Here’s another column from nhl.com, right after the jump. So, you can get it here, or you can get it at nhl.com.
Oh well, you get it.

Hey, ref!
There are many unsolved mysteries in the hockey world – codes, superstitions and the like – but to me, the single biggest mystery is this: why would anyone want to become a referee?

I’ve heard it many times: “It was a good way to stay involved with the game.” I just don’t buy it. Not, when there are so many other ways to stay close to the game: coaching, stick boy, water boy, reporter, blogger, GM, or even owner of a club. Wouldn’t that be an even more fun way to stay in the game? Be an owner.

The only reason I can think of is the outfit. The striped sweater, those black suit pants, like a real gentleman. The helmet kind of spoils the look, but maybe I could live with that. And the way a referee moves on the ice. With grace, or just standing up, away from the game, looking on, noticing everything (In theory).

I was always the kind of player who had lots to say to the referee. Because I was always right. But that’s another story.

While the referees may look like gentlemen, not all of them are. About ten years ago, I was playing in a Division III game in Finland on a Thursday night. Pretty early on in the game, there was a small fight, or a scrap, and my best friend was in the middle of it. With the referee, it seemed.

I skated to them, and jokingly said to the referee, who was shouting at the top of his lungs to my buddy, with his head shining read, “Take it easy, ref. It’s eight o’clock, and I want to make it home early tonight.”

He showed me to the penalty box.

Not funny then, kind of funny now.

My mind was set, though. The referee was an idiot, and I might have told him so. Can’t remember anymore.

When we came back to the ice after the first intermission, I was skating around the rink like we always did. Counter-clockwise, as is the custom everywhere in the world. During my second lap, the referee showed up from nowhere, and started to skate in front of me. Backwards, staring me in the eyes as we skated around the rink.

I went back to the bench, and told the guys what had happened, and that I would probably get a penalty in my first shift.

Sure enough, in my first shift, I was back-checking a defenseman, and as soon as the blade of my stick left the ice, the ref called a penalty. Two minutes for slashing.

That was kind of funny, even then, so as I was sitting in the penalty box, I had a big smile on my face as I looked at the referee strutting in the corner. He held his arm up to show the teams that no line changes were allowed anymore. Obviously he was looking in my direction as well because he saw me sit in the penalty box, with my arm raised, waving to him.

He skated to the penalty box, told me to get out, and gave me a match penalty. Not funny then, and not funny now.

I have no proof, but I have a strong suspicion that the only one on steroids in that league was not a player.

The closest I have come to being a referee was when one of my best friends (and a former teammate) decided to try his hand at it. And I thought I knew the guy. He took the course, organized by the Finnish Hockey Federation, passed the exam, and went on to referee junior games for 10 to 12-year-olds, driving from rink to rink in metropolitan Helsinki, making sure the kids could play their games under an expert’s guidance.

And I got to wear his striped sweater to the store once.

It felt good as I walked in. I was a gentleman, my posture was good. I felt powerful, acted decisively, and people showed me respect.

I think.

But still, the mystery remains unsolved.