The Final Call by Kerry Fraser Read Free Book Online Page A

bone hasn’t broken through the skin, don’t come off the ice; and if you do, make sure your team has the puck! He schooled me well from his experience not only as a hockey player but as a semiprofessional boxer as well.
    In 1982, Edmonton Oiler defenceman Paul Coffey intercepted a pass in the neutral zone just 10 minutes into the first period and tried to pound a slapshot back into the attacking zone. The problem was, I had been chasing the play out of the zone and was 20 feet away—and in the direct line of Paul’s slapper. The puck struck me directly on the ankle and caromed off the end of my fibula, exiting the playing surface and stopping play.
    Paul apologized for not having seen me, the linesman got another puck, and we played on. I knew the damned thing was fractured because the pain intensified and extended up to the knee joint as the game wore on. Since we had only one referee on the ice in those days and Dad’s rule (the bone hadn’t broken the skin) held true, I finished the game. Between periods I kept my skate laced tightly and walked around instead of sitting down in an attempt to keep some mobility in the joint. Once the game was over and I finally removed the boot, my foot instantly blew up as if it had been inflated by an air compressor. One of the linesmen in that game, Wayne Forsey, was living in Edmonton. I had made plans to stay at his apartment because he, Swede Knox, and I were driving to Calgary for a game the next day.
    Since I didn’t need an X-ray to tell me the ankle was broken, and didn’t want to spend the rest of my Friday night in the emergency room of the Edmonton hospital, I hobbled out of Northlands Coliseum, supported by a broken hockey stick with a towel taped to the end, which I placed under my arm as a crutch. We went straight to Forsey’s apartment, where I immediately self-medicated with a bottle of Scotch. I had a sound sleep that night, but Forsey said my loud moaning from the spare bedroom kept him awake all night. I called referee-in-chief Scotty Morrison first thing the next morning and informed him that my ankle was broken. Since we didn’t have an overabundance of officials at that time, and it wasn’t easy moving people around the West, I had taken the liberty of looking over the assignment sheets to see who might be available to fill in for me.
    Dan Marouelli was an Edmonton fireman who was also working as an NHL trainee referee in the American Hockey League. I saw that he was home, so I suggested that Scotty could use him to work the game on an emergency basis. Scotty assigned Dan as a linesman, and turned to Swede, a highly respected veteran linesman, to act as referee. The boys dropped me off at the Calgary hospital on the way to the hotel, and I spent the next five hours being attended to.
    While X-rays confirmed the obvious (broken fibula), the ankle was far too swollen to put in a cast. It would take a week and a half before the swelling had subsided enough to allow for a fibreglass cast to be applied, and seven weeks before I returned to action, in time for the final month of the regular season. In place of a cast, the ankle was wrapped with a Tensor bandage, and the broken hockey stick I’d hobbled into the hospital on was replaced with a pair of crutches. I went to the Flames game that evening and watched from the press box. Sitting beside me was my dear friend, and the head of Calgary’s off-ice officials crew, Don Young. Don became my “male nurse” and porter the next morning,showing up at the hotel to get me out of bed, dressed, and to the airport on time.
    On board the flight to Toronto, I had the good fortune to sit beside the next prime minister of Canada, John Turner. We had a delightful conversation throughout the duration of our flight, which helped me forget about my throbbing ankle. Mr. Turner was a charming seatmate, and I regret not taking him up on his kind invitation to hunt grouse with him at his Connecticut estate once my ankle