Let’s talk about the Puck Pontiff and believing in the believer…zeroes across the board for Captain Cranky Pants…Quinn Hughes and an anti-West Coast bias…Coach Grunge tracking down the Silver Fox…welcome to the 1960s…and other things on my mind

Ed Sullivan and The Beatles.

If we are to believe Mark Chipman—and why wouldn’t we?—the Winnipeg Jets will remain in Good Ol’ Hometown forever.

Repeat after me: For-ever!

Granted, that isn’t the word the Puck Pontiff used during the 18-plus minutes he and Darren Dreger of TSN spent flapping gums last week, but it’s what he meant in responding to the only question that truly mattered in their natter.

“Is there any real threat of a sale, a relocation if this can’t get turned around?” asked Dreger, referencing the shockingly modest gatherings (a low of 11,136; ave. 11,823) at the Little Hockey House On The Prairie through the first month of the current National Hockey League crusade.

“No,” was the Puck Pontiff’s firm and immediate reply.

So, even if head counts sewer to World Hockey Association levels, which is to say 10,000 or less, the Puck Pontiff and his co-bankroll, the 3rd Baron Thomson of Fleet, will not abandon Good Ol’ Hometown in favor of a distant burg that might provide greener grass and a greater number of paying customers. This won’t be a redux of Jets 1.0 in April 1996, when the town’s hockey heroes made like thieves in the night and skedaddled to the Arizona desert.

“I can see how you would ask that question,” the Puck Pontiff told Dreger, “because it happened once is it a concern it could happen again because it’s the smallest market? I say not on our watch.”

Chipman, chairman of True North Sports + Entertainment, said the April 1996 experience was “beyond heartbreaking” and confessed he “wept like a child” when Jets 1.0 fled, thus he harbors no desire to live through a repeat wave of that high-level emotional crumbling.

So don’t worry your little heads, kids. The Jets aren’t packing ’em in anymore, but they aren’t packing their bags, either. For the Puck Pontiff to run and hide…well, that would be the ultimate betrayal by a born-and-raised Winnipegger who wears his passion for the town and team on his sleeve.

Now, having said all that, there’s something you should know about hockey people: They lie.

Hockey is Planet Pinocchio, where noses grow longer than Winnipeg winters and pants are always on fire. I think the last honest man in hockey was Don Baizley, the much-admired player agent. And, yes, now that you mention it, honest and player agent in the same sentence seems like a contradiction in terms. But Baiz was special.

Anyway, don’t go running off with the notion that I’m calling the Puck Pontiff a liar. Truth is, I believe him when he says there’s no plan to put up a For Sale sign at 300 Portage Ave., or to pitch tent elsewhere, as long as his and the 3rd Baron’s names are on the deed. (I know, I know, a wise acre would scoff and ask, “What did you expect him to say? He wasn’t going to appear on national TV and use buy-tickets-or-else scare tactics, like he did at a Chamber of Commerce luncheon and in an ill-advised marketing campaign last April.”)

I also believe Chipman believes he can win back the affections of the 3,000-plus people who’ve abandoned their seats in the Little Hockey House and reduced the season-ticket base from 13,000 to less than 10,000.

“I don’t think people expected us to sell out 10 years in a row, but we did,” the Puck Pontiff told Dreger. “So the fact that we did is what gives me hope and confidence and expectation that we can draw people back to watch the product that we’ve put together.”

Believe in the believer and fill the offering basket, brothers and sisters! Hallelujah!

Except for this: At no point did Chipman hold himself to account for mistakes made (he mentioned the pandemic three times, though), and he neglected to explain how True North will woo the 3,000 wanderers back to the fold.

Many among the rabble, after all, turned hostile last spring as the club floundered in its pursuit of a playoff berth, and the Puck Pontiff didn’t make many friends when his True North marketing arm unleashed an offensive Forever Winnipeg sales pitch, which featured clips from April 1996 when the original franchise skipped town. It was bullying and threatening in tone.

But fans bullied right back on social media, taking aim at customer service, pricing and indifference. They were royally PO’d.

“I can tell you that our group—we’ve got 300 full-time with us that are taking this very seriously—are working very, very hard at earning that customer base back and we have every confidence that we will,” was the Puck Pontiff’s closing comment to Dreger.

Again, he declined to share strategy or cop to missteps by himself or True North, but he did mention something about putting petrol in his car, so I guess things aren’t so bad that he has to ride a bus to the rink.

I suppose it’s all moot, though, because the Puck Pontiff has assured us that he and the 3rd Baron have no inclination toward selling out. Come hell, pandemic or low attendance, the Jets will be playing hockey in Good Ol’ Hometown as long as the Red and Assiniboine rivers meet at The Forks. Cross his heart and hope to win the Stanley Cup.

Question is: Is today’s truth the same truth 10 years from now?

A tip of the bonnet to Dreger for scoring his 18-plus minutes audience with the Puck Pontiff. It was quite a coup. I mean, Chipman normally spends as much time talking with news snoops as the Pope spends at a blackjack table, and most hand puppets have more to say.

Some among the rabble seem to think news snoops are making too much fuss about Jets attendance woes. One person took to X and instructed Scott Billeck to “promote” the Jets and the city, and he also wondered if the Winnipeg Sun scribe “personally” purchases season tickets. Meantime, the same person demanded that Mad Mike McIntyre of the Drab Slab also drop the low head count narrative. Apparently, it makes him sound like “the clown from the Sun.” Hoo boy. First of all, why would Billeck pay to go to work? Who does that? Second, coverage of the Jets since training camp commenced has been ultra-positive in both dailies. It’s so syrupy that it makes the few natural teeth I have left ache.

Does Chipman have a problem with news snoops focusing on empty seats at the Little Hockey House? “I think I understand why it’s news,” he told Dreger.

I found this remark from the Puck Pontiff to be a total load of hooey: “The team really belongs to the community. We get referred to as owners, but we’re really more stewards and that’s how we approach this.” Nice sentiment, but as phony as Pierre Poilievre’s smile. The Winnipeg Blue Bombers belong to the community, from the dirt in Brady Oliveira’s cleats to the ink on the bottom line of the budget, which we get to see. The Bombers are held accountable to and by the community. The Jets, on the other hand, belong to two filthy rich dudes, the Puck Pontiff and 3rd Baron, and we’ll see the ink on the bottom line of their financial statement when the Golden Boy puts on a pair of blue jeans.

For those of you scoring at home, here’s the line for Jets former Captain Cranky Pants, Blake Wheeler, now with the New York Rangers: 8 games, 0 goals, 0 assists, 0 points, -3 on a first-place team. Versus the Vancouver Canucks on Saturday night, he had 11 shifts and 7:30 ice time. Overall, he spends an average of 11:38 on the ice per game, compared to 17:02 last year with the Jets.

Out here on the Other Side Of The Rocks, many among the rabble are convinced that Canucks superb defenceman Quinn Hughes is grossly underrated, and geography is the reason. The thinking goes like this: Since puck-drop time for most games at Rogers Arena is 7 o’clock in Vancity, eastern scribes/natterbugs are already tucked in the kip, thus they’re seldom exposed to Hughes’ brilliance. There’s some truth to that. I mean, who in the NHL East Bloc is prepared to keep the eyelids open past midnight to watch the Canucks? Maybe Elliotte Friedman and a few others who don’t have a life. But…does a West Coast locale cost a player like Hughes support in NHL awards voting? No. To use the Toronto Maple Leafs as a comparison vs. West Coast outfits, here’s the scorecard on individual award winners voted on by members of the Professional Hockey Writers Association since 1970 (PHWA members choose winners of the Hart, Norris, Masterton, Selke, Calder and Lady Byng awards.):
Los Angeles Kings: 14.
San Jose Sharks: 5.
Maple Leafs: 5.
Canucks: 4.
Disney Ducks: 4.

Loved this quote from Travis Dermott after he’d defied the NHL’s stupid ban on Pride tape and used the rainbow colors on the shaft of his hockey stick in a game last Saturday: “Never been the rebellious type,” the Arizona Coyotes defender told The Canadian Press. “A lot of guys get on the front of the newspaper for the wrong reasons. But in talking with my family, this definitely isn’t something my daughter would be ashamed of when she’s old enough to understand.”

The ultimate irony, of course, is that Dermott missed the Coyotes Pride Night on Friday, due to illness. Go figure.

Guaranteed to not be performing during NHL all-star festivities in the Republic of Tranna, Feb. 2-3: The Village People, Brandi Carlile, Melissa Etheridge, Elton John, George Michael, Ricky Martin, Tracy Chapman, Lady Gaga, Fergie, kd Lang, Demi Lovato, Queen Latifah, Kim Petras. They’re all too gay for the NHL.

So, the NHL has told Shane Pinto to stand in the corner for Ottawa Senators next 41 skirmishes, because he committed a gambling no-no. What was his crime? The NHL would rather not say. They’re keeping it as clear as a jar of peanut butter, and all we know is the Senators forward did not—repeat: did not—wager on NHL games, and Pinto has apologized for what he didn’t do. Hey, maybe he bet on which player will be next to use Pride tape on his hockey stick.

Apparently, Joe Thornton retired on Saturday. Hands up anyone who knew he was still playing. I mean, when was the last time we saw Jumbo on an NHL freeze? During the Nixon administration?

Bravo to football news snoops in Good Ol’ Hometown for doing the right thing and anointing running back Brady Oliveira the Bombers nominee for Most Outstanding Player in Rouge Football. They could have taken the easy route and given the nod to quarterback Zach Collaros for a third successive season, so I applaud them. And I expect voters across the land to step in line and deliver the MOP trinket to Oliveira during Grey Cup hijinks next month in The Hammer.

The Bombers 36-13 romp vs. Calgary Stampeders on Friday night in Cowtown was win No. 96 for head coach Mike O’Shea, leaving him just six shy of the Silver Fox, Bud Grant, who set the standard for regular-season Ws with the storied Canadian Football League franchise. Coach Grunge is 96-62 in his 10 crusades as sideline steward, and an astonishing 84-38 once he found his footing, which is to say after his first two seasons. Who among us, other than Bombers chief cook and bottle washer Wade Miller, saw that coming when Coach Grunge was brought on board?

On the subject of CFL sideline stewards, Craig Dickenson was told to get out of Dodge by Saskatchewan Roughriders CEO Craig Reynolds after back-to-back 6-12 crusades, yet GM Jeremy O’Day has been rewarded with a three-year contract add-on. Does that make sense anywhere other than on the Flattest of Lands?

How to make friends and influence people: Tickets for the West Division semifinal between Calgary Stampeders and B.C. Leos next Saturday at B.C. Place start at $30 for adults and a rock-bottom $15 for youth 17-and-under. That isn’t a typo. It’s just 15 bucks for a Rouge Football playoff game. Leos bankroll Amar Doman continues to push all the right buttons.

They’re calling it the Manitoba Miracle out there on the University of Manitoba campus, because head coach Brian Dobie’s Bisons have qualified for the U Sports football playoffs in a most dramatic manner. Even though they came up short on the scoreboard, 35-23, vs. the Dinosaurs in Calgary on Saturday, the Herd earned a date with the UBC Thunderbirds in Vancouver on Nov. 4, and you’ll want to read Mike Still’s report on the wacko finish in Cowtown. It’s a fifth successive trip to the playoffs for the Bisons, a program record.

A tip of the bonnet to Don Taylor, longtime radio/TV sports gab guy out here on the Other Side Of The Rocks. Taylor, now host of Donnie and Dhali The Team on CHEK TV, has been informing and entertaining viewers and listeners on all things jock for more than 40 years, and he’s received his just reward with induction to the B.C. Sports Hall of Fame. Well done, Donnie.

Former U.S. President George W. Bush hurled the ceremonial first pitch before Game 1 of the World Series the other night, and I must say the 43rd commander-in-chief doesn’t walk. He struts. Like a Texan. Who’s spent a lot of time on the back of a quarterhorse. He’s not much of a pitcher, though. His ceremonial toss was a one-hopper to ceremonial catcher Pudge Rodriguez.

Apparently another former U.S. president, Donald J. Trump, watched the Bush pitch and was not impressed. “I once struck out Hank Aaron, Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle on consecutive at-bats one afternoon,” the ex-Commander-in-Fibbing told Sean Hannity on Fox News. “I had a fastball they couldn’t touch. Fast. Like nobody’s ever seen. Nobody. Ever. They tried to measure my fastball on the Jugs gun and the gun broke. Can you imagine that? Me breaking the Jugs gun? I’m usually so careful with jugs. Ask Stormy Daniels about that. They told me they’d never seen anything like it. Ever. The New York Yankees wanted to sign me. The New York Mets wanted to sign me. But I told them I had bone spurs, so the greatest career in the history of baseball never happened.”

And, finally, the Rolling Stones are at the top of the charts in the U.K., Australia and Germany with their new album, Hackney Diamonds, and The Beatles will be releasing a new single with John Lennon on lead vocals later this week. Welcome to the 1960s, kids. All that’s missing is Ed Sullivan and his “really big shew” and “little chickadees.”

Where is Gary Bettman’s head at?

Gary Bettman

Is there a method to Gary Bettman’s madness?

Or perhaps madness is the National Hockey League commissioner’s method.

I just don’t know.

I mean, if there’s a measure of logic behind Bettman’s baffling relationship with the LGBT(etc.) community, I’m struggling to find it.

Think about it.

A decade ago, the NHL hopped into bed with the You Can Play Project, a forward-thinking group determined to make the sporting arena a welcoming and safe place for the LGBT(etc.) community.

Its mission statement: “The You Can Play Project works to ensure the safety and inclusion for all who participate in sports, including LGBTQ+ athletes, coaches and fans. We achieve this by creating a community of allies that is able to foster a true sense of belonging. This becomes possible when sports teams sharpen the focus on the person’s skills, work ethic, and competitive spirit, not their sexual orientation, gender identity or expression. You Can Play seeks to challenge the culture of locker rooms and spectator areas by developing a culture of respect, in every player, coach and fan.”

And this was Bettman in April 2013: “Our motto is Hockey Is For Everyone, and our partnership with You Can Play certifies that position in a clear and unequivocal way. While we believe that our actions in the past have shown our support for the LGBT community, we are delighted to reaffirm through this joint venture with the NHL Players’ Association that the official policy of the NHL is one of inclusion on the ice, in our locker rooms and in the stands.”

Given the homophobic culture of men’s hockey, it was an admirable kinship between the NHL and YCPP.

Yet here we are today, 10 months into an anti-gay push unlike anything we’ve seen in major men’s sports, and it’s fair to wonder where the hell Bettman’s head is at. Is he an ally or a faux friend? Is his alignment with You Can Play nothing but window dressing?

Well, let’s follow the bouncing puck and see where it takes us.

Last January, Commish Gary gave players his official okie-dokie to reveal their anti-gay leanings, scant days after Ivan Provorov, then of the Philly Flyers, picked up his Bible and said showing support for the LGBT(etc.) collective didn’t square with scripture. Thus, the Russian Orthodox defender declined to don a Pride jersey for pregame warmup.

When the stuff hit the fan and many among the rabble heaped a huge helping of scorn on Provorov and the NHL, one of Bettman’s minions issued the following advisory: “Players are free to decide which initiatives to support, and we continue to encourage their voices and perspectives on social and cultural issues.”

That emboldened seven more of the NHL’s 700-plus players—James Reimer, Ilya Samsonov, Eric and Marc Staal, Ilya Lybushkin, Andrei Kuzmenko and Denis Gurianov—to join the NHL’s Rainbow Resistance Movement and out themselves as anti-gay by the end of the season.

That, in turn, prompted Commish Gary (surely at the urging of certain team owners) to get out of the garment industry in June. That is, specialty jerseys were abolished. All of them. But anyone with a lick of common sense the size of a gnat recognized it as an anti-gay gambit. No player, after all, had ever balked at wearing military colors, or Indigenous attire or a uni in support of fighting cancer, etc. Only the Pride rainbow. It was, to use Bettman’s word, a “distraction.” It had to go.

Which brought us to early October, when the NHL’s Rainbow Resistance Movement arrived at the crossroads of Idiotic Lane and Dimwit Drive: Bettman banned Pride tape. Players were no longer permitted to use it on their sticks during games, in warmup or at practice. Essentially, it was a don’t-say-gay gag order.

To reiterate my remark from last week, it was the silliest and dumbest directive in NHL history.

But wait. Commish Gary gave his head a shake, or someone did it for him, and the Pride tape ban was lifted on Tuesday.

So, again, does anyone know where Bettman’s head is at?

I mean, okay, he did the right thing two weeks after doing the wrong thing, and the league’s on-ice employees are now permitted to wrap their hockey sticks with Pride tape, but, for gawd’s sake, why did we spend a fortnite talking about something so silly when the focus should have been on the start of the current crusade? What was Commish Gary’s aim in the rainbow ban? What is his end game re the LGBT(etc.) community?

Everything that’s gone down during the past 10 months is so very strange and, given the NHL’s allyship with You Can Play, it doesn’t make a lick of sense.

So what changed and who are the forces behind this year’s anti-gay initiatives?

Team owners are whispering (barking?) in Commish Gary’s ears at all times, so perhaps a handful of them have been driving this bus.

After all, a robust anti-LGBT(etc.) sentiment exists in North America, and it isn’t unthinkable that it’s found its way into the NHL board room. Team owners are Bettman’s bosses. He does their bidding. It’s hard to imagine that he’s the sole architect of this epic bungling.

Commish Gary has to wear it, though, and it’s a terrible look.

Let’s talk about filthy rich men and their sports franchises…Jen & the 20somethings…Oliveira still the man in Rouge Football…put a sock in it, Matty…an old man screaming at clouds…and other things on my mind

Do those thousands of unoccupied chairs in the Little Hockey House On The Prairie mean it’s deja vu for the citizenry of Good Ol’ Hometown?

That is to say, are they watching their Winnipeg Jets in the early stages of exiting, Stage South? Again?

Naturally, the inclination is to say, “Naw. No way, José. This isn’t a Spring 1996 redux. Can’t happen.”

After all, one of the men bankrolling the National Hockey League franchise is the 3rd Baron Thomson of Fleet, whose family piggy bank is said to contain in excess of $53 billion American greenbacks, thus a few non-sellouts shouldn’t cause his knees to jerk and put the moving company on red alert.

So what’s with the doomsday rhetoric from some among the rabble?

Well, perhaps you had to be there in April 1996 to understand why more than a few folks suffer a bad case of the heebie-jeebies at the sight of all those empty chairs at 300 Portage Ave.

I mean, it’s one thing to hear scary campfire stories about the Day Of The Long Faces, when Jets 1.0 ceased being Jets 1.0 and swanned off to the Arizona desert, but it can be a haunting bit of business for those who lived through it and now see signs that they consider a warning siren.

The knowledge that the 3rd Baron’s bankroll is backing the Jets ought to provide comfort and chase away angst, but, let’s fact it, the thought of losing coin has caused more than one filthy rich man to pull up stakes and relocate his franchise. Like, when was the last time anyone saw the Dodgers playing baseball at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn? Try 1957, after which Walter O’Malley, a filthy rich guy, loaded the moving vans and went Hollywood, whereupon he made money the way Alfred Hitchock’s thrillers made movie-goers gasp.

O’Malley wasn’t the first filthy rich guy to pull up stakes, and he won’t be the last.

Question is, will the 3rd Baron and his partner, Puck Pontiff Mark Chipman, join that roll call?

“I know that the history is deeply ingrained,” the Puck Pontiff informed Martin Cash of the Winnipeg Free Press this past April, “but we are not going anywhere.”

That was then, scant days before another NHL crusade came to an expected crash-and-burn conclusion for the Jets, but, in the now, Chipman has stared at 9,818 empty chairs for his club’s initial three assignments at the Little Hockey House this month, including an eye-popping 4,099 for Game 2.

Average head count to date: 12,052. By way of comparison, Jets 1.0 attracted an average of 13,012 and 11,316 locals to the rickety Ol’ Barn On Maroons Road in their final two years before defecting to the desert, where the franchise has been a rolling tumbleweed ever since, first setting up shop in Phoenix then Glendale then Tempe and, eventually, I’m guessing Gary Bettman will purchase property in Casa Grande and the Coyotes will one day play in his back yard.

So, given that Chipman’s Jets are doing similar numbers to those that sent Jets 1.0 scurrying, it’s understandable that many among the rabble hear the moving vans cranking up.

But surely it’s a false fear, no? A few thousand empty chairs wouldn’t scare away two filthy rich men like the 3rd Baron and the Puck Pontiff, would they?

Alas, if there’s anything we know about the filthy rich it’s that they don’t like losing money, so even the 3rd Baron (estimated net worth: $53.9 billion) and Puck Pontiff (estimated net worth: $500-$700 million) must have a breaking point, and we can only guess what that magic number is.

What we do know is at least 54 franchise owners in the NHL, NFL, NBA and MLB have bailed on their towns since 1950, and we can assume most were/are filthy rich men or women.

One of them was the aforementioned Walter O’Malley. A New Yorker born and raised, he fought long and hard to keep the Dodgers in Flatbush, but political posturing and economics ruled the day and, despite his lifelong link to Gotham, he became the most despised man in Brooklyn by transplanting Da Bums in Los Angeles.

Similarly, Chipman is a born-and-raised Winnipegger and very few would doubt his passion for Good Ol’ Hometown. He knows all about Jets 1.0 and the final days before their soul-sucking escape to Arizona. He lived it. He was part of a group determined to prevent it. So, the likelihood of him abandoning Jets 2.0 is about the same as Premier Wab Kinew crossing the floor and joining the Tories in the Manitoba Legislature.

Look at it this way: Another filthy rich guy, Alex Meruelo, is making a go of it in the Arizona desert with the original NHL Jets, no matter how many towns tell him to take a hike. Given that his rink, Mullett Arena, accommodates less than 5,000 people and he spends huge coin on legal fees, his losses must be as vast as the Grand Canyon. Yet, he soldiers on. And, compared to the 3rd Baron, he’s a pauper with a net worth of $2 billion.

So don’t expect the 3rd Baron and the Puck Pontiff to tap out.

Interesting read from Paul Friesen of the Winnipeg Sun on Jets attendance. He received feedback from numerous locals, and the main reason people have abandoned the hockey club: They’re PO’d with Chipman and minions at True North Sports + Entertainment. Talk about the economy, the mediocrity of the team, the pandemic, and ticket/concession costs all you like, but nothing rots their socks like bad bedside manner.

My favorite remark re the Jets was discovered on X: “Why does local media do nothing to help promote ticket sales? They just sit up top and make shitty comments.” Incredible that many among the rabble actually believe news snoops are responsible for everything from hockey tickets to Jimmy Fallon’s lame jokes.

One of the soon-to-be-retired Christine Sinclair’s greatest achievements: She actually made male jock journos pay attention to women’s futbol every 3-4 years, during the Olympics and World Cup.

A tip of the bonnet to Jen and the 20somethings, who beat Kaitlyn Lawes, 7-4, this morning in the women’s final of the HearingLife Tour Challenge, the initial stop on this year’s Grand Slam of Curling tour. The W was No. 10 (first since 2017) on the GSOC for the 49-year-old Jennifer Jones, while accomplices Karlee Burgess, 25, Emily Zacharias, 22, and Lauren Lenentine, 23, each collected W No. 1. Well done, ladies.

Nothing changed in bidding for Most Outstanding Player in the Canadian Football League this weekend. Brady Oliveira and Zach Collaros of the Winnipeg Blue Bombers remain the front runners, so don’t listen to the ill-informed voices from east of the Manitoba-Ontario border who’ve been hoodwinked into believing Toronto Argos quarterback Chad Kelly is top dog. If you’re scoring at home, you’ll know that of the seven QBs who’ve tossed the ball at least 300 times, Kelly is 3rd in passing yards, 5th in completions, 3rd in TD tosses, T3rd in fewest interceptions thrown, 4th in completion percentage, and 2nd in QB efficiency. Sorry, but that isn’t an MOP resume, and I’ll assume that voters beyond the Republic of Tranna know it. Oh, Kelly will get the East Division nod, but he’ll have to settle for runnerup to whichever player receives the Winnipeg vote, Oliveira or Collaros. It should be the running back Oliveira.

Young Taylor Allen of the Winnipeg Free Press asked five Winnipeg FC legends—Doug Brown, Paul Robson, Paul Bennett, Willard Reaves, Chris Walby—to name their choice as MOP among the Bombers, and four named Oliveira. Walby was the lone outrider who picked Collaros.

Speaking of the Drab Slab, is it just me, or does anyone else remember a time when they had a sports columnist? They’ve got two hockey beat guys and two football beat guys, but no one is writing a daily column. A sports section without opinion is a pub without pints. A church without prayer. Magnum, P.I. without a mustache.

For the love of all that is sacred in Rouge Football, will someone at TSN please tell Matt Dunigan to put a sock in it when the head official is on his live mic? I don’t need Matty babbling about someone “movin’ the chains” or “gettin’ ‘er done” when the main zebra is explaining penalties, rules and why a coach tossed a challenge flag. I realize Dunigan likes the sound of his own voice (I like him, too), but what part of silence does TSN not understand?

What’s the over/under on how long it takes the Saskatchewan Flatlanders to excuse head coach Craig Dickenson? Three days sounds about right, only because it’ll take that long for all the board members to come in from the fields.

Some of us wondered which NHL player would be first to defy the ban on Pride tape, and it’s Travis Dermott, who wrapped a tiny portion of his hockey stick in rainbow colors on Saturday. So what will the NHL’s unsmiling Pride Police do to punish the Arizona Coyotes defender? Send him to bed without dinner? No dessert until he eats all his veggies? Sure that sounds stupid, but so is the Pride tape ban, which surely is the silliest and dumbest directive in NHL history. All because the grand sum of seven (seven!) out of 700-plus players declined to wear Pride warm-up jerseys in support of the LGBT(etc.) community last season. Lame.

Got a kick out of something Paul Maurice said during the Florida Panthers’ recent whistlestop in Good Ol’ Hometown: “This is a special place, Winnipeg is,” the Panthers coach told the Drab Slab. “It’s not like any other market in the league. It’s a small-market that lost their team. And the people that come here fall in love with the place.” Just wondering: By falling in love with the Peg, did he mean guys like Pierre-Luc Dubois, Patrik Laine, Jacob Trouba, Evander Kane, Jack Roslovic, Kristian Vesalainen, Sami Niku? Also, how many of the Jets live in Good Ol’ Hometown year-round?

Rumor has it that Colorado Avalanche defender Cale Makar broke one of Bobby Orr’s records last week, and apparently it’s true. The brilliant Makar recorded his 250th NHL point in his 241st game, six fewer assignments than No. 4 Bobby Orr. I didn’t know that was allowed.

Apparently I missed the memo, but Dani Rylan Kearney, founder and one-time commissioner of the defunt National Women’s Hockey League/Premier Hockey Federation, is now a pro scout with the Edmonton Oilers.

Here’s something most of us probably missed: Mariah Fujimagari became the first female goaltender to win a game in the ECHL last Saturday. In the blue paint for the Kalamazoo Wings vs. Toledo Walleye, Mariah made 14 saves in the third period and OT, which made her the ‘keeper of record in a 4-3 win. Alas, the Wings released her the next day.

My favorite comment this NHL season comes from Jack Todd, columnist with the Montreal Gazette: “There are, of course, real fans in Toronto. Millions of them. They’re the ones who fill my email and Twitter feed with notes insisting that Ryan Reaves can actually play hockey, if you just pause the game and give him a chance to catch up before Arber Xhekaj knocks him into the last millennium.” I laughed out loud.

In the Department of Old Man Screams at Clouds, Steve Simmons of Postmedia Tranna had this to say about flag football becoming an official Olympic event: “This is silly: Flag football has been added, among other sports, to the Los Angeles Summer Olympics. Putting baseball and softball back in the Games made sense. They never should have left. But flag football? Really?” Wonder what he’ll say if Patrick Mahomes and Travis Kelse were to show up to fling it and catch it for Uncle Sam at the 2028 Games in Los Angeles. Simmons probably still wouldn’t like it, but Taylor Swift would give it a thumbs up.

Golf surely is a game for all ages. Just look at the finalists for Golf Manitoba’s female and male amateur player-of-the-year honor: Rhonda Orr, 62, Cala Korman, 18, Addison Kartusch, 17, Jeri Lafleche, 16, Jay Doyle 56, Todd Fanning, 55, Marco Trstenjak 23, Braxton Kuntz 19. Fanning first won the award in 1984.

Oinker of the week award goes to former major leaguer Aubrey Huff, who had this to say about the San Francisco Giants interviewing Alyssa Nakken for the manager job: “To me, I believe a woman…if she’s got dreams and goals, go for it, fine. But in my opinion, there’s nothing but bad things could happen as a woman in a Major League Baseball clubhouse with a bunch of men. Men aren’t hardwired to take orders from a woman. We’re just not. Especially when a woman has never played Major League Baseball with 97 miles per hour coming in at ‘em. How is she gonna gain respect? What about the ’believe all women #MeToo movement’? God forbid she slaps some guy’s ass by accident. Who knows? All kinds of things could go wrong. Nothing good could happen.” Sigh.

And, finally, Wab Kinew becoming the first First Nations premier of a Canadian province made me proud to call myself a Manitoban.

The NHL won’t let me love hockey anymore

Once upon a long time ago, I loved skating and hockey.

I took my first tentative stride on a frozen pond at age six or seven and, scant seconds later, I went splat! and suffered my first bloodied, swollen lip. It was the size of a Michelin tire.

I quickly became a serial stumbler on skates. Compared to me, Bambi was Sonja Henie.

It was as if my mission in life was to serve as a crash-test dummy and confirm the unforgiving firmness of ice.

My wobbly ways led to elbows and knees bruised like rotting bananas, and I soon concluded that falling with such regularity was something I didn’t enjoy. I wanted no part of it. Piano lessons seemed the better bet. They were, after all, conducted in the warmth and coziness of our living room, and not once had my upper lip hit the keyboard and bloated up like my Uncle Jim’s tummy after an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Alas, some wise acre thought it would be a swell idea to sign me up to play hockey. That’s right, it wasn’t enough that I fell on my own; now the other kids would be allowed to knock me down. Deliberately. Without retribution.

Except I was such a dreadful skater that they stuck me in goal, only to discover that I couldn’t stop a puck either, so I spent the rest of my first hockey winter watching from a board-side snow bank.

My second year of Little NHL was no less a disaster. I was recognized league wide as the worst player, and scored my only goal of the season in the final game. It took no amount of skill, other than standing on my wonky ankles at the lip of the crease and shoveling the puck two feet into an empty net.

I harbored zero fondness for hockey. It was a curse.

Then an odd thing occurred in my third winter of hockey. As if by magic, my legs and feet worked in concert. I could skate. Fast. I went from one goal to 50-plus and became the Little NHL scoring champion. Our league all-star team won the Pee Wee title against neighboring communities.

Best of all, many of the kids who once teased and taunted me for being so small, frail and, to use their term, a sissy now wanted to buddy-up.

I loved hockey.

Hockey became my joy, the rink my safe place. My escape from demons. I would go to the outdoor freeze after dinner each night to skate and play shinny in the worst weather, and all concerns vanished. Nothing mattered, not the inevitable scolding I’d receive for my so-so report card, not the back of my dad’s hand, not being grounded for an imagined violation, not gender confusion. It was just skating and hockey and a fantasy-like state of existence for a few hours.

It stayed that way throughout my youth, then fate took a very favorable turn and I was hired to write sports for a newspaper, fresh out of high school.

It was a dream job that I lived for 30 years. I covered everything from Pee Wee to the National Hockey League for five different dailies, and sat on press row in story-studded citadels like Madison Square Garden, the Montreal Forum and Maple Leaf Gardens. I enjoyed natters with giants of the game—Wayne Gretzky, Gordie Howe, Vladislav Tretiak—and walked among the fabulous—Jean Beliveau—and the felonious—Humpty Harold Ballard and Alan Eagleson.

I was there when Gretzky made his professional debut in Indianapolis, I was there when the Winnipeg Jets won the final Avco World Trophy, and I was there when the Edmonton Oilers took ownership of the Stanley Cup for the first time.

I loved hockey. Then.

Now?

Gary Bettman won’t allow me to love hockey anymore.

The NHL commissioner, you see, continues to trumpet the “Hockey Is For Everyone” mantra, but we know his pants are on fire. It’s his “Don’t Say Gay” league’s Trademark Big Lie, which some of us have been emphasizing since 2018, and many among the rabble and media are just now wising up to that reality.

They started to clue in when Bettman and team bankrolls put the kibosh on players wearing specialty theme jerseys in support of various causes/groups in pregame warmup, a directive that even the most naive should have seen as an anti-gay attack. If doubt remained, the NHL’s Rainbow Resistance Movement arrived at its predictable end-game this week with an idiotic ban on Pride tape.

That is, NHL players no longer will be permitted to wrap their hockey sticks with Pride rainbow tape anywhere on earth, except perhaps in a game of road hockey with the neighborhood kids. But, even at that, they’ll likely have to do it under the cloak of darkness, for fear mysterious men in black might approach and confiscate their sticks and sponge puck.

And that’s the tipping point for me, because it’s just stupid.

Bettman/owners have totally caved to seven Bible-thumpers and/or Putin Puppets who refused to wear Pride colors last season.

Look, I spent enough time in men’s hockey to know toxins have always existed—misogyny, racism, bigotry, homophobia, transphobia, bullying—and they seem more prevalent today, undoubtedly due to the shifting of people’s sensibilities. (Ask the disgraced Mike Babcock or Kevin Constantine about that.) But you can’t light a room by placing a basket over the candle, and you don’t eradicate homophobia by being homophobic.

So this is truly a sad moment in time. The NHL, so full of toxins, has become the toxin.

I’d remind Bettman that his NHL and the NHL Players Association issued a Declaration of Principles in September 2017, the last of which read: “We believe all hockey programs should provide a safe, positive and inclusive environment for players and families regardless of race, color, religion, national origin, gender, age, disability, sexual orientation, and socio-economic status. Simply put, hockey is for everyone.”

I sorry, boys, but I don’t want to hear about hockey being ‘for everyone’ when the NHL remains the least diverse of all major men’s sports leagues in North America, and it refuses to permit its on-ice employees to support a marginalized group for 15 minutes once a year.

There’s nothing to love in that.

Two Hens In The Hockey House: It’s down the Wheeler rabbit hole with Scheifele and Hellebuyck

Another National Hockey League marathon is upon us and the Winnipeg Jets spiced up the mood before they even dropped the puck, signing Mark Scheifele and Connor Hellebuyck to seven-year contract extensions. And who better to break it all down than our all-knowing Two Hens In The Hockey House? Take it away, ladies…

Question Lady: “Well, girlfriend, most of us thought the Jets would be dealing with an elephant in the room—make that two elephants in the room—from the opening faceoff until the trade deadline next March, so Puck Pontiff Mark Chipman and GM Kevin Cheveldayoff fooled a lot of people when they convinced Scheifele and Hellebuyck to scratch their signatures on contracts that keep them in Good Ol’ Hometown for the duration. What’s your take on the deals?”

Answer Lady: “That the Puck Pontiff and Chevy didn’t learn a damn thing from their Blake Wheeler experience.”

Question Lady: “You don’t like what the Jets are selling?”

Answer Lady: “It’s Blake Wheeler all over again. They hitched their wagon to Wheels in 2018 by giving him a five-year extension. At age 32! That was their Stanley Cup window. And how did it work out? His numbers dwindled, the team imploded, the ‘C’ was stripped from his jersey, and they had to buy their way out of his unmovable contract. Now they’ve gone down that same rabbit hole with Scheifele and Hellebuyck. I mean, seven-year extensions for two 30-year-olds? Do the math. It isn’t going to end well.”

Question Lady: “You’re probably right about that, but isn’t this a clear indication that the Jets are in win-now mode?”

Answer Lady: “Win what now? Have you taken a look at their roster? Does that make you want to book a day off work for a Stanley Cup parade? The Jets are no better today than they were before Scheifele and Hellebuyck took a long swig of the Kool-Aid and signed those extensions. It’s essentially the same outfit that crashed and burned in the back half of last season, then surrendered quite meekly vs. Vegas in the playoffs, then bitched a blue streak about head coach Rick Bowness. Have you forgotten that stuff?”

Question Lady: “Not at all, but I don’t think we should look at it like the Jets are opening an eight-year Scheifele/Hellebuyck window. Shouldn’t the focus be on the present, since both those guys are in their prime now? Scheifele is coming off a career high in goals, 42.”

Answer Lady: “Ya, and there’s also a rumor that he actually skated into the defensive end of the ice once or twice last season, although there’s no video evidence to support it. But your point is well taken. Forty-two goals is 42 goals is 42 goals. Just a reminder, though, that it was also the first time since 2016 that the Rink Rat failed to deliver a point a game. It was his lowest points-per-game average (0.84) since 2015. So the question is: Was that the first hint of his inevitable 30something decline?”

Question Lady: “Are you writing him off? Are you saying he’s already reached his best-before date?”

Answer Lady: “Not at all. No doubt Scheifele still has plenty of good tread on the tires, but I direct your attention to Wheeler once again. After his extension kicked in, his production went into a tailspin, from 91 points to a low of 55 in an 82-game crusade. As the age goes north, the numbers go south unless you’re a freak, and I’ve never thought of Scheifele as freakish. He’s a Rink Rat, but not a freak. Look, I said the Wheeler contract was stupid at the time because of the term, and I’m saying the same about the Scheifele and Hellebuyck deals. The term is stupid. It makes no sense.”

Question Lady: “The money’s okay, though?”

Answer Lady: “Well, $8.5 million per year is a lot of coin, but it seems to be the going rate in today’s market. I’m not sure what the Jets will be getting for their $8.5 mill in 2031, but I’m guessing they’ll be paying one or both of them to not play before then. Which is why the term is as dumb as the Wheeler contract. Maybe dumber.

“It boggles the mind that the Puck Pontiff and Chevy would make the same blunder again. But I can’t say I’m surprised. I recall what Chevy said at the trade deadline last March: ‘If you look at all the different components as to why you think you should be able to compete for a Stanley Cup, I think we’ve got it.’ At the time, I thought he actually believed his own bluster. But if that were true, why did he and the Puck Pontiff unload Wheeler? Why does Pierre-Luc Dubois now have a Hollywood zip code? If the pieces were already in place, why change the pieces? Because Chevy didn’t believe it then, and he doesn’t believe it now. He believes in mediocrity, of sneaking into the playoffs. Ditto the Puck Pontiff.”

Question Lady: “So you think there should have been a bigger overhaul?”

Answer Lady: “Absolutely. This core has run its course. We’ll never know what the return would have been in barter for Scheifele and/or Hellebuyck, but we do know that hope has been put on hold because ownership/management sees something that isn’t there.”

Question Lady: “What do you see this season?”

Answer Lady: “A bubble team. But, hey, maybe they’ll finally end a crusade without bitching at, and about, each other and the coach. I suppose that would indicate progress.”

Question Lady: “What do you say we have a natter again at the Christmas break?”

Answer Lady: “That works for me, girlfriend. I’m good as long as it doesn’t interfere with Black Friday next month.”

Let’s talk about dog man Brady Oliveira as top dog in Rouge Football…why wasn’t the Drab Slab in Vancouver?…Bo-boosters at TSN…so long George Reed and Dick Butkus…Steamer runs out of steam…a street-level serenade…and other things on my mind

Brady Oliveira

You know that discussion about the Most Outstanding Player in Rouge Football? Is it Vernon Adams or Zach Collaros?

Well, fuhgeddaboudit.

I mean, after what transpired at B.C. Place on Friday night, there’s as much chance of Adams being anointed MOP as Trudeau the Younger has of sweeping Alberta in the next federal election.

Adams, you see, pulled a Jimmy Hoffa. Yup, disappeared. When it mattered most.

Oh, sure, B.C. Leos head coach Rick Campbell had a dude out there playing quarterback in the back half of their all-in skirmish vs. Winnipeg Blue Bombers, and the guy was even wearing Adams’ work clothing. But he didn’t fool any of the 23,512 witnesses. What they saw was a body double, not the QB who had been leaping tall buildings in staking the Leos to a 20-10 lead by recess. This second-half charlatan couldn’t run, couldn’t pass, probably couldn’t beat team bankroll Amar Doman in a foot race.

The consequences of the Adams vanishing act were dire: Bombers rallied to win 34-26 in OT, they jumped past the Leos to the top of the West Division table with a 12-4 record, and now the road to the Grey Cup game almost certainly will run through the south side of Winnipeg in mid-November, when the wardrobe du jour is apt to be a parka and mukluks.

The Leos had no business losing that game, and it was a “what could have been” moment for the Orange-and-Black, still trying to win friends and influence people out here on the Other Side Of The Rocks. Hosting the West final could have been a game-changer for the franchise and the on-field product. Including, of course, Adams.

I’m guessing the BC QB doesn’t place much stock on personal achievement and trinkets, but there’s no way he can be the MOP after coughing up that hairball the size of Grouse Mountain on Friday (seriously, 35 second-half passing yards until the final play of regulation time?).

So who’s left?

Well, don’t run off with the notion that Collaros is a shoo-in for the Canadian Football League’s highest hosanna for a third successive crusade, because nothing the Bombers QB has done this year takes my breath away, and his interception and two lost fumbles in the red zone Friday night didn’t beef up his case.

As I scribbled last week, the people who decide these things need to give a thought to one of the other guys in the blue-and-gold livery of Winnipeg FC—Brady Oliveira.

I have the Bombers running back down as the clubhouse leader, but I don’t get an MOP vote. That’s the province of news snoops and Oliveira’s head coach, Mike O’Shea, and the football reporters in Good Ol’ Hometown don’t always see it my way. Fact is, across the nation people with notepads and recording devices are fixated on those who fling the football, to the point of it being a fetish. Which would explain how only six non-QBs this century have joined the Official Order of the MOP.

Oliveira, however, surely has provided them something to ponder this time around, churning up more terrain than a prairie farmer at seeding time—1,426 yards running the ball, 465 after hauling in Collaros passes. I swear, there’s enough ground between Oliveira and the next leading rusher to start a new country. He’s good for six yards every time Collaros sticks the football in his ribs and 10.1 per pass, and he’s finished seven games with 100-plus yards.

Unless O’Shea sits him down in one of Winnipeg FC’s final two skirmishes, Oliveira will finish this crusade with 1,600-plus rushing yards, and that’s Jon Cornish country. It doesn’t get much more high and mighty than that, because Cornish set the standard for Canadian-born ball carriers in 2013, with 1,813 yards, and he’s the only homebrew to reach the 1,600 level.

What’s more, Oliveira is a product of the sandlots of Winnipeg and he rescues dogs when he isn’t terrorizing CFL defenders.

Don’t you think it’s fitting that a guy who rescues dogs is top dog?

Someone at TSN needs to clue in Paul LaPolice and Matt Dunigan. I mean, they’ve been involved in Rouge Football long enough to know there’s no MVP award for the regular season. It’s the Most Outstanding Player. Say it together with me, boys: M-O-P. Get with the program.

This is interesting: The Bombers-Leos skirmish was the game of the year in Rouge Football and neither Winnipeg paper had feet on the ground on the Left Coast. The Winnipeg Sun was absent because Postmedia keeps their three scribes chained to a radiator in a dark corner of the newsroom, so they’re excused. What about the Drab Slab, though? Well, let’s first recall what their beat guys had to say in the leadup to the match…

Jeff Hamilton: “The Winnipeg Blue Bombers have played some meaningful games this season, but none have meant more to their bid to recapture the Grey Cup than what’s in store at BC Place Friday night. It really can’t be overstated the importance of winning this game and no one knows that better than the Bombers.”

Taylor Allen: “This is not an exaggeration. Friday’s road tilt at BC Place is the most important regular season game the Winnipeg Blue Bombers have had in years.”

Yup, so meaningful and important that the decision-makers who count beans at 1355 Mountain Ave. chose to save the coin and have the boys cover the game off TV and radio, due to the two-hour time difference.

Keep that in mind the next time sports editor Jason Bell or one of his scribes thumps his chest about the Drab Slab being the only rag in Good Ol’ Hometown that covers all Winnipeg Jets and Bombers games home and away.

The natterbugs on the CFL on TSN panel did some serious gushing over Bo Levi Mitchell after he played just one quarter and hurled six passes in Hamilton Tabbies 38-13 decision over the Saskatchewan Flatlanders on Saturday. Milt Stegal said Bo Levi hasn’t looked that good “since 2018” and Jim Barker mentioned something about Bo’s performance “gave the people, most importantly his teammates, his coaches that belief that I’m gonna take you guys, we’re going to the promised land.” Let me just say this about that: Bo Levi is broken. Six passes doesn’t change that.

The Toronto Argos celebrated their 150th birthday the other night, and 14,246 attended the bash at BMO Field in the Republic of Tranna. Do you think they’ll get 15,000 for their 250th?

This from Steve Simmons of Postmedia Toronto: “Don’t remember a defensive Canadian player in the CFL more dominant than Mathieu Betts of the B. C. Lions. He could win top Canadian and top defensive player in the league and possibly be nominated as Most Outstanding Player by the Lions. The kid from Laval has been that great.”

Someone should introduce Simmons to Google. That way he could look up Brent Johnson and discover that the Kingston, Ont., native was a terror on the Leos D-Line for 11 seasons, most notably in 2005 and ’06 when he led Rouge Football in sacks with 17 and 16, respectively. He was Most Outstanding Canadian in both crusades, and Most Outstanding Defensive player in ’06.

This is what Bombers legendary D-man Doug Brown once said of Johnson: “Brent had to establish himself first, at a traditionally American position. He was a pioneer in that respect. Coaches didn’t necessarily think Canadians were on a par with Americans. With the work he did and the accolades he received, Brent changed that. He’s the gold standard for Canadian defensive linemen.”

I guess Simmons didn’t get West Coast games back then.

I remember the day I met George Reed. Like a lot of former jocks of yore, he had turned to selling suds in his after-football life, working as a Molson’s rep, and I was the sports columnist at the Calgary Sun, known to sample his employer’s product on occasion. We were at a function one day in the early 1980s and radio guy Billy Powers introduced us. “I just saw your face on one of those Sun ads on the side of a bus,” Reed said. “Man, you are uuuuuu-gly.” This is not something you expect to hear when meeting the greatest running back in Rouge Football history. “Ya,” I shot back, “and Willie Fleming was a better running back than you.” Reed, who died at age 84 less a day last week, laughed. He was a good guy and football deity on the Flattest Of Lands.

Also leaving the building was Dick Butkus, who didn’t just play middle linebacker. He looked like a middle linebacker is supposed to look. Angry, mean and gnarled. He even had a middle linebacker name. Butkus. No name said middle linebacker like Butkus, except maybe Ray Nitschke. He could never have been a Cardinal or a Dolphin. He had to be a Bear and play in the muck and the guck and the spit of Chicago’s Soldier Field. There are former NFL quarterbacks who likely still flinch at the mention of his name. But they can stand easy, because Butkus is gone now, dead at age 80, and it can be accurately stated that they don’t make ’em like that anymore. He was a football player to behold.

Who do you think would come out worse in a head-on collision between Butkus and Reed? Probably anyone who had the misfortune to be caught in the middle.

Every time Clayton Kershaw implodes in the playoffs, like he did in the Los Angeles Dodgers division series opener vs. Arizona Diamondbacks on Saturday night, it occurs to me that some among the rabble believe he’s a better pitcher than Sandy Koufax, no matter how often Kershaw proves them wrong. Kershaw is 13-13 with a 4.49 earned-run average in post-season pitching. Koufax was 4-3, 0.95 ERA and two World Series MVP awards. So stop it already.

Here’s how the great scribe Bill Plaschke of the Los Angeles Times described Kershaw’s disastrous outing Saturday: “It was the worst start of Kershaw’s career. It was the worst start in Dodgers postseason history. According to ESPN Stats & Info, it could have been the worst start in baseball postseason history, as he was the first pitcher to give up five runs on five hits without getting an out. There has been much speculation about when Kershaw would throw his last pitch as a Dodger. If the Dodgers don’t win one of the next two games, you might have just seen it. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.” Sad.

There’s been a shifting of the landscape out here on the Left Coast, and it wasn’t an earthquake, although I suppose it is in a sense. Vancouver Canucks employee extraordinaire Stan Smyl, you see, has vacated the hockey ops department to become a franchise ambassador, which is to say he’ll be slapping backs, glad-handing, cutting ribbons and making people smile. Steamer has been a player, coach, manager and go-to guy for sound bites for the past 45 years, and I remember him from my days covering the Western Hockey League and Punch McLean would bring Steamer and his New Westminster Bruins to the Ol’ Barn On Maroons Road. There was usually a raising of hell. I chatted with Stan on numerous occasions during Stanley Cup playoffs, and he always provided straight-up, honest answers, win or lose. A good guy.

Well, Puck Pontiff Mark Chipman surfaced not so long ago for a natter with Pierre LeBrun of The Athletic and, among other things, the Winnipeg Jets bankroll confirmed the club is in win-now mode. “We’re trying to win,” he told LeBrun. “This has been a long build for us and we think we’ve got a good team, a good core of guys that really like each other. The vibe, and the message I keep getting, is that these guys want to win. That’s encouraging because that’s what this has always been about.” Always been about winning, eh? Then perhaps the Puck Pontiff can explain giving up on seven first-round draft choices. And the one they should give up on, Logan Stanley, they won’t give up on. It hasn’t been about win-now in Winnipeg since 2019.

Can TSN be serious? Connor Bedard is No. 48 on its top 50 NHL player list? And he’s yet to play a game for keeps? That’s just stupid.

I don’t watch exhibition hockey, so I must ask: Is it true that Nick Kypreos is on the Sportsnet intermission panel? If so, let me guess: He’s been promoting cement head hockey. Thought so.

I’m no longer in the crystal ball biz, but let me make these two predictions for the NHL season: The Winnipeg Jets will earn a wild-card playoff berth. The Canucks will not.

You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t understand the new Hockey Canada changing room policy. The way I read it, all players must wear at least one layer of clothing. At all times. Just wondering: This will eliminate masculine toxicity from the game how? It will make the game more inclusive and safer for gay and racialized kids how? It won’t. It will, however, send some kids home stinking like a pair of rental bowling shoes, because they won’t change out of their game undergarments. Who comes up with this daft stuff?

And, finally, it’s 7:05 in the morning as I type these words and, on the street beneath my eighth-floor apartment, a leather-lunged man is singing O Canada. His audience at street level is zero, but he sounds happy. So happy Thanksgiving.

Let’s talk about no love for the B.C. Leos…Dinwiddie done wrong…Rouge Football doesn’t need Kaepernick…Grey Cup day is a Green Day…keep Suitor away from Carrie…cheers & jeers…the Human Hoover…a riled-up Rory…and other things on my mind

There’s something I don’t understand.

Well, okay, there’s plenty I don’t understand. Like the Taylor Swift phenomenon. I couldn’t name one of her songs, so why should I care if Travis Kelce is taking her to the prom?

But that’s not what this is about.

I’m here to discuss Rouge Football and, specifically, the B.C. Leos.

During the past week, you see, I kept reading and hearing that the Toronto Argos-Winnipeg Blue Bombers skirmish at the Ballyard in Fort Garry on Friday night was a “battle of the best” featuring “the top two teams” in the Canadian Football League.

Never mind that Argos head coach Ryan Dinwiddie chose to keep his starting quarterback, Chad Kelly, out of harm’s way and allow neophytes Cameron Dukes and third-stringer Bryan Scott to collect bumps and bruises in his stead. And, hey, he also instructed QB-menacing defenders Shawn Oakman, Wynton McManis and Jamal Peters to find something better to do than chase Bombers quarterback Zach Collaros around a football field.

Didn’t matter. If the pundits were saying the Boatmen and Bombers were the “top two teams” it must be true, right?

Except for this: What part of the Leos 10-4 record did they not understand?

That 10-4 log was upgraded to 11-4 on the merits of a 33-26 victory over the Saskatchewan Flatlanders on Friday night at B.C. Place, and it leaves the Leos precisely where they were in advance of the Argos-Bombers “top two” joust—in lockstep with Winnipeg FC atop the West Division table.

So why no love for the Leos?

Is it because they’re tucked away out here on the Other Side Of The Rocks and 11-4 on the laid-back shores of the Pacific Ocean isn’t as noticeable as 11-4 on prairie farmland?

Look, they’ve met twice, both skirmishes in Winnipeg, and they split. The Leos opened with a 30-6 W, and the Bombers handed the Leos a 50-points burger in the rematch. Both starting QBs, Vernon Adams and Collaros, are in the Most Outstanding Player Award discussion. Adams has flung the football for more yards and Collaros has two more TD tosses. Brady Oliveira gives the Bombers a superior ground game. B.C. has two 1,000-yard pass-catchers, the Bombers one. B.C. sack master Mathieu Betts has been hunting down QBs the way Matt Dillon chased bad guys on Gunsmoke, with a league-leading 15 notches on his belt. As a group, B.C.’s defensive dozen has caught its QB quarry 48 times, Winnipeg 40. On special teams, the numbers tell us B.C. is better at kick returns, field goals and punting.

So why are the Leos an afterthought?

Seems to me that this orange-and-black-clad B.C. outfit should be shouting “What about us?” because it appears the Leos are every ounce the equal of the large lads in blue-and-gold livery.

We’ll know for certain next Friday when the two sides collide in their rubber match, only this time the Leos will have the benefit of home-cooked meals and (hopefully) about 30,000 of their friends to cheer and chow down at B.C. Place Stadium.

They’re billing it as the inaugural Gravy Bowl, a freshly minted Thanksgiving tradition that includes turkey din-din (hand-carved gobbler, mashed taters, stuffing, cranberries, pumpkin pie), the Washington Huskies marching band and, of course, each team’s star players will be present and accounted for when roll call is taken. Which is to say neither head coach will do a Dinwiddie. It will be the true marquee match of this CFL crusade.

The pundits might not see it that way, but what do they know? I mean, talk about turkeys.

Let’s be clear: Dinwiddie had every right to jerk around with his starting 24 on Friday. Hell, he could have put Taylor Swift behind centre (if she wasn’t too busy pitching woo with Travis Kelce) vs. the Bombers, and the impact on the pecking order in the eastern precinct of Rouge Football would have been zero. Same applies for the final four skirmishes of their schedule. The Boatmen are in the catbird seat, with a gap the size of Deion Sanders’ ego between them and also-rans in Montreal, Hamilton and Ottawa. So, sure, give Kelly a bit of down time. Ditto Oakman, McManis and Peters. But having the right to do it doesn’t mean it was the right thing to do in the grand scheme of things. I mean, I’ve yet to hear anyone call it load management, but I guarantee you that it was a load of something or other. There were 32,343 souls sitting in the blue chairs at the Ballyard In Fort Garry, and I’m guessing a few thousand were there to gawk at Kelly and the Argos varsity squad, not the JV. So the Argos cheated paying customers on the south side of Winnipeg, and those of us with eyes glued to our flatscreens. They also cheated the Leos by sending a substandard troupe to River City with western bragging rights at stake. And they cheated the league.

Interesting, also contrasting, commentary from Winnipeg Sun scribes Paul Friesen and Ted Wyman in advance of Friday’s skirmish in Pegtown. Wyman described it as “the travesty that is the matchup between the Winnipeg Blue Bombers and Toronto Argonauts.” Freezer was having none of that. “Geez, the way the headlines read and the bloggers blog, you’d think the Winnipeg Blue Bombers are hosting a rag-tag, semi-pro outfit sponsored by Jimmy’s Meats somewhere in One Horse Town, Ontario,” he wrote. Any pooh-poohing of the game was “nonsense” and “horsecrap.” Headline writers and bloggers are “blowhards,” and “blaming the Argos for resting their breakout quarterback makes as much sense as blaming the ball boy for the knee injury that put (Andrew) Harris on the shelf.” Hoo boy. Freezer was on a roll. Love it. Except for this: It was Dinwiddie’s call (perhaps with input from GM Pinball Clemons but not the ball boy). Who else should we point an accusing finger at?

I’m not so sure that Collaros is the best choice as Most Oustanding Player among the Bombers. Seems to me that running back Brady Oliveira should get the nod, especially if he tops Rouge Football in real estate covered.

Oh dear. The Leos have added Colin Kaepernick to their negotiation list. Ya, that’s just what the CFL needs: A 35-year-old QB who hasn’t taken a snap in seven years, has never played on a field the size of Texas, and throws from a kneeling position. Kaepernick has to be a hard pass and I’m guessing the Leos know it.

Just wondering: Does Kaepernick have anything against our cops and would he take a knee during O Canada?

Rouge Football gets Green Day for the Grey Cup halftime show on Nov. 19. The Super Bowl gets Usher. We win.

Green Day is in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Why isn’t the Guess Who?

Carrie Underwood will be performing during Grey Cup week in The Hammer, so please, please, please TSN, do not invite the country diva into the broadcast booth for a natter with Glen Suitor. Based on his teeny-bopper, groupie gushing over Keith Urban a few years back, I fear Carrie would get swept away in his slobber and the Grand Ole Opry will be obliged to send out a search-and-rescue team to locate her.

Cheers & Jeers: Big cheers to Jessica Campbell and Kori Cheveri, first female coaches to work an NHL bench. Jessica, an assistant with the Coachella Firebirds of the AHL, was behind the Seattle Kraken pine in exhibition play last week, while Cheverie was part of the Pittsburgh Penguins cluster of coaches…Cheers to Roberto Luongo, who’s going into the Vancouver Canucks Ring of Honour in December. And you know you’re getting very long in tooth when guys you covered in teenage hockey are being enshined. I remember scribbling a piece about Bobby Lu at the World Junior championship tournament in Winnipeg in 1999…Loud jeers to Curt Schilling, who disclosed that former Boston Red Sox teammate Tim Wakefield and his bride Stacy are battling cancer. He didn’t have their permission to release that very personal info…Cheers to Canada’s national women’s footy team, which qualified for the 2024 Summer Olympic Games in Paris. One final hurrah for Christine Sinclair, assuming she makes Bev Priestman’s final roster cut…Jeers to Major League Baseball teams that celebrate winning a wild card playoff spot with champagne showers. That’s just stupid…Cheers to TSN’s curling natterbugs Vic Rauter, Cathy Gauthier and Russ Howard. Their voices are the definitive sign that the hurry-hard season is upon us, and they’ve been doing a lot of gum-flapping about Manitoba outfits at the PointsBet Invitational. Three of the four finalists feature ‘Toba teams…Jeers to caddy Joe LaCava, who inserted himself into the Ryder Cup with some very bad manners on the 18th green Saturday.

Is it just me, or does anyone else think Rory McIlroy might have anger issues? I mean, I really like the guy and I don’t blame him for being PO’d at LaCava, but he’s seized the title of Mr. Grumpy Golfer from Phil Mickelson ever since the LIV tour became a thing, and it isn’t a good look. Chill, Rory.

Organizers of next year’s Summer Games held a job fair the other day in Saint-Denis, France, looking for 16,000 temp workers. Included among the needs are 3,000 people with brooms and dust pans to clean up the mess, which is to say all the syringes Russian athletes leave behind.

Thinking of attending the Montana’s Brier in Regina, March 1-10? Here’s the cost:
Preliminary-round single-draw tickets (youth $9.99; adults $24-$57.50)
Full Event Package ($486-$522) 
Championship Weekend Package ($234-$252)
Opening Weekend Package ($120-$138) 
Weekday Packages ($69-$75) 

The Human Hoover, Brooks Robinson, died at age 86 last week, and it’s not common knowledge that Vancouver was his final minor league stop before landing a permanent gig on the hot corner with the Baltimore Orioles in The Show. The man who became the standard by which all Major League Baseball third sackers were measured played 42 games with the Vancouver Mounties in 1959, hitting .331 with six dingers and 20 RBI. In his 1974 book Third Base Is My Home, Brooks described the flight to our West Coast as “the lowest point” of his career. But…“In retrospect that brief tour at Vancouver is one of the bright spots of my baseball career.”

I’ve been root, root, rooting for the Dodgers since I was knee high to Pee Wee Reese, so you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t get all geeked up about the Toronto Blue Jays securing a spot in the American League playoffs. Frankly, Scarlett, I don’t give a damn about the Blue Jays.

Further evidence that Postmedia has converted the Winnipeg Sun into the Torontopeg Sun is the headline on today’s sports front: “WE’RE IN!” Just wondering: When did the Blue Jays become a Winnipeg team?

And, finally, the best trade this year (maybe any year) was on The Voice: Blake Shelton out, Reba McEntire in. That’s a serious upgrade in talent, and Reba’s humor is genuine, not hayseed hokum. She makes me laugh, and giggles are always a good thing.