The Final Call (37 page)

My emotions are still raw when I take to the ice, with the Toronto Maple Leafs once again in the Big Apple. This is a game that the Rangers absolutely must win if they have any hope of making the playoffs. They could then control their own destiny against the Philadelphia Flyers in this same building two nights later and in Philadelphia on the final Sunday of the regular season.

Before dropping the puck at centre ice to start the game, I looked for my family seated in the crowd, just as Mark Messier had done six years earlier. Even though I knew they couldn’t hear me as my misty eyes connected with theirs, I mouthed the same words that Mess offered to me: “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else here but you!

I
awoke before the 7:00 a.m. alarm sounded in our darkened suite at the Marriott Marquis Times Square and quickly turned it off so as not to disturb Kathy, who slept peacefully beside me. A smile etched on her angelic face gave me cause to believe that her subconscious was replaying the wonderful evening spent with some of our children for my last visit to Madison Square Garden. The sweet slumber was much needed. I wasn’t the only one grinding it out as the end of my final season nears. Kathy accompanied me on some of my last visits to the Original Six NHL cities while also planning and preparing the festivities that would begin when I returned home from Boston.

By this time, my brother Rick, his wife, Karen, and my mother, Barb, would already have left Sarnia to make the eleven-hour drive to our home in southern New Jersey. Kathy would be home in time to greet them. Our son Matthew, his wife, Kristy, and our little granddaughters, two-and-a-half-year-old Madyn and eight-month-old Daryn, would be hitting the road tomorrow morning, as soon as Matt’s work schedule, as a firefighter in London, Ontario,
allowed. Kathy and I were so excited at the thought of getting our children (all seven) together again under our roof. Adding to our joy, all five grandchildren would be with us too. Madyn and Daryn would be meeting their cousins Harrison (age eight), Brady (soon to be six), and baby Kiera (six months) for the first time. They live two doors up from “Mama” and “Papa,” with our oldest daughter, Marcie, and her husband, Harry.

Meanwhile, I had one more road game to officiate, in one of my favourite cities, not just in the NHL but the whole United States. Much as I love the city and its people, Boston is also the site of my most memorable game—and of all places, in a ballpark!

I quietly repacked my officiating equipment, which I had spread out to dry in the living room of the suite last night—including my undergarments, which hung from the chandelier over the dining room table. Hockey officials don’t have the luxury of equipment managers to pack, dry, and launder their gear. If I am lucky enough to get a hotel room with a balcony, or, as in this case, a large suite, I am spared the odours that make me feel like I’m sleeping in a dressing room.

I was booked on the 8:30 Acela train out of Penn Station, located under Madison Square Garden. Kathy was awake by now, and after we chatted briefly about the night before, I kissed her goodbye and grabbed a cab.

Since we moved to New Jersey, I pretty much drove to games in Washington, Philadelphia, and the New York area so that I could come straight home afterward. When I worked in Boston, I usually flew with US Airways out of Philadelphia. I had forgotten how pleasant train travel in the Northeast Corridor can be—once you finally get on it, that is. The Thursday-morning rush hour is already in full swing, and Penn Station is the subterranean domain of commuters caught up in the New York rat race rushing and pushing to get to street level or make subway connections. As the train pulled out of Penn Station, I couldn’t help but think fondly
of all the memories that had been made just a few floors “upstairs” on the MSG ice.

Riding the rails is an extremely pleasant and relaxing experience. The telephone poles seemed to fly past my window as quickly as the games and years of my on-ice career. As the train sped along, I continued to find myself not looking ahead to my final game in the TD Garden, but focusing on days past—to a time when my approaching workplace was Boston Garden, where the home team enjoyed a well-deserved reputation that was captured perfectly in their nickname: the Big Bad Bruins. Their loyal and boisterous fans never wanted the tradition to end. The Garden was an intimidating building with steep balconies that seemed to hang right over the ice, giving the impression that the fans were right on top of you; some nights it even felt like they shared the ice with you. One night, a crazy fan literally did.

The guy lost his mind over a call he thought Bill McCreary should have made, climbed over the glass, and started to jog toward him. McCreary was standing on the goal line with his back to his unannounced attacker, waiting for the puck to be dropped. As the would-be assailant approached McCreary, linesman Ron Asselstine, who once had a tryout with the Montreal Alouettes of the Canadian Football League and was known as the Bear, saw what was taking place. He worked up a full head of steam and speared the guy with his helmet, right between the shoulder blades, driving and carrying him into the end boards all in one hard pop. The guy never knew what hit him as he went headfirst into the boards. The rink attendants opened a gate and Asselstine tossed the guy through the door to waiting security officers. Without question it was the best hit of the season in that building, and in Boston, that was saying something.

Like the Boston fans, coach Don Cherry was a blue-collar, lunch-bucket kind of guy. He was no longer the coach in 1980–81, my first season in the NHL, but he had made his mark on the organization. There could be as much appreciation for Terry O’Reilly or Stan Jonathan’s penalty minutes as Rick Middleton’s 103 points or all that Brad Park brought every night. Wayne Cashman was as much a hero for his grit and ability to scare the hell out of opposing players (and me) as Ray Bourque was for his end-to-end rushes and wicked slapshots.

It was a pleasure and honour to see, up close, the gentlemanly skill of Jean Ratelle in his 21st and final season in the league. Mr. Ratelle (I say with deep respect), who amassed 1,267 points in 1,281 games, was cut from the same bolt of cloth as Jean Béliveau. They both have an aura of elegance about them.

One regret I must admit to having is that I never refereed a game involving the greatest player in Bruins history, and without a doubt, one of the greatest players the game has ever known. Robert Gordon Orr, in my humble opinion, changed the game like no other. He revolutionized the defence position and could take over a game at will. He wasn’t regarded as a Big Bad Bruin, even though he was never a slouch in the penalty-minute department, but he stood alone as the finest offensive defencemen to ever play the game. He was the only defencemen ever to win the NHL scoring title, and he did it twice. His knee problems, sadly, cut short his career, forcing him to retire in 1976 at the age of 28. I was 24 at the time and still four years from my NHL debut.

Our paths would cross, however, and each time they did, it filled me with such awe to be in the presence of this hockey legend. During the 1990 Stanley Cup final, when Mark Messier’s Oilers defeated the Bruins, I took my dad, Hilt, with me to Boston. We had our own morning skate at the Garden and played some pond hockey. Bobby stopped by to say hello. Once he showed up, my dad left the ice and the game. I’ll never forget how kind and gracious
Bobby Orr was to my dad as they sat on the Bruins bench together and chatted. My father spoke of that meeting often until the day he died in 2001.

I felt that same sense of awe most recently, watching Orr stand with another legend whom I did have the privilege to referee, Bobby Clarke, for the ceremonial faceoff at the Winter Classic on New Year’s Day, 2010.

One of the great lessons off the ice that I’ve learned in this business is that when we are given the opportunity to touch people’s lives we should take it. In the same vein, I have been touched by many in my career. One of the most special was by Nate Greenberg, the Bruins’ former director of public relations. Nate joined the Bruins in 1973, and in 1988 became the assistant to the president. He was there with Orr, Espo, Cashman, Johnny “Pie” McKenzie, and the rest of a group of characters who played hard on and off the ice. Their antics must surely have presented a challenge for a PR person given the task of making sure the public saw the organization in its best light. Win, lose, or draw, good calls or bad, Nate was always the same friendly face who would stop by after the game to say hi and wish you well. The Bruins lost a gem when he retired a couple of years ago, and I am proud not only to have known him, but to call him my friend.

When it comes to public relations, the annual Winter Classic is one of the most intelligent things the NHL has ever done. About the only thing that could top it would be to take head shots out of the game. I don’t know who thought of it, but I am sure there was a long line of folks with thumbs pointed toward their chests until
someone at the top put his name on it, but whoever it was, good for you—and better for the fans, players, officials, and, most important, the game. This event has taken on a life of its own, and has followed the pattern set by the Super Bowl in terms of the way the hype begins to build well before the actual game is played. For the game at Fenway Park in 2010, hotels in the city and surrounding area were booked up, and it was hard to get a table at the better eateries in Boston. The Boston Red Sox also benefited from the chance to rent out their facility at a time of year when the only thing that might have been thrown on that historic field was snowballs, by the custodial staff and security guards.

Once the rink was built by NHL guru Dan “Iceman” Craig, high school and college teams staged games and practices on this hallowed ground, as did anyone who could afford the hefty hourly rental fee. Skating parties and city events planned through the office of Mayor Thomas Menino were a great way to market all that Boston had to offer during the festive season. Hockey fans old and new (and it’s always a great thing when new fans catch the hockey bug) couldn’t wait to share a beer and a braut with Red Sox fans and see if a Bruin or Flyer could shoot one off the Green Monster.