The Final Call (15 page)

On December 20, 2000, at Madison Square Garden, the buzzer had just sounded to end the first period and Fleury rushed up to me with tears in his eyes, a shocking sight in its own right. This player, known for his Mighty Mouse–like tenacity, now stood beaten down, appealing to a person he’d rather never have contact with. “Kerry, he can’t talk to me like that!” he shouted. “He can’t talk to me like that! I’m really tryin’ to get my life turned around. I’ve been clean for a month and haven’t done any coke or even had a drink since then. I’m really tryin’, honest. Don’t let him talk to me like that!”

Was this the same Theoren Fleury who had played for three different teams and had never once, while playing for any of them, exhibited any sort of trust in or respect for me? Was this the same guy who’d told me to go eff myself time and time again, who’d thrown his helmet at me, railed against me as an authority figure because he never wanted to play by the rules and, by virtue of my
job, I forced him to? Could it be that man who was now pouring out his heart to me?

I had been used to seeing this guy fall far below anything remotely resembling a standard of acceptable behaviour. He was the type to insult your mother, kids, and dog before breaking a stick over your head just to gain an edge on the ice; he wasn’t really in a position to judge what other guys were throwing back at him. Yet here he was, almost like a hurt child. He was desperate—I could see that in his eyes, along with a deep sadness and lifelessness. There were lines etched on his face from wounds that not even the best doctors could diagnose or repair; and he wore psychological scars from his troubled existence, despite being a superstar winger in the National Hockey League.

I was confused in this moment by what I was seeing from Theo Fleury, but then again, most things that Theo did were confusing to the average person. In a moment of vulnerability, when I could easily have gotten him back and told him to eff off, I looked into those tormented eyes and felt compassion. I was reminded of my own seven children and how I felt for them when they were in distress, especially my son Ian, who had been to Fleury’s hockey school a few years before. Theo Fleury was his favourite player growing up and Ian had a signed poster on his wall. Looking at Theo, I couldn’t help but feel a small tug at my heartstrings and a desire to take some of the pain away. Although Theo wasn’t looking for a father’s shoulder to cry on (he was still too proud for that), he was reaching out to me for the first time in our tumultuous relationship. I saw before me a broken human being with a dangerous combination of vulnerability, volatility, and weakness.

It was in this vulnerability, though, that I saw potential strength and could feel hope for him. He was probably expecting me to disappoint or mock him, as so many with authority had done throughout his life. But that was not my intention; I needed to throw Theo a lifeline. I only hoped he might grasp at it.

I asked Theo which of the visiting St. Louis Blues had said something to upset him so much. Theo told me it was Tyson Nash, with whom he had just been involved in a scrum as the period had ended. Nash allegedly brought up Theo’s addiction to drugs and alcohol, which had landed Fleury in the NHL’s substance abuse program. I saw the pained look on Fleury’s face intensify as he revisited what Tyson had said to him. I looked for Blues coach Joel Quenneville, but he had already vacated the bench and was rounding the corner to his team’s dressing room.

I agreed with Theo that Nash’s comments were unacceptable, a personal attack that went below the generally accepted level of taunting and trash-talking. Nash’s words had cut deeper than any slash from a stick could inflict. I truly felt heartsick for this poor guy. I asked Theo whether, if I could arrange a sincere apology from Nash at the start of the next period, he would accept it and attempt to move forward. He said he would. I told him to meet me right back at the same spot on the ice after the intermission. Before we parted, I said, “Now, if I arrange this, please promise me you won’t crack him over the head with your stick, but will accept the apology like a man.” Once again, Theo responded that he would.

I immediately went up the hall past the door of my dressing room to the visiting team’s room and asked Quenneville if I might have a word with him. Joel, beyond being an excellent coach, is really a class act. He wants to win as badly as anyone I have seen in this business, but in my opinion he places integrity above all else. When I relayed what had just taken place, Joel, without hesitation, rolled his eyes and said, “Do you want me to tell Nash to get undressed?” This is the kind of integrity I’m talking about.

I offered a different solution. I said I thought there could be a lesson in this for his player and would prefer it if we could elicit a sincere apology from Tyson at the start of the period. Joel agreed, perhaps feeling somewhat responsible for the jibes—he had told
Nash, who had played just one full NHL season to that date, that he would remain with the Blues as long as he made himself the most “hated” player in hockey. Joel nodded and sped around the corner into his players’ dressing room.

Right before the next period, Theo Fleury and I waited between the two teams’ benches as the Blues took the ice from the Zamboni entrance in the end zone. Nash approached us with a look of sheepishness and reluctance. He avoided eye contact and appeared to be on a “drive-by” when I flagged him down and said, “Don’t you have something to say to this man?”

Tyson was visibly shaken, and it was my impression that he had also been negatively affected by his comments to Fleury. I detected a quiver in Tyson’s upper lip as he delivered a very sincere apology to Theo for what he had said. He then wished Fleury well in all that he faced on the road ahead, and gave him a friendly tap on the shin pad with his stick. I looked at Theo and asked him if he was okay with that, to which he said he was. Both players then shook hands and went out to play the rest of the game, which concluded without any further incident.

I believe that Tyson Nash learned a valuable lesson that night; he continued to fill the role his coach asked of him, but from then on he stayed above the line. The Blues beat the Rangers 6–3. Nash saw more ice time than usual—15 minutes and 42 seconds—and assisted on the second-period goal that put the Blues ahead 3–0. And the score sheet proves he didn’t shun his role as the Blues’ “agitator.” At 18:34 of the third period, with his team defending a 5–3 lead, he provoked New York defenceman Brad Brown into a fight. Brown got a minor for instigating the tussle, as well as five minutes for fighting and a game misconduct. Nash got a roughing minor, a major for fighting, and a 10-minute misconduct.

Looking back over my 30 years in the NHL, I would rank Nash and Matthew Barnaby as the two “hated” players who were most effective at getting opponents to take penalties. There are
others who are just plain hated, but who commit as many, if not more, infractions than they draw.

I recently corresponded with Tyson Nash about the incident with Theo. I was most surprised by the lasting impact I’d had by calling him out on his comments and forcing him to apologize. Tyson shared with me that the episode was a low point for him in his career, one that caused him to reflect on what he had done and his need to change. I offer this because there might be some hockey fans who read this who are of the opinion that it isn’t the job of a referee to be the morality police, but just to assess the penalties. I disagree, and two of the biggest reasons I can think of are Theo Fleury and Tyson Nash. I hope Theo gained some strength that night from the apology he received. In his own words, here’s part of a letter Tyson wrote on April 7, 2010, about the positive impact the experience had on him.

I believe the insight and honesty of Tyson’s candid self-analysis have great value. I am reminded that, while winning at all costs seems to be the accepted aim of our game, from the NHL to youth hockey, the cost might not be a simple two-minute penalty but something so damaging and injurious it cuts to the core of the opponent.

Theoren Fleury wasn’t the first player in a Flames jersey who wanted a piece of me. In the brawling 1970s, the Flames were based in Atlanta. They shared an American Hockey League farm team, the Nova Scotia Voyageurs, with the Montreal Canadiens. In 1975, the Flames had a player by the name of Rich Lemieux, who had played three and a half seasons with Vancouver and Kansas City. But he was traded to Atlanta and they sent him down to Halifax. As a 23-year-old official, I had the misfortune to have a run-in with Lemieux one night in the old Halifax Forum. He was on a one-way contract and was not happy about being farmed out.

On his first shift, I called a penalty against him; his second shift also resulted in a trip to the box. Voyageurs coach Al MacNeil quickly cut his ice time, which didn’t prevent Lemieux from getting yet another penalty in the third period for an obvious infraction. That was the last straw for Lemieux, who threw his stick in the air and kicked it some 30 feet across the ice, where it struck my skate. With that, I assessed a minor for unsportsmanlike conduct.

In a little over three shifts, he’d racked up eight minutes in penalties. I knew this fact left him extremely frustrated, and since his stick lay at my feet, I realized he would have to come over and pick it up. And I didn’t want to be there when he arrived! I started to move away from the stick, with my back to the Nova Scotia bench. As I did, Lemieux threw down his gloves at centre ice and started to charge toward me. I turned to face him squarely, extending both hands, with open palms facing up, in an appeal for peace. Not a chance. As soon as he reached me, he threw a punch, which I ducked. I grabbed that arm as it flew past my head, and as he threw a right, I caught that arm in the air and pulled his sweater
over his head to prevent him from throwing any more punches. Seeing this, one of his teammates, Ken Houston (a six-foot, three-inch giant I had played junior against), thought I was going to punch Lemieux. He grabbed me from behind and picked me up, my little feet dangling two feet above the ice. Fortunately for me, as Lemieux began to untangle himself from his sweater, a linesman arrived on the scene and escorted him off the ice.

I recognize that players get frustrated and that, as the referee, I’m an easy target for them to vent their frustrations on. I’ve been punched, spat upon, cursed at, and threatened, but somehow an inner voice has always allowed me to maintain a steely calm.