The Final Call (13 page)

Sure enough, three nights later in San Jose, it happened. A goal was scored against Sharks goalie Evgeni Nabokov, who thought the puck had been batted past him with a high stick. The goal was reviewed by the war room in Toronto, and Mike Murphy confirmed my call—the goal was “good.” I got off the headset and switched on my microphone to make the announcement in my very best broadcast voice when, to my dismay, I began to croak like a frog. By the end of the evening, I too was barking like a dog, just like my former seatmate!

I learned early in my career that the best way to avoid jet lag was to adjust my body clock to local time as quickly as possible. Whenever I travelled to the West Coast, that meant staying up as late as possible, at least until midnight. While my body might protest that it was really 3 a.m. and it desperately needed sleep, I would look at the clock and remind myself it was only midnight. This enabled me to reset my body clock and awaken between seven and eight local time the next morning. Kathy could never figure out why my theory didn’t work so well when I returned home from the West and would fall into bed, exhausted, right after dinner.

Kathy would watch all the games on the NHL Network so that, like me, she would be on Pacific time when I returned. The problem was that she had to function on Eastern Time to attend to the kids and household duties, in addition to keeping tabs on
me out West. But she was so good about watching my games that I would call her and ask, “How did I do?” She would usually say I did a great job, but was never afraid to tell me if she didn’t agree with a call. Sometimes, her assessment was as good as those from our NHL supervisors!

Once, she accompanied me on a trip to Boston and met Derek Sanderson, who was broadcasting for the Bruins at the time. She told him she had watched the game I’d worked the week before and heard his comments on a penalty call I had made. He turned a little red in the face and admitted that sometimes “we get a little carried away.” They both laughed about it. The next time I reffed a Bruins game, Derek must have deduced that my number-one fan would be watching. “Kerry Fraser is the referee tonight,” he commented. “I met his wife Kathy a little while ago, and boy, did she give me the devil about a comment I had made about Kerry. You know what? I like that … a woman who stands by her man! Kathy, if you’re watching tonight, and I’m sure you are, I promise I’ll be fair to your husband.”

We moved to the U.S. in 1988, and Kath’s greatest sadness, next to leaving her widowed mom and brother Danny, who has Down’s syndrome, was not being able to watch
Hockey Night in Canada
. She will tell you to this day that
HNIC
produces the best hockey broadcasts in the world. So, for our first Christmas in our new home in Voorhees, New Jersey, I surprised her with one of those huge, black satellite dishes. Now she could watch Don Cherry (her favourite at the time) to her heart’s content.

One night, I was working a game in Quebec City, and the only telecast she could pick up was in French. So she watched the game, not understanding much of what was being said, but she knew the fans weren’t very happy with me because I had called a number of penalties against the Nordiques. All of a sudden, she saw these white bombs descending from all over the rink—being thrown in my direction. The broadcasters were very animated, but she
couldn’t understand what they were saying. Then she caught the word
toilette
. The game was delayed as I made my way to centre ice and just stood there. Kathy called my mom in Sarnia (my other fan) and asked if she knew what was happening. “Yes,” Mom said, “they’re throwing rolls of toilet paper at him. I think they’re going to have to call the game off!” My mother was right: they were throwing every roll of toilet paper at me that they could get their hands on. At first, they were streaming down, but then fans started soaking them in the toilet to give them extra weight and velocity. Even the players skated for cover! I was told that, after that game, the management of Le Colisée re-equipped all the bathroom stalls with single-sheet dispensers.

After Gary Bettman decided to take the names off the backs of the officials’ sweaters, we were allowed to choose our own numbers. I chose number two. Not long after that, I was interviewed for a feature article in the South Jersey
Courier-Post
. The reporter asked why I hadn’t chosen number one instead. I answered that it was because Kathy is number one—always has been and always will be.

In retirement, I plan to repay Kathy and the kids for all of the events in their lives that I’ve missed. I am looking forward to having a
New
Home Life. I have given enough of my blood, sweat, tears, and time to the National Hockey League. It is time to be homeward bound.

Great hair from the very beginning! Following this first vacation to Northern Ontario with my mother (Barb) and father (Hilt), I started skating two months later. 1953.
FRASER FAMILY COLLECTION

1967–68 Sarnia Black Hawks OMHA AAA Midget All-Ontario finalists team photo. I am in the first row, second from the right, and my dad, Hilt, who was the coach, is in middle row on the left. Wayne Merrick (four time Stanley Cup winner with NY Islanders) is in the back row, third from right. My best friend growing up, Mike Boyle (Hamilton Red Wings & St. Catharines Black Hawks), is in the back row on the right. May, 1968.
BROWN PHOTOGRAPHY—FRASER FAMILY COLLECTION

Opening faceoff of final game played in Calgary Stampede Corral on April 18, 1983, as Flames coach Bob Johnson looks on from behind the bench.
COURTESY OF AL COATES, ASST. TO THE PRESIDENT, CALGARY FLAMES, 1983

Joe Louis Arena with my three sons looking over my shoulder: Ryan at left shoulder, blond Ian looking down, Matthew next to him with head down, 1986.
PHOTO BY JOHN HARTMAN; COURTESY OF BRUCE BENNETT

Caught between the Devil and the deep Blue shirts—Brendan Shanahan coming to the aid of Devil’s goalie Sean Burke, November 17, 1989.
PHOTO BY CHARLES FOWLER JR
.

The Fury of Fleury: Theo Fleury usually directed as much negative energy towards me as he did his opponents even in this confrontation during his rookie season in 1989–90.
PHOTO BY JOHN HARTMAN; COURTESY OF BRUCE BENNETT