Goal judge’s old chair best seat in house

The way I see it, one of the primary differences between Geoff Chiara and Roxanne, a working girl that Sting, and later Eddie Murphy in the movies, fell in love with, is that Geoff Chiara does have to turn on the red light. Whereas Roxanne didn't have to, at least not according to Sting and Eddie Murphy.

Geoff Chiara is a goal judge at Wranglers hockey games.

When one of the Wranglers shoots and scores, it's not a goal - or at least it doesn't seem like one - until Chiara turns on the red light.

Then a diesel horn sounds, and Bruce Springsteen sings "Viva Las Vegas." And some of the guys who wear hockey jerseys and sit near Chiara's goal judge cubicle at the closed end of Orleans Arena pound on the Plexiglas with the palms of their hands. Or their fists, depending on what period it is, how close the score is, and how many beers they've had.

When somebody from Stockton or Bakersfield shoots and scores - or even one of the Orlando Solar Bears - there mostly is silence.

Chiara, 53, has been judging goals for 16 years - 10 with the Wranglers and six with the defunct Las Vegas Thunder. He judges goals mostly because he loves ice hockey, but also because he has the perfect resume for it. Chiara is an optometrist (for the Veterans Administration), and a former amateur goalie.

Plus, he's not claustrophobic.

The goal judge's cubicle is roughly the size of a telephone booth. Except for the two revolving red lights and the green light, which flashes at the end of a period, it even looks like a telephone booth (minus the torn-out Yellow Pages for pizza delivery and bail bondsmen).

It has none of the comforts of home, or even of a Motel 6 in Stockton. The high-leg chair upon which Chiara sits looks like a relic from when Toe Blake and Eddie Shore played hockey. Some of the padding is leaking out the back.

The job doesn't pay well, either. In fact, it pays nothing. Chiara is the Wranglers' supervisor of off-ice officials. He gets two tickets and a $12 voucher at the concession stand, which basically comes out to a beer and a hot dog or soft pretzel, plus tip.

Of course, goal judges don't drink beer (except maybe at Milwaukee Admirals games), mostly because it wouldn't look appropriate. And also because it might result in one having to use the men's room before the green light comes on.

(When the periods ended Saturday, I saw Chiara immediately head for the concourse. If I had to guess, I'd say his destination wasn't the chuck-a-puck line.)

Back in Toe Blake and Eddie Shore's day, it wasn't a goal unless the goal judge turned on the red light. Now, with the advent of replay equipment and other technology, the referee has the last say.

Midway through the third period Saturday, the puck appeared to bounce into the Stockton net and back out again. Chiara turned on the red light. The diesel horn sounded. But before Bruce began to sing, Chiara was talking on his headset, informing the other off-ice officials on the closed-circuit feed that upon further review, the puck had bounced into the side of the net, not the back.

(And here I thought he was listening to Van Halen or Rush on those headphones.)

During the next stoppage in play, the public address announcer bellowed "No goal! Inadvertent red light!" By then, everybody had figured it out.

So yes, today's goal judges are more a nod to hockey tradition than anything else. Like the organist at a baseball game or Jim Nabors at the Indy 500, you don't really need them. But it's still a pretty cool place to watch a guy beat a goalie like a rented mule. And without goal judges, "lighting the lamp" might disappear from the hockey vernacular, and then you couldn't make jokes about the back of a goalie's neck getting sunburned during a 6-1 loss.

After the game, I asked Chiara if we could finish chatting in the goal judge booth, because I wanted to see the game as he sees it, or something like that. But if truth be known, "lighting the lamp" at a hockey game was No. 6 on my sports bucket list.

The preferred method would have been to light the lamp as Bobby Orr did, by flying through the air against Glenn Hall and St. Louis in the Stanley Cup Finals; alas, I am a terrible skater, and my ankles are weak.

So when Geoff Chiara showed me the little contraption with the plastic plunger that turns on the red light, I immediately pressed down, hard, like when the defending champion on "Jeopardy" knows the question to Hodge Podge for $100, Alex.

The red light did not come on. There was no diesel horn. Bruce did not sing. Somebody in hockey control already had shut it all down.

I know his mind was made up. So I put away the makeup.

Wait up, Roxanne. I'll buy you a beer.

Las Vegas Review-Journal sports columnist Ron Kantowski can be reached at rkantowski@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0352. Follow him on Twitter: @ronkantowski.