The Final Call (39 page)

Looking at the lineup sheets, I couldn’t help but think there was an omission on the Bruins’ side of the ledger. Where was Raymond Bourque, the man I think of as the face of the Boston
Bruins? Many times during his playing career, Ray would approach me quietly after the national anthem and say, “Kerry, if we win the draw back to me, be sure to step back because I’m going to pound one at their net.” After he issued that warning to me one night, I got tangled up momentarily with the opposing centre and did not retreat as quickly as Ray—or I—desired. Ray wound up to let it go, then, seeing my eyes widening in fear with the realization that I was in his line of fire, he held up, double-pumped, and waited until the coast was clear.

Boston native James Taylor sang “The Star-Spangled Banner,” while Daniel Powter performed “O Canada” beautifully as well. The starting six for each team was ready to go, but I had not yet been given the signal to drop the puck. The officiating crew and I stood at centre ice, waiting and listening for what we had been told would be an air force flyover. But the air above Fenway Park was still. Anticipation turned to discomfort when nothing happened immediately. Then, from beyond the Green Monster, a hulking dark shadow appeared in the shape of a giant black bat. The stealth bomber, true to its name, appeared ominously, passed over, and was gone. I was informed it was two states from us as we waited and closed the distance in a matter of seconds.

We officials performed our own ritual, one we had initiated after we returned from the lockout season, during which one of our dear friends and colleagues, linesman Stéphane Provost, died in a traffic accident. Each of us touched our heart, our shoulder, and our fists as we remembered our fallen comrade. All was ready. My colleagues assumed their positions, and I called the two starting centremen to centre ice for the faceoff. I then touched my heart for Kathy and the kids, raised my whistle hand to the score-keeper, offered a quiet “Play Ball,” and snapped the puck to the ice as the game got under way.

It was such a unique feeling to be outdoors again as we all returned to our hockey roots and felt the surge of boyishness that
I know I had long forgotten. It returned, as suddenly as the stealth that had flown overhead, as soon as I dropped the puck. The sensation was invigorating and caused me to question whether I had perhaps discovered the NHL equivalent to the fountain of youth. If that was so, why would I ever want to retire? At 12:01 of the first period, Daniel Carcillo of the Flyers and Shawn Thornton of the Bruins exchanged some good punches. I really like both of those guys and have a great deal of respect for the way they come to play every night. At the end of the scoreless first period, I went into the umpires’ room, grabbed my cellphone, and hastily sent a text to Kathy, asking her where she was sitting and telling her I felt “just like a kid again.” I signed it “Peter Pan.”

At 4:42 of the second period, Danny Syvret stepped into the slot from his point position and scored the first goal of the game on Bruins goalie Tim Thomas, who had gotten himself tied up with pesky forward Scott Hartnell and put himself in a poor position. The way Thomas and Flyers goalie Michael Leighton were playing, it looked as if that goal might just be the game winner. Leighton had not allowed a goal for 154 minutes and 7 seconds when former Flyer Mark Recchi scored on a power play with just 2:18 left in the third period to force “extra innings.”

The Flyers entered the overtime killing a late tripping penalty to Daniel Brière, and the play was end to end. The sellout crowd of 38,112, most of whom stood throughout the game, were all standing and cheering at this point. Jeff Carter had a great opportunity on a two-on-one rush and missed the open side of the net, then Boston picked up the puck and capitalized on their rush up ice as Marco Sturm put the game away at 1:57 of overtime. The only way the ending could have been better scripted would be if the game had gone to a shootout.

Back in the warmth of the umpires’ room, each of us savoured the memory of what we had just experienced—moments that would be locked into our minds and hearts for the rest of our
days. While it was one game out of the 2,165 of my career, I will never be able to say that it was just another game. I can say without reservation that the 2010 Winter Classic at Fenway Park was the most special game—and sporting event of any kind—that I have ever experienced in my life.

Kathy, our children, our grandsons, and other family members came down to the umpires’ room to share in the joy and celebration that we all felt at being part of this historic and special event. All Kathy had to do was take one look at the smile etched on my face to know that the man she loves and calls “the Wayne Gretzky of refereeing” had taken a trip to Never-Never Land and returned a better man for it.

On the way home that night, I received a telephone call from Marty Springstead in Florida. Marty had watched the game on NBC and heard Hockey Hall of Fame broadcaster Mike Emrick say some very nice things about me, as well as the quotes I provided him before the game about Fenway and the baseball legends I had thought of. Marty was overtaken with emotion at the thought that we, as old friends, had shared the experience of officiating in a place that was so dear to him and had provided him with many memories over his distinguished career. Two men, who had reached the top of their professions as officials in our respective sports, reconnected in that special moment where the ice met the outfield of Fenway Park.

The train jolted to a stop at Boston’s South Station, and I was similarly jolted from my dreams of the Winter Classic—my “Never Never Land”—to the present reality that my Peter Pan days were now over. I was forced to focus on the night’s game, my final one in Boston. The old Garden may be long gone, but as I entered our dressing room in TD Garden, I was greeted by a link to the past:
Eddie Sandford, the official scorer in Boston since I arrived in the league, and a legendary former player with the Bruins, Red Wings, and Blackhawks, brought in the lineup sheets. Since the inception of the two-referee system, the junior referee is handed the sheets to take to the ice for safekeeping. On this night, Ed broke with protocol and, as he had done many times when I was the sole referee, handed them to me. It was a nostalgic moment for both of us.

The Bruins won the game, 3–1, which kept them in the three-way race with Philadelphia and the New York Rangers for the final playoff spots in the Eastern Conference. As it turned out, the Bruins did qualify for the post-season, earning the sixth seed and facing these same Buffalo Sabres in the first round. The game I worked offered a glimpse of the way the matchup would shake out: the Bruins won in six games, almost all of which were decided by just one or two goals. Boston then met their Winter Classic opponents, the Flyers, and held a 3–0 lead in Game Seven at TD Garden, only to lose the game and series 4–3.

In the third period of the game, it was rewarding to receive private acknowledgement and well wishes from players who knew it was the last time we would share NHL ice together. Buffalo goalkeeper Patrick Lalime called me to his goal crease after the last commercial timeout to tell me how I had made the game better over the many years he had been watching me, first as a youngster growing up and then as an NHL player. Patrick said it had been his honour to be on the ice with me in the NHL. I was deeply touched. Patrick broke into the NHL with Pittsburgh in 1996–97; then, after three years in the minors, moved on to Ottawa, where he enjoyed an excellent run, in 1999. In all those years, I couldn’t recall either of us saying more than a few words to the other, beyond “Watch my crease, please.” A few minutes later, big Zdeno Chára struck up a similar conversation. The difference was that Big Z, who stands six-nine, had to bend over at the waist to reach the level of my ear. He too commended me
on my career and said the game was going to miss me very much. At the end of the game, I was a little embarrassed as Mark Recchi came over and gave me a big hug. At least in Mark’s case I could look him in the eye! Now 42 years old, Rex has been a real warrior, a leader on and off the ice, and his work ethic and passion for the game serve as an example for young players to follow. In addition to his skill, those intangible qualities are the reason he’s still in the league and so effective after 21 seasons. What a champion!

Back in the dressing room, as I removed my sweater, skates, and gear for the last time in this building, Eddie Sandford entered to have me sign the game sheets. This 82-year-old legend, arguably the Bruins’ best player on the team that went to the Stanley Cup final in 1952–53 (the year I was born), was choked with emotion as he handed me the pen and paperwork that he always prepared so meticulously and had handed me hundreds of times before. Instead of the crushing handshake he usually sent me off with, tonight we embraced in friendship and mutual respect built over 30 years of working together. Both of us recognized it was the end of an era.

Now that I had said goodbye to Eddie Sandford, as well as my memories of the great players and games and the friends I had made in this city over the years, it was time to go home. My family awaited my arrival to celebrate the end of my officiating career. The countdown had come down to a single game: Sunday afternoon in Philadelphia, between the Rangers and Flyers.

T
wo days ago, as I settled into my seat for the flight from Boston to Philadelphia, heading home, the harsh reality hit me: this will be my final game as a referee in the National Hockey League. The ride ends here! Holding on to the thought, I find myself struggling with all the uncertainty that letting go would entail. Letting go of a job and a game that I love, one that has dominated my entire adult life, seems impossible. The question of what comes next for a retired referee, who might be best known for his beautifully coiffed hair that never moves, leaves me feeling empty. Suddenly, I found myself considering difficult questions: Who is Kerry Fraser?
What
is Kerry Fraser?

The answers haven’t come, and they’ll have to wait a little longer. Right now, the most pressing issue is that I need to start this crucial hockey game. The opposing centres, Jeff Carter of the Flyers and Artem Anisimov of the Rangers, have lined up and put their sticks on the ice, but the puck refuses to leave my right hand. It’s as if the puck has come to represent the job and game that I love, and it’s impossible for me to release it. But I have no choice, my grip on the rubber disc loosens and it floats downward and lands softly between the violently slashing sticks. Instantly, it is as if someone has turned up the volume on the crowd noise, which
until now has been drowned out by my thundering heart and internal monologue.

Neither player wins the draw cleanly, a possible by product of my reluctance to offer it in my usual snap-to-the-ice fashion. The puck finds its way to the stick of Flyers defenceman Braydon Coburn, and for one last time I am able to say “Game on!”

Both teams’ seasons have come down to this, the 82nd and last game of the season. The winner goes to the Stanley Cup playoffs; the loser’s season ends today. I wonder if, as each player laid his head on the pillow last night, he had any thoughts of a point here or there that had been squandered. Was there a recollection of something he could have done in just one of the previous 81 games to add to his team’s point total? I recall officiating games involving both teams where I saw late leads given up that cost them a point. The Flyers held the lead for most of the Winter Classic before surrendering a late goal to Mark Recchi and losing in overtime. Jeff Carter and Mike Richards had had good chances to turn the decision the other way. Just two nights ago, these same two teams met in Madison Square Garden, and Marián Gáborik’s goal with just over three minutes left in the third period gave the Rangers a 4–3 victory. Had that been a Flyers goal, today’s game would have been worthless. In Toronto, on March 27, New York took a 2–0 lead into the first intermission, only to lose 3–2 in overtime, giving up a point
they
could have desperately used today.