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Thirty years ago, I refereed a game in Edmonton between the Oilers and the Minnesota North Stars at Northlands Coliseum. The game was a memorable one, as Wayne Gretzky scored five goals. He nearly had a sixth, which would have tied him with Red Berenson for the post-World War II single game record in the NHL history. However, I had to disallow the goal.
Wayne didn't utter a word of protest, not even a disapproving shake of his head. He simply skated away.
I found that a tad surprising in the moment. Although Gretz and I go way back with each other to my own playing days and I am proud to consider him a friend off the ice, he was never shy about telling officials what he thought about calls with which he disagreed.
Back in the locker room after the game, my fellow officials were subdued. Officiating supervisor Wally Harris was on hand, too. I vaguely noticed that he was staying a little closer by me than he ordinarily would.
During the car ride back to the hotel, we had the car radio on a news station. The broadcaster said, "Referee Paul Stewart, who tonight...." Wally abruptly shut off the radio.
"You don't need to listen to that crap," he said by way of explanation.
Back at the hotel, Harris said to me, "Paul, when we get inside, we need to talk."
He came up with me, with an ashen look on his face.
"Wally, what's wrong?" I said. "Am I being fired?"
"No, no, you aren't being fired," he said, still frowning.
After the slightest pause, he explained.
"Paul," he said, "your dad died today."
I was the last to know. My father hadn't been well, but it's still news you're never fully prepared to hear. My fellow officials knew before game time, as did the players who knew of my dad. Keep in mind, this was the era before most of us had cell phones and were plugged in to information 24/7. I went through my normal game-day prep, totally focused on the job I had to do that night.
That was how my father taught me to be. If you were truly serious about being a player, your focus had to be on practicing and playing. As a student, if you were serious about learning, you had to buckle down even in subjects you found difficult. As an official, the most important game in the world was the one who were reffing that night, followed by the next and the next.
My dad also taught me what I call the 11th Commandment: If you are in position to help another human being in need and do not make a genuine effort to do so, it reflects poorly on you. He was a high school teacher, a prolific multi-sport coach and a multi-sport official. We were never all that well off financially. He supported his family on his salary. He could be stern and he could be blunt. He was rarely one to hug his children but there was never a doubt about his fundamental dedication and humanity. He showed his love to me and my siblings in his actions, not his words and gestures.
My father's caring and humanity was not just for family members but for everyone regardless of race, color, creed or economic status. On many, many occasions, my dad went the extra mile for his students, neighbors and even strangers. I have to be honest. At times in my youth, I didn't understand it. I even may have resented it on occasion. Now, I feel nothing but gratitude. What a role model he was! If I'm half the man he was, I've done fine.
I remember the long, long flight back from Edmonton to Boston. I sat in the back row of the plane, deep in reflection and emotion. I've always had a sharp long-term memory but, at this stage of my life, was driven to constantly press forward. No one told me about my dad's passing until after the game because that's 100 percent how he would have wanted it.
"Are you a referee? Are they paying you to officiate?" he'd have asked.
"Yes," I'd say.
"Then go out and be a referee," he'd have replied.
We had the same conversation in other contexts. I'd watch him officiate and I'd watch him coach and his level of focus and attention to detail amazed me, and this was back when I was playing sports rather than being on the other side. The same principles applied. Earn respect and give respect to the game. Be in the right position. Have conviction in your judgment. Be tough but be fair.
My grandfather and my dad were alike in many regards, although each was his own man. Grampy was more nationally famous because of his NHL and Major League Baseball careers in both coaching and officiating whereas my dad was primarily well-known around New England. He, too, easily could have coached and officiated pros but the high school and collegiate levels were his real passion.
I never really realized the full scope of my dad's legacy outside of my own eyes until I arrived back in Boston after his death. There was a lengthy memorial article about him on the front page of the sports section on Dec. 7. He was not one to dwell on such things, nor my grandfather in his own career, but their accomplishments are a source of pride to me.
People have asked me where I get my work ethic. It was from my grandfather and father. My father was as equally hard working as he was selfless. Both my father and grandfather were men of many hats (coaching, reffing, scouting, mentoring).
They taught me something essential at a young age: It’s not how many hats you wear, it’s how well you wear them. They took pride in performing all their jobs at the highest level possible.
Dad reffed college games each Saturday. He always was on the move. He reffed a football game at Cornell one sunny Saturday in the early 1960s when the Big Red had Pete Gogolak, the first soccer-style placekicker who later starred for the Buffalo Bills and New York Giants.
I spent that afternoon chasing Gogolak’s field goals and extra points. I always either volunteered as the ball boy or worked the chains. When that football game ended, dad and I walked to the station wagon, opened the trunk, and pulled out the Coca-Cola cooler, which came with us on every road trip. Inside were sandwiches and drinks my mother had packed. When we finished eating, my dad looked down at his watch.
“It’s almost 5 p.m. — we better get going,… he said, throwing his football referee bag into the back of the car, then reaching in and pulling out his hockey bag.
Putting on a different hat, my dad walked into historic Lynah Rink and dressed to ref the Cornell hockey game. I served as stick boy.
Being the son of Bill Stewart Jr., I certainly lived an interesting, somewhat unpredictable, and magical childhood in which I almost always was learning some sort of lesson in life or sports. Over the last 30 years, I've discovered something else.
My dad is still with me. I can hear his voice speaking to me -- sometimes with an admonishment, sometimes with a word of encouragement, and quite often to challenge me to use what he's taught me to arrive at a difficult decision. John McCauley and my other mentors are still with me, too. I named my first-born son after John.
Actually, I will share something I joked about recently with NHL referee Wes McCauley. We shared a big laugh thinking about how our dads are still watching us together; sometimes with pride and something mouths agape and elbowing each other to silently say, "Look at those two! What are they DOING?!"
I am a Catholic but I find an ecumenical piece of Jewish liturgy called "We Remember Them" by Rabbis Sylvan Kamens and Jack Riemer to be one of the most eloquent reflections I have ever seen. It brings a tear to my eye, in fact, because it expresses my ongoing relationship with my father and others dear to me who have passed on from this world.
In the rising of the sun and in its going down, we remember them. In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter, we remember them. In the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring, we remember them. In the blueness of the sky and in the warmth of summer, we remember them. In the rustling of leaves and in the beauty of autumn, we remember them. In the beginning of the year and when it ends, we remember them. When we are weary and in need of strength, we remember them. When we are lost and sick at heart, we remember them. When we have joys we yearn to share, we remember them. So long as we live, they too shall live, for they are now a part of us, as we remember them.
Thank you, dad, for everything you've taught me and continue to teach me. You are always remembered and always loved by those whose lives you touched.
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Paul Stewart holds the distinction of being the first U.S.-born person to make it to the NHL as both a player and referee. On March 15, 2003, he became the only American-born referee to officiate in 1,000 NHL games./