The Final Call (11 page)

Fatigue can become a player’s toughest opponent. The punishing schedule of games, the often-lengthy travel (especially in the West), and the enhanced physical and mental demands associated with a long playoff run all conspire against him. Costly mistakes can be made, and desperation may lead him to look for an easier path—one that results in infractions. Those penalties may result in power-play goals, adding frustration to the equation, leading to even more penalties. Once that snowball starts to roll down the hill, the result of a game or series becomes a foregone conclusion—it’s over.

As a referee, I always hope that a team doesn’t get so frustrated they give up. When that happens, all I can do is call everything I
see, eliminate as many of the troublemakers as possible, and to try and keep things as safe as possible. If this happens, I become the focus of the game—not a position I crave. I prefer to find a way to keep them playing. My first act is to solicit the co-operation from a team leader, whether it’s the coach or any cooler head who might be willing to intercede with his teammates and restore their focus. At a time like this, they need to know I mean business and won’t back off if their play continues to cross the line, but in putting the onus back on them I am quick to remind them of their mission and objective—neither of which can be achieved from the penalty box.

The atmosphere in the St. Louis Arena that night could best be described as energetic. These fans loved their Blues and never gave up on them. They could be a wild bunch, and the old arena was not an overly friendly place for opposing teams—especially not their fans. Whenever the Chicago Blackhawks came to town, a large contingent of supporters would make the five-hour drive or arrive by the busload. Extra police were always added for these clashes—and I’m not talking about on the ice. Whenever fights broke out in the stands, the police were right in the thick of things, punching and whaling away with their billy clubs.

I had a really tough Hawks–Blues game there one night. Several fights had taken place on the ice, and then in the third period the fans started fighting on the other side of the glass. A pier six brawl erupted in a corner of the arena that got so intense that, when play stopped, all of us—players from both teams as well as officials—stood by the glass and watched. The role reversal was the strangest thing I’ve ever witnessed. I finally suggested to the players that we get the game going and maybe they would stop. Brian Sutter, the Blues’ captain at the time, commented that his team could use some of those guys.

This night would be more civilized, I hoped, even though the decibel level in the arena rivalled that in the old Chicago Stadium
when Wayne Messmer sang the national anthem. After an opening flurry by a Flames team that looked determined to end the series without further delay, the Blues managed to hold on, and the first period ended scoreless. The second period belonged to Calgary. St. Louis goalie Rick Wamsley was beaten on three shots he later said he should have stopped, and the Blues clearly lost their focus. They took undisciplined penalties, and the energy required to kill them depleted an already low supply. Their frustration mounted, and the steady stream to the penalty box had both the players and their faithful fans singing the Blues.

Just before the second period ended, with the score 4–1 in Calgary’s favour, Blues captain Rob “Rammer” Ramage took an aggressive penalty that gave me the sense he had crossed over to the mindset of “I don’t care anymore—I’m just going to make them pay the price.” It’s not uncommon at all for frustrated players to start to play against the third team on the ice—the officials—and defy the referee, daring him to call another penalty. I knew I had to restore order and get them back to playing. While brokering a truce was not an option, reading Rammer the riot act and appealing to his leadership role as captain, in the hopes that he’d help refocus his team’s negative energy during the intermission, clearly was.

I met Ramage at the penalty box as the horn sounded. I was very deliberate and direct in the message I wanted him to deliver to coach Jacques Demers and his teammates. I told him I was
not
going to change my standards and that his team was clearly out of control. I would not stand by and watch anyone get hurt by the kind of foul he had just committed. If the Blues continued to play in this fashion, I would bury them in the penalty box. I finished by saying, “Now, you go tell Jacques everything I said and that he had better get control of you guys or this game and the series are over!”

I felt I had hit the target. I didn’t get any lip from Ramage. On the contrary, a determined calm seemed to take hold of him. He
nodded and said he would deliver the message. At this point, two huge St. Louis police officers, in uniform, stepped out of the penalty box as one of them said, in a very official tone, “Kerry, get off the ice and to your dressing room quickly.” They escorted me along the sideboards instead of taking the more direct route across open ice to the Zamboni entrance where officials and visiting players exited the ice. This was the first time I had ever been escorted off the ice, but given the seriousness and urgency with which these two giants issued their order, I complied fully.

Once in the dressing room, I sat down and asked the officers what was up. One of them said, “Kerry, it is our duty to inform you that a death threat has been issued against you.”

This really didn’t faze me. “That’s okay, Officer,” I said, “I have had them a couple of times before. Some nut is probably sitting at home with a six-pack and decided he was going to call in and take out his frustration on me.”

Looking sterner, if that were even possible, the officer replied, “
No
, Kerry: We traced the call and it came from one of the phones within the arena. His message to us was that he had a gun with him, and that if you came out for the third period he would shoot you!” He then asked me what I would like to do.

I took in a big gulp of air and slowly exhaled in hopes that it would not be one of my last. I looked over at the linesmen, Finn and Scapinello, for some direction. Their eyes were the size of saucers and their mouths hung open.

With very little deliberation—only the time it took to let out that breath—I looked directly at the two officers and replied, “I have no option here. I’m going out to start the third period. The game must continue.” To inject some levity into the room, I made a joke about being a small target, so the guy would have to be an excellent shot to nail me. I think Scampy, who was very similar in stature to me, might have been afraid of a possible case of mistaken identity.

We waited until the last possible moment to return to the ice. The long walk from the dressing room had the ominous feeling of what a condemned man must feel as he waits to find out what’s on the other side. Just before we reached the end of the protective canopy, I paused, then turned to gain some inspiration from my two colleagues. As I looked back, I found I was alone at the end of the walkway! The two guys who, at dinner the night before, had made me feel certain they would always watch my back, were standing way back, at the top of the runway, with their arms crossed. I beckoned them to join me, but the only thing that moved were their arms, with which they motioned for me to go on ahead, they’d be along shortly. Their feet seemed stuck in cement, while I was up to my knees in quicksand. Even though both of them displayed good-natured smiles, I couldn’t blame them for sitting this one out until the coast was clear.

There was no place to take cover if the kook’s threat was for real. My plan was to blast out of the tunnel and skate as fast as I could in a zigzag fashion. I figured if I was fortunate to make it to the other end of the rink and back, I’d be home free. My greatest fear in that mad dash was that I’d hear a sound resembling a motorcycle backfiring. After a solo lap of the pond, no gunshot was audible, so my two trusty linesmen finally stepped onto the ice just ahead of the visiting Calgary Flames.

The Blues were a different team in the third period. They killed the balance of Ramage’s penalty and showed determination and discipline as they clawed their way back into the game. Calgary started to take some penalties, and with 15 seconds remaining in a five-on-three advantage, Doug Wickenheiser retrieved an errant puck up the right side half-wall, curled toward the top of the right faceoff circle, and fired a wicked slapshot that beat goalie Mike Vernon cleanly to make it 4–2. Their comeback was temporarily stalled as Joey Mullen quickly answered with Calgary’s fifth goal. Jim Peplinski had won a battle in the corner and set up Mullen
perfectly. Although Mullen’s goal temporarily deflated the crowd, it did not have the desired effect on the Blues’ work ethic.

The rally intensified when Brian Sutter scored off a big rebound that Vernon had given up after making a kick save. I have to confess: at this point I didn’t think there was any way that the Blues had enough left in the tank to close the two-goal gap. Oh,
me
of little faith!

It wasn’t until Greg Paslawski jammed a one-timer past Vernon to make it 5–4 that I became a semi-believer. The Blues were a blue-collar team that relied on the dump-and-chase style that typified Norris Division teams. This goal was just another example of how they outworked their opponents. Brian Sutter, one of the hardest workers I ever saw, beat a Flame defender to the puck deep in the right corner and threw a backhand Hail Mary–style pass toward the front of the Flames’ goal. Paslawski was attacking the goal with speed on a direct, unimpeded route through the slot. The no-look pass from Sutter landed perfectly on the tape of Paslawski’s stick, and he banged it home. The place erupted.

Privately, I marvelled at how completely the momentum had shifted, and sensed that something special was about to happen. I also saw the dejection in the Flames’ faces as they looked at the clock and contemplated the time remaining. Time could either be their best ally or worst nightmare as they tried desperately to hold on to their slim lead. Blues play-by-play announcer Ken Wilson, perhaps accurately sensing the Flames’ panic, offered this on-air observation after Paslawski’s goal: “If the Blues come up with a miracle finish, these Calgary Flames would have to crawl back to Alberta.” While Ken detected that from the distance of his broadcast perch high above the ice, I was in the thick of it.

With 1:17 remaining in regulation time, the Blues once again dumped the puck into the Calgary zone, prompting Vernon to leave his crease and stop the puck behind his cage for oncoming defenceman Jamie Macoun. Vernon stepped aside as the ever-steady
Macoun retrieved the puck, skated behind the goal, and started out the other way. Vernon tried to get back to his crease while the speedy forechecker Paslawski chased Macoun. Just as Macoun rounded the goal and started up ice, Paslawski lifted the Calgary defenceman’s stick from behind and stripped him of the puck. Then, all in one motion, he wheeled and fired a desperate shot from a bad angle at the Calgary net. Vernon had not yet been able to set himself in his crease and was caught totally off guard as the shot blew past him on the short side. We were heading to overtime.

Back in the relative quiet and safety of our dressing room, the death threat reported no more than 20 minutes ago had been all but forgotten. Out in the hallway, however, it was a different scene. My oversized bodyguards stood stiffly, like a matched set of Buddhas, outside our door.

The linesmen and I refuelled and rehydrated, not knowing whether overtime would end quickly or if another full 20 minutes—or more—would be required to decide this game. Depending on how it ended, I knew one thing for sure: I was getting off the ice quickly—and I might even use Scampy as a decoy! We all shared the hope that, whichever team scored, it would be a clean goal free of controversy. I suggested it was vital that someone be on the goal line in the event of a fast break. Should I be caught behind the play for any reason, I asked Finn and Scampy to make sure they went in from their blue line position to cover for me. In the remaining minutes of calm, each of us relaxed with our own thoughts about what we had just been part of. The three periods had been like three games rolled into one.

Both teams had glorious opportunities to end the game early in overtime. Vernon made a huge save on a Doug Wickenheiser slapshot. At the other end, Wamsley was equal to the task against Al MacInnis, and got a little help from his best friend, the goalpost, when a Joey Mullen slapper blasted past him, only to clang off the iron.

Jacques Demers credited Bernie Federko as his on-ice leader and a player with a special ability to do something that could change a game. And Bernie got it done for his coach once again by setting up the play that that ended the game.

Ken Wilson called the play this way: “Here’s Ramage, for Federko too far … Federko steals the puck from Reinhart … over to Hunter, who shoots … blocked—Wickenheiser scores! Doug Wickenheiser! The Blues pull it off and it’s unbelievable!”

Federko had snatched the puck off defenceman Paul Reinhart’s skate just outside the Calgary blue line and broke in on goal from the left side. He saw Mark Hunter on the right wing and slid a perfect pass across for a one-time shot. Goalie Mike Vernon moved across with the pass, and Hunter’s shot was blocked by a sliding Flames defenceman as Vernon went down as well. The rebound went right to a trailing Wickenheiser, who was moving into the slot. Wick fired a shot into the unattended goal for what many consider the greatest moment in St. Louis Blues history.

As Huck, Scampy, and I followed the disappointed Calgary Flames team off the ice, we entered our dressing room with a sense of accomplishment that we had stood up to the test that had been sent our way. When penalties needed to be called, they were. When courage had been demanded of us, we spit in the face of intimidation and threats. And finally, at the end of the night, we’d simply done our jobs to the very best of our ability. To top it off, we had just witnessed a Monday-Night Miracle. Who could ask for more?

A short time afterward, a baby-faced Doug Gilmour, then just 22, but a player Jacques Demers had already recognized as a tremendous leader, was interviewed. “I just kinda sit there and, you know, think back to myself that, you know … 
how did we do it?
Somebody must have been looking out for us, you know? Something was going on.”