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As someone who played and officiated hockey at just about every possible level, I have accumulated a lot of stickers on the ol' suitcase over the years. As a player, I suited up everywhere from the low minor leagues to semi-pro hockey in Cape Cod, to the high minors in the American Hockey League to the top level in the World Hockey Association and the National Hockey League.

One of the more, um, interesting stops of my playing career was my brief time with the long-defunct Philadelphia Firebirds in the AHL during the 1978-79 season. It was a funny team and a funny time in my career, more in the bad sense of the term than the good.

The Firebirds played their home games at the now-extinct Philadelphia Civic Center; a horrendous facility located on the perimeter of my collegiate alma mater, the University of Pennsylvania. My old stomping grounds, the Class of 1923 Rink, was a stone's throw away.

However, I was in no "Welcome Back, Kotter" frame of mind at the time; I wasn't exactly singing along with John Sebastian's song on the .45 player at my temporary home in Voorhees, NJ (which, oddly enough, later became the town where the NHL's Flyers have practiced ever since relocating from the Class of 1923 Rink in the 1980s).

I wasn't happy to be a Firebird. For one thing, I had been sent there from the WHA's Cincinnati Stingers under adversarial circumstances, and the American Hockey League was a downward step on the professional ladder. For another, it was a terrible team because it had affiliated with the NHL's lowly Colorado Rockies and much of the roster was filled with gutless players who would not even have been considered prospects on well-run NHL teams of the time.

A little background here: When I was set to graduate Penn, all I really dreamed of doing with my life was playing pro hockey. It didn't matter where. No teams were interested.

One day at the Class of 1923 Rink, I had a talk with Flyers' energy forward Bob "the Hound" Kelly. He was one of the Flyers who took me under his wing, and I got a lot of inspiration from seeing the way that Hound and Dave "the Hammer" Schultz became valued members of an NHL team being doing specified roles well. Teammates teased the Hound for not being the sharpest tool in the shed, but a lot of that was an act for laughs.

I asked Kelly for some advice. Specifically, I wanted to know how I could break into pro hockey as soon as my college days were over.

Bob gave me a good suggestion: "Find the worst team in the worst league and ask for a tryout. Then try and work your way up from there."

That was exactly what I did. I contacted the last-place Binghamton Dusters of the lowly NAHL and got a tryout. I earned a spot on the team as an enforcer and painstakingly worked my way up from there to better teams in higher leagues.

By 1976, I was with the New York Rangers during training camp and the preseason. By late in the 1977 calendar year, I was in the WHA with Cincinnati, where I stayed for the remainder of the 1977-78 season. That 1977-78 season with the Stingers was my happiest one as a player. I became close with many of my teammates -- Robbie Ftorek, Jamie Hislop, Pat "Whitey" Stapleton, Butch Deadmarsh and Barry Melrose among them -- and I learned a lot from having Jacques Demers as my coach.

In the summer of 1978, I had a decision to make. For the first time in my career, I had multiple options available to me. The Stingers wanted me back. I had an offer from Whitey to join the Indianapolis Racers, where he'd gone to become the team's general manager after retiring as a player. I also had an NHL training camp tryout invitation from the Minnesota North Stars.

Ultimately, I decided to stay in Cincinnati. I negotiated a favorable contract for myself by the standards of the time -- I had no agent -- and prepared for another season with the Stingers. I won't go into the details in this blog (I'll save those for my book) but things went sour with management in the second year in Cincy. They ended up sending me to the AHL's Firebirds.

Had I played for the Firebirds a little earlier in my career when I was literally fighting my way up the professional ladder one rung at a time from the North American Hockey League, it might have been a better experience for me.

The Firebirds were originally a team in the North American Hockey League and were a good team at that level. Actually, if their NAHL club been my starting point in pro hockey, I'd have been ecstatic. They won the championship (the Lockhart Cup) during the 1975-76 season, which was my first season with Binghamton.

When the entire NAHL folded, the Firebirds were accepted into the AHL. They still had some good holdover players from their NAHL teams. Players such as Gordie Brooks, Bob Collyard and goalie Reggie Lemelin all spent some time in the NHL as well as the minor leagues. The club also had my friend Steve Coates; a small but feisty checking forward who had a brief stint in the NHL with the Detroit Red Wings.

Searching for an NHL affiliation, the Firebirds were only able to strike a deal with the Colorado Rockies. That pretty much doomed the club to having subpar talent. Most of the Rockies-affiliated players were not just mediocre in skill (even at the AHL level), they also lacked work ethic and were a bunch of pansies on top of it.

The Firebirds were owned by millionaire Edward Piszek and his son George. The family had made its fortune in the frozen food business as the owners of Mrs. Paul's fishsticks and related frozen fish items sold in grocery stores nationwide. Later, they took a bath financially when they bought the Arthur Treacher's Fish and Chips fast food franchise, with the intention of selling more of their products. They ended up selling the franchise for a fraction of what they originally paid for it.

The Piszeks were nice enough people on a personal level, but they were cheap. Even by minor league penny-pinching standards, they cut corners and it started to have a negative effect. The team consistently lost money.

Let's just say that I hope the quality control at the Mrs. Paul's plant was better than the quality control of their hockey team. During the franchise's NAHL championship days, the Firebirds actually developed a nice little cult following in Philly. They did it partially by riding the coattails of the Flyers' being at the zenith of their success and partially because they were a winning and tough team. From there, however, the product went downhill and the attendance at the Civic Center got sparser and sparser.

During the 1978-79 season, the Firebirds were coached by the late Armand "Bep" Guidolin. He was eccentric, but he was a good man without an enemy in the world.

Bep was a hoot. He lived in a hotel while he was coaching the Firebirds and was shocked and dismayed when he was presented a bill. He somehow thought the Firebirds were going to the foot the bill. I doubt it ever got paid.

Guidolin was far from the best strategic coach I ever saw. Getting outcoached by Fred Shero in the 1974 Stanley Cup Finals was one of the reasons why Bep's Bruins were upset by Philadelphia. Preparation was not his strong suit, nor was running his bench. By the time he got to the Firebirds, Bep paid little attention to things like which players had just come back to the bench at the end of shifts and who should be going out with whom for the next shift.

I decided to have a little fun with it, and get myself some extra ice time to boot. Sometimes, when coming off the ice after a shift on the wing, I would exit the ice on the side of the bench where the defensemen sat. Then I'd go right back out as a defenseman, since Bep wasn't paying attention.

My teammates caught on and would laugh about it. Bep either never figured it our or decided it didn't matter, anyway, since our team was so bad.

On a personal level, Bep was impossible not to like. Bep was not exactly a snappy dresser. He used to coach wearing a windbreaker on game nights and was otherwise prone to wearing mismatched clothes. The teasing rolled right off his back. He used to say odd and funny things to crack us up on the bench and on the team bus.

For example, one time Bep hollered at Coatsie to come over to the bench before a faceoff. Going over some strategy, perhaps? Nope. Bep was pointing out an attractive and shapely woman in the stands, whom he was convinced was flirting with him.

I reported to the Firebirds on the day of the team's Christmas party, which was held at Coates' house. Back in those days, the team holiday party was usually a players-only event but Bep was there. Later, I found out that Bep had invited himself and shown up three hours early!

There was one thing that would get Bep riled up. He read the team the riot act a few times in the dressing room for the lack of moxie that many of the players showed. That was the one thing that genuinely did bother him -- and me -- about that Firebirds squad.

The fighting duties were left to me. In 16 games, I scored a pair of goals and had 92 penalty minutes. I wasn't too happy about it, either.

One night in Portland, we were playing the Maine Mariners; the Flyers' affiliate. They were a tough team filled with guys who fought regularly. I tried in vain to fire up the team by stirring the pot before the drop of the puck. Big, big mistake.

I got jumped by a gang of Mariners and was left all alone on the ice to get my butt kicked. I fought with six different Maine players, including Jim Cunningham, Glen Cochrane, Al Hill and John Paddock. I was a bloody mess but screamed at the Maine players to keep bringing it on. They did -- mercilessly. By the end, both of my eyes were swollen shut and I was still standing with my fists cocked, with my own blood streaming. I could only swing blindly by that point. When it was finally over, Coates helped me off the ice.

Incidentally, a photo of the incident ended up in Sports Illustrated. Not exactly a glorious image like Bobby Orr flying through the air on the Stanley Cup winning goal, but it certainly captured what was happening. At least I wasn't intimidated by the Mariners and I never quit fighting.

Not one of my teammates came to my aid. The most anyone did was pair off and hold onto a Maine player away from the six-on-one. One of the Firebirds players who stayed as far away as possible was Mike Gillis -- then a Rockies' first-round pick making a brief AHL stop on his way to their NHL team, and now the general manager of the Vancouver Canucks.

It was one of the worst nights I had during my entire career. My parents were in the stands that night, traveling from Boston to Portland to see the game. A former girlfriend was also there that night. I hated that they had to witness it.

After the game, I refused to board the team bus with those cowardly Rockies farmhands. I changed and showered in the officials' dressing room -- foreshadowing my future -- and flew to the next game at my own expense.

In the aftermath of the incident, I got fined $850 by the AHL. George Piszek refused to pay my fine. That was a first -- back then teams usually paid fighting-related fines for their players. I told him he'd regret it.

I appealed it to league president Jack Butterfield who said I would get the money back over his dead body. I went to Jack's funeral a few years ago. No, he did not leave me $850 in his will.

I wanted nothing further to do with the Firebirds. I ended arranging a transfer to the Cape Cod Freedoms of the NEHL and then collected a full WHA playoff share with Cincinnati due to the stipulations of my contract.

Ultimately, I landed back on my feet.

The next year, I spent time in the Central Hockey League with the Birmingham Bulls, playing for John Brophy. On the Oklahoma City Stars, there were a few players who had been on the sidelines during the incident in Portland the previous season. I paid one of them back with an insult bigger than a one-punch knockout on the ice -- a slap in the face. They stayed far, far far away thereafter.

Later in the 1979-80 season, I finally made it to the NHL. I became a Quebec Nordique for my only NHL experience.

Last but not least, I symbolically got back at Piszek for his cheapness. Every time I went to a grocery store, I went to the frozen food section. I'd rip open a box of Mrs. Paul's fishsticks and empty out the contents. Did it for years. I ended up being up about $2,000 on the deal.

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Recent Blogs by Paul Stewart

Whither Goest Thou, Illegal Stick Penalty?

Badgers and Buffoons

The Nameless and the Faceless

The Great One and Me

A Bostonian On the Ice in Davos

A Hole in the Replay Rules: The Safety Netting Goal

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Paul Stewart holds the distinction of being the first U.S.-born citizen to make it to the NHL as both a player and referee. On March 15, 2003, he became the first American-born referee to officiate in 1,000 NHL games.

Today, Stewart is an officiating and league discipline consultant for the Kontinental Hockey League (KHL) and serves as director of hockey officiating for the Eastern College Athletic Conference (ECAC).

The longtime referee heads Officiating by Stewart, a consulting, training and evaluation service for officials, while also maintaining a busy schedule as a public speaker, fund raiser and master-of-ceremonies for a host of private, corporate and public events. As a non-hockey venture, he is the owner of Lest We Forget.

Stewart is currently working with a co-author on an autobiography.