The Final Call (28 page)

I have far too many memories of the Montreal Canadiens to chronicle in just one chapter. I could write a whole book about them. I worked the very first game at the Bell Centre, the site of our game tonight. Then there are the many playoff battles with Boston; the night Chris Chelios knocked poor Brian Propp of the Flyers out with an elbow; the penalty I called on Mark Hunter, then with the Calgary Flames, in the 1989 Cup final when, at the
end of double overtime, he drove Shayne Corson’s head into the boards from behind, and on and on …

There are a couple of stories, however, that I
must
share with you. The first incident worthy of mention was a call I made that turned a playoff series around. This one happened on June 3, 1993, in Game Two of the Stanley Cup final between the Los Angeles Kings and these Montreal Canadiens. The Kings had won the first game of the series, 4–1, and with 1:45 left in Game Two, they were up 2–1 and set to take a commanding lead back to the Great Western Forum. Habs coach Jacques Demers sent captain Guy Carbonneau and alternate captain Kirk Muller over to me, and they requested that I measure the curve of Marty McSorley’s stick blade. I approached Marty and asked him for his stick, informing him that a request had been made to measure it. I eyeballed the blade and said, “Marty, what are you thinking? I don’t even have to measure this thing; it is clearly illegal.” Over at the penalty box, I meticulously measured the blade not once, but twice. I did not want there to be any question as to the accuracy of this crucial call.

Wayne Gretzky was standing at the edge of the referee’s crease, and I showed him the result of one of the measurements. Thirty-two seconds later, with Marty sitting helplessly in the penalty box and Patrick Roy pulled for an extra attacker (a very gutsy move by Demers), Éric Desjardins scored the tying goal from the point to force overtime. Desjardins became the first defenceman in NHL history to record a hat trick in a Stanley Cup final game, when he scored his third of the night just 51 seconds into overtime to end the game. Montreal won the next three games, and their 24th Stanley Cup. Wayne Gretzky later admitted that it was the most bitter defeat he ever suffered.

While it was speculated that someone from the Montreal organization or coaching staff had snuck into the Kings’ locker room to measure McSorley’s stick, I firmly believe that was not
the case. I spoke with Jacques Demers personally about this very allegation as I wrote this chapter. Jacques responded this way: “Kerry, you and I have talked at length on previous occasions.… From those conversations, I know that both of us are religious people. I can tell you and swear to God that I would never lie and I would never cheat to win, and I never measured or had Marty’s stick measured.

“After the first game, some of my players told me that Marty McSorley was playing with an illegal stick. I filed it away in my mind. Had we gone back to L.A. down two games, I doubted that we could win. On the strength of what my players told me, and the desperation of our situation, I called for the measurement. Our power play wasn’t going very well, so I decided to pull Patrick (goalie Patrick Roy) for an extra attacker.”

Jacques said that he felt bad about having to resort to this call, but that his general manager, Serge Savard, told him after the game that if he and his players believed that McSorley’s stick was illegal and Jacques had not called for a measurement, he (Serge) would have been very upset with Jacques. Jacques Demers is a very good and honorable man. If he said it, you can bank your life on it—it is the absolute truth!

Kathy sat at the game this evening with my dear old friend, Brian O’Neill, who was a VP at the National Hockey League on the day I signed my first contract in September of 1973. Working under President Clarence Campbell, one of Brian’s many duties was to conduct hearings as chief disciplinarian and hand out suspensions to players when he deemed them warranted. Colin Campbell has that thankless task today. Whenever a player was assessed a match penalty, Mr. O’Neill invited him to visit his office in Montreal. No RSVP was required, as attendance was mandatory.

Often, it was a repeat offender, or, at the very least, an aggressive player who had earned his respect and reputation the old-fashioned way: with his fists or stick. On occasion, the accused felt aggrieved, as though he was the victim, and would go to some unusual lengths in stating his defence. Let me give you a classic example in which I was involved.

Chris “Knuckles” Nilan was a member of the Montreal Canadiens in the early 1980s, when Hall of Fame defenceman Serge Savard was the general manager. Chris was a tough, hard-nosed guy who always played on the edge. I would want him on my team because he was a leader on the ice and in the dressing room—he held people accountable. He was fearless and earned his nickname honestly. That’s often where the honesty ended. Chris would take advantage and get away with whatever he could. I don’t fault him for trying, or as Dale Hunter once told me, “Frase, if you ain’t cheatin’, you ain’t tryin’!” Simply put, Knuckles always gave much more than he got, and in the process took his share of penalties—in his mind, more than his share.

Like many enforcers, he believed the referees (and me in particular) were always gunning for him. John D’Amico told me very early in my career to always know which players are on the ice every second of the game. It was great advice, and a lesson I took to heart from the moment I received it. One night, the Canadiens were in Boston and the Bruins’ skilled winger, Rick “Nifty” Middleton, somehow ended up on the ice during a shift with Knuckles. This mismatch set off alarm bells for me. With the play moving out of the Boston end, I looked across the ice and saw Nilan skating close to Middleton. Under normal circumstances, this would be done to establish a backcheck. More important than me seeing Knuckles, he saw that I was looking at him. In that moment of eye contact, the trap was set! I turned my eyes up ice for a split second, then snapped my head back toward Nilan and Middleton to catch Knuckles jamming the butt end of his stick
into his opponent’s mouth, knocking out some of Nifty’s front teeth. Up went my arm, and I assessed a 10-minute match penalty for deliberate injury, at the time the most severe penalty that could be assessed.

In those days, we not only had to write a detailed report immediately after the game and send it to Brian O’Neill, we were required to appear at the hearing as well. The player, with his general manager, also attended to plead his case. As we sat on opposite sides of the table in the Montreal boardroom, I received a courteous, but businesslike, greeting from Serge Savard. A nod of the head was the best I could expect from Nilan, who cast a steely gaze my way that sent an icy chill around the room.

Mr. O’Neill, as always, meticulously laid out the parameters of the hearing and made the “accused” know exactly why he was there. Knuckles’ fate could largely depend on his testimony, since the primary evidence against him was contained in my game report, along with supporting reports from linesmen Kevin Collins and Gord Broseker, who worked the game with me. The linesmen, however, were not required to attend the hearing. After reading all the officials’ reports of the incident, Mr. O’Neill looked at Knuckles and said, “Chris, do you have anything to say in defence of yourself?”

Knuckles immediately sprang to the offence. He said, “Yeah, I got something to say. Fraser has it in for me and he gives me more penalties than any other ref in the league. No matter what I do, he’s always watching me. Just to prove my point, if Fraser had’ve been watching what he should have been [the play up the ice], he never would have seen me butt-end Middleton in the mouth!”

Well, Serge Savard just about upchucked his coffee, placed his hand on Chris Nilan’s arm to silence him, and tried to convince Brian that that was not what Chris meant to say. Mr. O’Neill took the floor and, looking directly at Knuckles, said, “Mr. Nilan, there isn’t a referee in this league that would be worth a pound of salt if
he didn’t watch you every second that you are on the ice, given your history. Now, would you like to see a replay of the incident?” Nilan and Savard refused his invitation to look at the incriminating replay. The evidence against him was overwhelming and he was suspended for eight games for the butt-end delivered to Rick Middleton’s mouth.

Looking back on the many hearings I’ve attended, I realize there was great value in having the opportunity to explain a serious call and for the player to explain things as he saw it to a “judge,” in this case Brian O’Neill. This open dialogue was a mechanism for communication between all parties and forced accountability on the player, the referee, and the league. It provided a fair, open hearing, face to face, with all parties understanding the final ruling.

As Kathy, Mark Paré, and I left the beautiful Bell Centre, I reflected on a very special visitor I had had years before at the 1990 All-Star Game I worked in Pittsburgh. Legendary Montreal Canadien, 69-year-old Maurice “Rocket” Richard, was the honorary captain of the Wales Conference team. I guess the “Rocket” had been hearing about this young referee Kerry Fraser for some time, since I arrived on the scene in earnest with my first Stanley Cup final appearance in 1985. Brian O’Neill entered our dressing room just before we were ready to go out for the anthems, told me the “Rocket” wanted to meet me, and asked if it would be okay to bring him in. I said, “Oh my God, Brian, I’ll postpone the game for as long as it takes to get him here. What an honour—please bring him in.” As I sat in my chair, facing the door that had just been flung open, I was pierced by those infamous eyes, black as coal. I got up from the chair and immediately extended my hand to Mr. Richard. It remained there, suspended, while the Rocket
sized me up thoroughly. He stood there, grizzly-like, leaning toward me in expectation, as if studying this “upstart” referee, deciding if I deserved my reputation. I thought this was going to be a casual introduction to a legend of the game, but, I quickly realized, with the Rocket standing before me, that this man didn’t do anything casually. In spite of his age, I realized that this was indeed the fierce competitor that had struck fear in all his opponents. The first words out of his mouth were, “Fraser, you’re not so fuckin’ young!”

I burst out laughing, as did the others in the room, and we shook hands. In this moment of reflection I could still recall the firm, powerful grip of his hand that I was so honoured to shake on that memorable occasion in Pittsburgh.

As I crossed the Bell Centre parking lot that I would be exiting for the last time, his statement rang true … you’re right, Rocket, my baby-faced youthfulness has given way, and like the old plaque that adorns the great Montreal Canadiens dressing room says, “To you from failing hands, we throw the torch …”