month such as January, I might be home for 10 out of the 31 days. The place setting at the head of the table in an official’s home is often unoccupied for birthdays, anniversaries, First Communions, Thanksgivings, and just about every family function except Christmas. (Until 1971, there were even games on
December 25, but the NHL Players’ Association gained that concession.)

That degree of absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder on the home front. I can attest to this first-hand, as my first marriage ended in divorce. I was only 20 years old and too young to understand what love and commitment were all about, especially as I immediately entered the world of professional hockey officiating. I wasn’t alone in this regard. More than a couple of guys over the years have come home from a trip to find an empty house. In many cases, not only was the official’s wife gone, but all the furniture as well, right down to the curtain rods. The wife of one fellow in the early 1980s was at least decent enough to leave his place setting on the floor in the dining room where the table and his chair used to be.

My point is it’s not an easy life for a wife or family. It takes someone special at home to provide stability, love, and balance, both for the kids and the husband. I was blessed to have found all that and more in Kathy, my true soulmate. Kathy and her three beautiful young daughters accepted the proposal from me and my three young sons and we were married in June 1988, effectively becoming the “Brady Bunch.” In December 1990, Kara Marie Fraser was born and then there were seven!

I couldn’t ask for a better head of our household than Kathy. She has taken care of paying all the bills, handling all calamities (which always seemed to happen when I was away), and raising our beautiful children to be good, successful people. She has provided love, warmth, and support to all of our children and grandchildren, seemingly as a single parent. Often, she had to be in two places at once while I was away. It was common for her to run from a high school field-hockey game for Jessica or Jaime to a college field-hockey game that Marcie was in, or Ryan’s wrestling meet or Ian’s hockey game.

When our daughter Jaime was preparing to receive her First Holy Communion, we set the date—with the co-operation of the
pastor, who was very accommodating—to suit my playoff schedule. The day before this very special event, I got a phone call from Bryan Lewis, the director of officiating, telling me that one of my colleagues was injured and I had to travel to Edmonton immediately. To this day, it breaks my heart to see the family album with pictures of Jaime in her beautiful white dress and veil—and big, red, sad eyes.

But such is the reality of the life of a referee. Kathy never complained, she just kept on giving, loving, and caring. She is the true hero in our family.

When you travel as much as I do, you have to be prepared for anything to happen. On January 6, 2010, I faced a six-hour flight to the West Coast to work a game the next night between the St. Louis Blues and the Anaheim Ducks. Another mad rush to get out the door, another goodbye kiss from Kathy and prayer for a safe trip, then off to Philadelphia International Airport. Arriving with enough time to check my bags so they would at least stand a fighting chance of arriving on the same flight I did, I took my place in line, expecting to be placed in first class. However, the boarding pass I was handed revealed that I’d been assigned a seat in coach. I assumed a computer error must have occurred. When you travel 150,000 miles in a year, US Airways makes you a member of the Chairman’s Preferred program, and the chairman does not sit in the back of the bus! Except, it seemed, this time. Without a hint of apology or empathy, the counter agent simply said, “Full up front.”

I knew it wasn’t the end of the world, but in case I needed grounding at any time during the trip, Kathy’s response to the news rang in my ears: “Kerry, you are just a referee, you’re not Wayne Gretzky!” (Of course, that wasn’t what I thought I needed
to hear at that moment.) Nightmarish visions of past economy-class seatmates haunted me, from screaming children to the abusive drunk I had to quiet down on a pre-Christmas flight to Chicago.

On that occasion, I had offered to give up my seat in first class and move back, a suggestion the flight attendants gratefully and eagerly accepted. As did the fellow with whom I was trading seats—he practically knocked me over as he raced forward to take my place. As I headed back through the cabin, the faces of the passengers for about 10 rows on either side of this guy made it clear to me just how disruptive and obnoxious my new seatmate had been. All I could glean from the flight attendants was that his name was Bruno.

Two things gave me cause to be relieved when I arrived at my new location: I had the aisle, he had the window, and the middle seat was unoccupied. And, while he had broad shoulders and thick, sausage-like fingers, he was two inches shorter than me. His eyes were glossed over thicker than the ice on the Rideau Canal in February, and his first, heavily slurred, words to me were, “Shooo, yooou’re the guy that’sss gonna keep me quiet, are youuu?” Then he hiccupped. I extended my hand, introduced myself, and said, “Bruno, before this plane lands in Chicago, you and I are going to be best friends.”

I learned that he was of Polish descent, and told him my wife and I had been to Rome the previous summer and had had an audience with Pope John Paul II, after which we’d had our picture taken shaking his hand. Our mutual affection for the pope established some common ground right off the bat. Next, I asked Bruno if he liked hockey. It turned out he had grown up watching the Broad Street Bullies, and his dad had even taken him to their first Stanley Cup parade in 1974. Since he was a Flyers fan, I asked about Eric Lindros. He loved the Big E. He loved Gretzky. Heck, it seemed he loved everybody! How could it possibly be that the other passengers wanted to throw him off the plane—at 35,000 feet?

“Bruno,” I said, “this is your lucky day, because in my bag I have a picture of the opening faceoff of the first game Lindros and Gretzky played against each other. Both players have signed it, and if you’re good for the rest of this flight, I will give you that picture as a Christmas gift for your dad.” To prove I wasn’t bluffing, that the reward was as promised, I produced the picture from my bag. From that moment, Bruno would’ve done anything for me—even built me a house with his bare, stubby hands. Only twice did I have to remind him about our bargain, and both times it was when he wanted another cocktail because he was tiring of the coffee I was pouring into him.

When we landed at O’Hare, we were all instructed to remain seated. The flashing lights visible outside the aircraft were a dead giveaway that Bruno’s next stop wouldn’t be the airport lounge. A female Chicago police officer, followed by a much more physically imposing colleague, boarded the plane and walked directly to our row. With a big smile and friendly demeanour, she invited Bruno to a “Christmas party” they were having. For a moment, I actually felt sorry for Bruno; the thought of him being led past his parents in handcuffs saddened me, and I considered advocating for him. Bruno collected his carry-on, which now included the coveted Gretzky-Lindros photo, and as he was led off the plane, he turned and waved to the other passengers, who cheered his fate. I was thankful my negotiation and crisis-management skills were all I had to call upon. Even so, it was the longest two-hour flight I’ve ever taken.

Surely, my fate on this California flight couldn’t possibly be that bad … or could it? When I boarded the plane, I found the middle seat occupied by a large woman with a serious chest infection. She was hacking and coughing—the really thick, phlegmy coughs that sounded like they were coming from her toes—and never once did she cover her mouth. I found that I was leaning so far out into the aisle from my seat that I was almost decapitated by the
beverage cart. I’m not a big fan of wearing a helmet, as you might expect, but I would have gladly put mine on if it hadn’t been packed in the belly of the plane. Still, a full shield couldn’t have deflected the germs that were flying around the cabin, and I only had to hold my breath for six more hours! I knew it wasn’t a matter of
if
I was going to get sick, but when.