Let’s talk about Pinball’s pitiful prattle…Turtle Man’s frolic with Blue Bombers freshmen…the final adios for Bones…the return of Coach Q?…and so long to Smiles, a fun and funny guy

Smiles

In a nutshell, this is what went down in the Canadian Football League during the past week:

Commissioner Randy Ambrosie and the Lords of Rouge Football told Chad Kelly to go stand in the corner for being an oinker, and the Toronto Argos told Commish Randy and the Lords to go to hell.

Well, okay, Michael Clemons likely didn’t use those exact words, because Pinball is the gosh-darndest, cute-as-a-buttonest guy in the game. You just want to pinch his cheeks. So, no, he wouldn’t say crap if his mouth was full of pigeon droppings. At least not for public consumption. That’s not his style. The man who generally manages the Argos is a charmer who wins you over with childlike enthusiasm and a smile that could make the dark side of the moon light up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

Except much, if not all, of that charm was whisked away last Thursday by a brisk breeze that, at times, muffled his words but failed to mute his message.

Make no mistake: In allowing his suspended starting quarterback to step onto the practice field for Day 2 of rookie camp, Pinball was telling the Lords of Rouge Football that they could take their nine-game banishment of Kelly and shove it where there ain’t no daylight.

I mean, this was just two days—count ’em, two!—after the CFL had excused Kelly from preseason play, plus the first nine skirmishes (minimum) of the Argos 2024 crusade. In the same directive, Kelly was instructed to spend quality time with people whose know-how is in the area of gender-based violence/abuse/harassment. And yet he was on the field, smiling and smirking and making nice with Argos wannabe QBs? It was business as usual.

“He’s allowed to be out here,” said Pinball, standing before a bevy of microphones on the wind-swept sidelines of Alumni Stadium at the University of Guelph. “The league has given him that permission and we will follow the league’s direction.”

Can you say “copout,” kids?

Seriously, just because the Lords of Rouge Football suspend Kelly yet are daft enough to permit the toxic nogoodnik to act as if he’s a choirboy who didn’t sexually harass and torment a female co-worker, it doesn’t mean the Argos should play monkey see, monkey do.

The Argos know Kelly said and did the abhorrent things he denies saying and doing, and surely they have their own moral compass, one that should have told them to kick Kelly to the curb or, at the least, keep him out of sight and out of mind until he’s up to speed on acceptable behavior in mixed company.

But no. Instead, they flaunt it. They make a mockery of it.

“I don’t want to be flippant here,” said Pinball, being flippant, “but I don’t know how many workplaces you’ve been in where it doesn’t have an issue. These are two employees who had an issue and that happens.”

Good gawd, man, zip your lips before any more dumb assness spills out.

Granted, it’s true that one employee certainly had an issue. That would be the female conditioning coach who, in February, (a) filed suit against Kelly for his sexual advances last season, and (b) challenged the Argos for ignoring the QB’s oinker antics and putting her on the unemployment roll call.

(I suppose Kelly also has an issue—the inability to understand the word “no” when spoken by a female, which is the reason he’ll have a tete-a-tete or 10 with experts in the field of sexual impropriety if he wishes to fling a football in the three-downs game again.)

Anyway, Ambrosie and the Lords of Rouge Football recruited a squadron of Pigskin Pinkertons, their mission being to look under rocks and suss out evidence of wrongdoing. Lo and behold, it was determined that Kelly had been in violation of the CFL’s gender-based anti-violence dictates. Not even a reasonable doubt. “Unequivocally” is the word they used in confirming the Toronto QB’s guilt.

At no moment during Pinball’s 15-minute copout with news snoops did he disagree with the findings, nor the punishment, but he did mutter something about the existence of women in the Argos orbit, as if to say, “Hey, look at us! We’ve got females on staff! And we don’t even ask them to cook our meals or wash our socks! We are sooooooo not the 1950s!” (It reminded me of homophobes who, after spewing their anti-gay bile, say, “But I can’t be homophobic. I know gay people. I think there’s one of them in my family.”)

Pitiful, Pinball, just pitiful.

And, before we move on to another topic, I don’t want to hear anything about Kelly and second chances. He’s had more second chances than the Kardashians have had Botox treatments. He knows what the world looks like from the wrong side of jail bars, and Pinball and the Argos were aware of that before they unleashed him on the unsuspecting females in their workplace.

Bottom line: The Argos should have punted Kelly, pronto, thus allowing female employees to find comfort in the knowledge that they can perform their duties without some creep hitting on them.

Alas, the Argos are allowing the creep to loiter, and he’ll just use more stealth the next time he fancies a female who tells him “no.” They’ll then grant him his fifth, sixth or seventh second chance because the Lords of Rouge Football say they can, right Pinball?

I had to chuckle at the suggestion that folks in the Republic of Tranna might boycott the Argos due to their shoddy handling of L’Affaire Kelly. Sorry. Too late for that. The rabble in The ROT have been boycotting the Boatmen for the past 20 years.

I’m uncertain what Milt Stegall was attempting to prove by joining Winnipeg Blue Bombers newbies on Day 1 of their training exercises last week, but I suppose a 54-year-old man grabbing grass and growling with rookie football players 30 years his junior is less hazardous than a 58-year-old man (hello, Mike Tyson) climbing into a boxing ring with a guy 30 years younger. I mean, what’s the worst that could have happened to Stegall? An extra coating of RUB A535? Still, I don’t get it. “It’s because I have a big ego—let’s be honest, that’s it,” the Bombers legendary pass-catcher informed news snoops a couple of days prior to strapping on the pads for his frolic with the blue-and-gold freshmen. And that’s okay. I’ll take Turtle Man’s novelty act in Good Ol’ Hometown over the Pinball Clemons’ circus act in the Republic of Tranna any day.

On a happier note, Rick Bowness is out as head coach of the Winnipeg Jets, and I use the word “happier” because Bones vamoosed on his own terms and is free to spend his remaining days with his bride, Judy. I imagine Bones would have some tabloid-worthy stories to tell after 40 years as a bench puppeteer, but if he has an inclination toward putting his National Hockey League reflections on paper he’ll likely feel obliged to self-censor. He’s too nice a guy to get down and dirty. All the best, Bones.

Is it just me, or did anyone else take note that the last two men hired as bench puppeteer of the Jets—Bones and Paul Maurice—quit on them? I’m not sure what that means, if anything at all, but it strikes me as interesting.

I note that Maurice continues to sell snake oil as head coach of the Florida Panthers. This was part of his sound bite after his guy, Matthew Tkachuk, and David Pastrnak of the Boston Bruins threw down the other night. “Chuckie’s a hundred point guy all day long.” Well, no, he isn’t. Tkachuk has been a 100-point player twice in eight seasons and had just 88 in the past crusade.

On the subject of NHL bench bosses, the Toronto Maple Leafs are on the hunt to replace the defrocked Sheldon Keefe, and here’s a ghastly take from Steve Simmons of Postmedia Tranna: “The Maple Leafs’ first phone call should be to Joel Quenneville. The second call should be to Gary Bettman, asking the commissioner what it would take to bring Quenneville back to the National Hockey League. Bringing him back will be greeted with some screaming—but everything these days is greeted with some kind of screaming. He’s been out long enough.” I’m uncertain which experts in the field of sexual abuse Simmons spoke with to determine that Quenneville has been in exile “long enough,” but the last thing men’s hockey needs is the return of a member of the Chicago Silent 7, the ol’ boys who chose to shield a sexual predator, Brad Aldrich, rather than support the victim, Kyle Beach. They kept the sex assault of Beach on the hush-hush for more than a decade, so perhaps that’s how long Quenneville, the Chicago Blackhawks head coach at the time, should remain in exile. But, hey, I’m not an expert on sexual abuse and I haven’t spoken with any, so I’m just spitballing here.

Mitch Marner says the Leafs are “kind of gods” in the Republic of Tranna. No, Mitch. When the rabble in The ROT watch you flit about the freeze and they shriek “Oh, my god!” it’s because you and your playmates have performed another face plant in the opening salvo of the Stanley Cup tournament, not because you walk on water.

Truth is, I hear Marner. I mean, when I was a sprig and we were force-fed Maple Leafs games on Hockey Night in Canada most Saturdays, I looked at the players who appeared on our black-and-white TV screen as god-like creatures. Even when I saw them in their sports jackets and narrow neck ties one September morning in the lobby of Victoria Memorial Arena, they still held the bearing of deity. But the Leafs long ago ceased being god-like for one basic reason—I’m not 12 freaking years old anymore!

That first close encounter of the Maple Leafs kind for me was a bit unusual. I had just stepped off the freeze after a Pee Wee practice at Vic Memorial, and there stood my favorite god-like Leaf, Dickie Duff, to the right of Frank Mahovich. I didn’t have a pen or paper, but I approached Duff with a level of reverence normally reserved for our parish priest, and I asked for his autograph. He turned to the Big M, who reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pen, handing it to Duff. My hockey hero signed his name on the inside of my leather hockey helmet, then returned the pen to a smiling Mahovlich. It never occurred to me to ask the Big M for his autograph. I simply thanked “Mr. Duff,” stared at his signature (it was very legible) and walked away. I’ve often wondered if that snub from a 12-year-old urchin was the reason the Big M suffered his mental breakdowns.

And, finally, I close this morning with a salute to, and fond memories of, a departed friend, Brian Smiley, who fought the good fight against cancer until last weekend. I worked with Smiles at two newspapers, the Calgary Sun and Winnipeg Sun, and I’m here to tell you he could track down, and tell, a good story. I didn’t know what to make of Smiles when he came on board at the Sun in Calgary. He peered at the world through a set of squinty eyes, and there was a hint of “don’t mess with me” in his carriage. I quickly came to the inescapable notion that he was a fun and funny guy. We spent more than one night in Alberta cowboy bars, and I was always confident that Smiles had my back should a chucking of knuckles develop. There would have been 69 candles on his birthday cake come August, and I say that’s too soon for him to go. Damn cancer. My best to his bride, Linda, and their boys, Lane and Blake, and grandson Theo. I share their sorrow.

Let’s talk about Chelsea Carey’s street cred…the sky is falling in The ROT…bye, bye Bob…the CFL suspends a retired Lemonator…and other things on my mind

Chelsea Carey

Top o’ the morning to you, Chelsea Carey.

Welcome back, even though you haven’t really been gone, have you? You were just lurking in the weeds for a winter, waiting for the curling universe to unfold as it should.

And, girl, has it ever.

After one season as a super-sub, you’re now hanging full-time with the Altona Three—Karlee Burgess, Emily Zacharias and Lauren Lenentine—who, when last seen on a sheet of pebbled ice, had Jennifer Jones plotting strategy and throwing last rock, and the blood doesn’t get any bluer than that in curling.

I know I don’t have to tell you about Jennifer and all she’s accomplished, Chelsea, because you had a front-row seat for much of it, both of you being from Good Ol’ Hometown and all. Suffice to say she’s more decorated than a Christmas tree, and I also know you also know that putting your hands on the wheel of Jennifer’s former team is an imposing bit of business.

I mean, who wanted to follow Aretha or Ella or Barbra on stage?

Oh, wait. I suppose I’m showing my age with those references, Chelsea. So let’s make it Taylor, Billie and Adele…who wants to be strutting on stage after they’ve stopped the show? Nobody. But that’s essentially what you’ll be doing once the 2024-25 curling season slides from the hacks.

And that’s why you informed news snoops that you want no part of a “filling Jennifer’s shoes” narrative. You told them that you felt discomfort with that notion because it simply isn’t doable.

But, hey, it’s not like the Altona Three have recruited a castoff from a jam pail outfit to skip them into the future. You have your own street cred, Chelsea, and it’s elite.

You’ve collected a few trinkets of your own, like two Scotties Tournament of Hearts titles, and I never held it against you that you were wearing Alberta colors at the time. I still considered those made-in-Manitoba wins, since you were weaned on our pebble.

Quick aside, Chelsea: I must say, I didn’t really warm to the notion of you in Saskatchewan green. It just looked wrong, but each of us is allowed at least one moment of pure madness.

Still, even while repping the Flattest of Lands, you were my favorite curler, in part because your dad Dan and Uncle Bill were across-the-lane neighbors growing up in East Kildonan. Also, your pops was part of the most exciting event I covered during 30 years in the rag trade—the 1997 Brier final between the Vic Peters and Kevin Martin teams.

Let me tell you, Chelsea, that was a happening. You would have been a sprig of 12 at the time, but I’m guessing you recall that more than 17,000 folks crammed into the Saddledome in Calgary to watch your dad, Vic, Chris Neufeld and Scott Grant fall to Martin and Co., 10-8. The scene was electric, even if many tears flowed at the end.

But I digress, Chelsea.

This is meant to be about you and your fresh adventure with the Altona Three, who, just as a reminder, fell one W shy of the title in the two most recent Scotties with J. Jones’ hands on the wheel.

But, as I’ve pointed out, you’ve got your own street cred, Chelsea, and I’m thinking you’re up to the task of guiding them over the hump, especially if you have the Buffalo on your back.

Go get ’em, girl.

Oh, dear, it’s Chicken Little time in the Republic of Tranna, which is to say the Toronto Maple Leafs are four skirmishes into the Stanley Cup tournament and the sky is falling. Down 3-1 in their do-si-do with Boston Bruins, the Buds were serenaded with boos as they left the freeze for the changing room on Saturday night, and an absence of growl in their game was noted by the opinionists in the press box. Here’s Dave Feschuk of the Toronto Star: “Post-season play is supposed to heighten a team’s intensity. Somehow it mostly seems to shrink the Leafs.” And now Cathal Kelly of the Globe and Mail: “At the end, you waited hopefully for some flash of emotion. Something that tells you the Leafs feel something like what the crowd does. But no, nothing.” Nobody does Chicken Little quite like the rabble in The ROT, especially during the National Hockey League’s spring runoff.

For a tin-foil hat commentary, I give you Damien Cox of the Star: “You look at Leafs. Booed off the ice in their home rink. Now imagine for a second how bad Montreal and Ottawa are.” What in the name of Johnny Bower’s bare face do the Montreal Canadiens and Ottawa Senators have to do with the price of beer at Scotiabank Arena? What does that even mean?

When news of Bob Cole’s death arrived on my laptop, it occurred to me that, during 30 years flitting hither and yon in pursuit of hockey stories to scribble for various newspapers, our paths never crossed. Not once. I know Bob and I must have been in the same shinny barns at the same times, because we both covered the Stanley Cup tournament, but I don’t recall ever catching a glimpse of him, let alone meet him. Oh baby, my loss not his.

Is it too soon to submit that Cole wasn’t my hockey play-by-play Sinatra or Streisand? Danny Gallivan is, was and always shall be tops on my chart.

I don’t know about you, but those one-day contract signings that allow an athlete to retire with his or her team of choice have always struck me as a hokey bit of business. But it somehow works with Andrew Harris, who became a Winnipeg Blue Bomber for a day and always on Saturday. The product of Grant Park and Oak Park highs in Good Ol’ Hometown should have worn blue-and-gold linen from the get-go, but he took the long way around the barn, beginning his Canadian Football League journey with the Leos on the Other Side Of The Rocks before coming home to help end a Grey Cup drought that stretched across three decades.

You’ll have to excuse me if I’m a bit slow on the uptake, but it’s about Shawn Lemon. Did the Lords of Rouge Football really suspend a retired player? Sure enough, they did. Lemon called it a career on April 10 and, exactly 14 days later, the great rush end was punted from the CFL for gambling on games three years ago. How positively droll. I mean, it’s like banning kids from the fishing hole after the creek’s run dry. Question is, did the Lemonator retire because he’d grown weary of terrorizing quarterbacks (doubtful, since he re-signed with the Montreal Larks in December), or because Pigskin Pinkertons had discovered his hand in the cookie jar (likely) and suggested he step aside? I’d wager it’s the latter.

Frankly, my dears, I don’t give a damn that the Lords of Rouge Football have flung Lemon into the dumpster. I still want to know what they plan to do with Toronto Argos QB Chad Kelly, a nogoodnik who knows what it’s like to spend time behind bars and still stands accused by a former female coach of sexual harassment. He plays on, or at least he will once the large lads gather and commence training exercises in a couple of weeks, and that doesn’t sit right. I know, I know: Innocent until proven guilty. Except Kelly has a rap sheet that doesn’t lend itself to warm-and-fuzzies. Why has it taken CFL sleuths two months to turn over stones in search of the truth? Unless, of course, they don’t want to uncover the truth about their Most Outstanding Player.

The main profile pic on Kelly’s X page reads: Faith In God. I’d say he should be putting his faith in a good lawyer.

This from Steve Simmons of Postmedia Tranna: “Department of Dumb: Booing Shohei Ohtani. He should get a standing ovation every time he steps up to the plate in every place he plays.” Now that is from the Department of Dumb.

And, finally, apparently the Gomer Pyle of today’s country music, Luke Bryan, put on a decent show at the Little Hockey House On The Prairie last week. Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t take a country artist seriously if he’s wearing a ball cap backwards on stage. Unless it’s Willie Nelson, then all bets are off.

Let’s talk about the CFL and the sexist toxins it allows in the game … the demise of the Desert Dogs … so long J.J. … Pinocchios in the golf broadcast booth … and other things on my mind

Grab your girlfriend by the hair and rag doll her? Smack her upside the head? Threaten to kill her?

Johnny Manziel, come on down! You’re the Canadian Football League’s next matinee idol and TSN’s favorite lousy quarterback.

Look the other way during a years-long sex-assault scandal that included football players and gang rape at Baylor University?

Art Briles, come on down! You’re the Hamilton Tiger-Cats next assistant head coach.

Get kicked off your college football team? Plead guilty to disorderly conduct after a bar brawl? Start a scrap at a high school football game? Punch out a videographer? Break into the dwelling of strangers and sit on the couch beside a woman holding her young child? Sexually harass a female coach?

Chad Kelly, come on down! You’re still the Toronto Argos starting QB.

Three cads, each of them somehow managing to pass the entry-level sniff test in Rouge Football, despite reprehensible and, indeed, criminal behaviour that victimized women.

So, just wondering: What part of their own policy about violence against women do the Lords of Rouge Football still not understand?

Yes, I realize Briles wasn’t on the Tabbies payroll long enough to stop for a bite and a beer at Bernie’s Tavern in the Hammer, but both team bankroll Bob Young and CEO Scott Mitchell signed off on the man who’d become a pigskin pariah stateside in the wake of the Baylor sex scandal.

“A good man caught in a bad situation,” is how Mitchell described Briles, who, according to the Dallas Morning News, said this when informed that certain of his players had allegedly gang raped a woman: “Those are some bad dudes. Why was she around those guys?”

Right. Blame the victim.

One of the team’s sponsors, Barry’s Jewelers, was having none of it, so they joined a hue and cry loud enough to wake the pharaohs and, once heads were given a good shake, the Lords of Rouge Football and the Tabbies determined that the sideline at Timbits Field was no place for the former Baylor head coach. It took them 12 hours of intense caterwauling on both sides of the border to undo what they never should have done.

That was two years after the CFL trumpeted its violence against women creed, which states: “The CFL condemns violence against women in all of its forms, including domestic violence, sexual violence, sexual assault, and verbal abuse, as well as the disrespectful and demeaning attitudes that foster violence or the tolerance of such violence. Whether these behaviours occur in public or private, violence against women will not be tolerated by the CFL.”

Yet Briles made it past the gatekeepers in August 2017, and Manziel received the okie-dokie less than a year later, bringing a rap sheet as long as a Winnipeg winter to Our Frozen Tundra.

It was those same Tabbies who signed the woman-beating Manziel to a two-year deal that included a Choirboy Clause, meaning the National Football League washout was at his Last Chance Saloon. Keep a clean nose, kid, or you’ll be playing football on a sandlot.

Turns out Johnny was rotten, both on and off the field. The Tabbies banished him to Montreal, where he became a lousy QB for the Larks, and the Lords of Rouge Football invoked the Choirboy Clause after Manziel got up to no good during the off-season. Although the nitty-gritty of his trespass was never disclosed, it only mattered that he was persona non QB and, less than a year after his arrival, he returned to the U.S. to engage in frat boy antics of his choosing.

Now it’s Kelly, another nogoodnik drummed out of the NFL for failure to accept that life isn’t one giant college dorm.

The jury’s still out on Kelly re sexual harassment, but that’s only because stewards of the three-downs game don’t want to believe their Most Outstanding Player is a world-class oinker who can’t grasp the concept of “no” means “no.” At least not when it’s said by a woman.

The Lords of Rouge Football have been attempting to dispel any notion that Kelly is a certified dirtbag since February, when a former Argos female strength and conditioning coach filed a lawsuit that outlined, in ghastly detail, Kelly’s alleged sexist conduct, which allegedly included the pitching of woo (i.e. proposals of dating and sleepovers, which registers tilt on the creep-o-metre).

CFL commissioner Randy Ambrosie has had gumshoes on the sniff for more than a month now, in search of the truth, and they aren’t exactly the Pinkertons from the Old West. I mean, when Argos GM Pinball Clemons last came up for air to smile and discuss the matter, this is what he had to say: “We are moving forward as Chad Kelly is our starter.”

Lovely.

But the real mystery isn’t Kelly’s guilt or innocence. It’s why in the name of Albert Henry George Grey, 4th Earl Grey, do the Lords of Rouge Football continue to welcome these sexist, toxic drips into the country?

Isn’t beating up a woman and threatening her life enough of a red flag? What about overseeing a football program that keeps gang rape hush-hush? And, hey, isn’t frightening a woman during a home invasion a clue that females in your work place might be at risk? (Kelly, by the way, was chased out of the strangers’ abode by a man wielding a vacuum cleaner tube.)

CFL overlords are right to boot those boys out of our quirky game, but, good gawd, stop letting them in.

It wasn’t just the Lords of Rouge Football who looked the other way and ignored Manziel’s history of violence against women. Some among the flowers of Canadian jock journalism were fully on board with his arrival in the three-downs game. A sampling:

Stephen Brunt, Sportsnet: “There is no down-side here.”

Chris Cuthbert, CFL on TSN play-by-play voice: “Looking forward to seeing Johnny Manziel play in the CFL. Win-Win for the CFL.”

Matthew Scianitti, TSN: “Whatever you think of Johnny Manziel, the attention he’ll bring to the CFL won’t hurt.”

Dan Barnes, Postmedia Edmonton: “It will be fun for everyone to watch.”

Steve Simmons, Postmedia Tranna: “Welcome to Canada, Johnny Football. Johnny Football is coming to Canada. And where do I sign up?”

I’d like to think there’s been a seismic shift in attitudes on press row, but, who knows, perhaps the jock journos also prefer to buy bad apples when they’re at the fruit stand.

On the subject of bad dudes, apparently ghoulish is in, because there’s been a big run on O.J. Simpson memorabilia since the man who beat a double murder rap died from cancer the other day. Why?

I don’t know about you, but when I hear the name O.J. Simpson, I don’t think “former NFL running back and movie/TV actor.” I think cold-blooded murder. I think Nicole Brown and Ronald Goldman, the slasher-death victims. I think Judge Ito. I think Marcia Clark and smarmy Johnnie Cochran. I think of a white Ford Bronco low-speed chase. I think of Simpson’s objectionable vow to search for “the real killers.” I do not think football and bad acting.

So, the original Winnipeg Jets franchise (National Hockey League version) soon will haul butt out of the Arizona desert and pitch its tent in Salt Lake City. Just wondering: Are Bobby Hull and Dale Hawerchuk part of the move, or do the Salt Lake Somthingorothers plan to leave Winnipeg stuff in Winnipeg, where it belongs?

Dan Bickley of Arizona Sports describes the demise of the Desert Dogs as “such a sad, pathetic, unnecessary ending. The shame is that we are a very good hockey town. While Canadian critics are surely chuckling and chortling over our endgame failure, they will certainly miss the convenient flights and cheap tickets to see their favorite teams play in the Valley. They are also missing the point. This failure is not ours. This is on the overextended owners who always gave us a diluted, diminished product, failing to provide the kind of playoff hockey that grows a fan base and sells itself. This is on the politicians who have sabotaged their efforts every step of the way. So sad, so unnecessary.” If part of that lament sounds familiar, it’s because we heard it in Good Ol’ Hometown in 1996.

Not everybody in Arizona is bent out of shape due to the loss of the Coyotes, and my favorite comment was delivered on X by fan Remo Lalli: “Finally do a proper rebuild after 2+ decades of mostly God awful hockey and finally have an arena plan that looks like it will work and NOW you leave? That’s the most Coyote thing ever. One last kick in the nuts on the way out. I’d expect nothing less.”

In a perfect world, the Jennifer Jones swan song would have taken place on a sheet of pebbled ice in Good Ol’ Hometown, not in a Loblaws store in the Republic of Tranna, where curling is about the only sport that actually attracts less media attention than the Argonauts. But the Grand Dame of Pebble People bowed out of the four-player game one floor above the vegetable aisle in renovated Maple Leaf Gardens on Friday, losing 7-6 to Sweden’s Anna Hasselborg in the Grand Slam of Curling Players Championship. The occasion was aptly described by Rob Faulds of Sportsnet as “tissue time” and, yes, tears and hugs were in abundance, with Jennifer’s two daughters, Isabella and Skyla, clinging to mom. Losing her farewell game was a bummer, but still, it was a lovely adios for the six-time Canadian, two-time world and one-time Olympic champion. Perhaps Rachel Homan will match, or surpass, all of Jennifer’s achievements, but until that day arrives the product of St. Vital Curling Club pebble is unrivaled.

This from Jack Todd of the Montreal Gazette on the TV menu Saturday: “So…curling, golf, NASCAR or the Blue Jays. When curling is the only offering that doesn’t make you want to throw yourself in front of a train, it’s time to read a book.” Guess that means Jack gave a hard pass to “tissue time” with Jen Jones.

So I flip on the flatscreen in the small hours this morning and who does Sportsnet lead with on its golf highlights package? Scottie Scheffler? Max Homa? Collin Morikawa? Nope. Tiger Woods, who took more chops than a lumberjack with a dull axe. His final stroke was his 82nd of the day, 10-over par and 18 adrift of Masters leader Scheffler. Never before had Woods taken so many swats in any of golf’s four majors. And yet someone at Sportsnet determined that his exhibition of weekend hacking was worthy of top billing. Sigh.

But wait! The fawning over Woods was worse on TSN, where they featured a number of Eldrick Tont’s botched swings before any mention of what they described as “the rest of the field.” Excuse me? Scottie Scheffler, the world’s No. 1 and tournament leader, is “the rest of the field?” Good grief. Sixty golfers made it to the Masters weekend and Woods has a better score than only four of them. He’s “the rest of the field.”

Is there anybody in sports more dishonest than golf broadcasters? I mean, in the leadup to the Masters there was repeated blah, blah, blah about Woods’ chance of winning his sixth ugly green jacket. “You never know” and “if anybody can do it, it’s Tiger” and “anything can happen” were the most common squawks. Such piffle. And I don’t get it. I mean, it’s like a tennis talking head telling us that Roger Federer is going to pick up his racket again and win Wimbledon. We know that isn’t doable, and the golf gasbags knew there was no chance—zero!—of Woods adding to his wardrobe. So why the con job? The undiminished greatness of Tiger Woods is the biggest false narrative since Dick Cheney and Colin Powell insisted Saddam Hussein was stockpiling weapons of mass destruction. So just tell the truth, for gawd’s sake. Tiger’s done winning majors.

Saw this item on X a couple of weeks ago: “Without saying your age, who was the ace of your favorite MLB team when you started watching baseball?” For me it was Don Drysdale of the Brooklyn Dodgers. Yes, Dem Bums in the mid-1950s. My birth certificate is that dog-eared. (Once Dem Bums hauled butt out of Brooklyn and set up shop in Los Angeles, Sandy Koufax was the man.)

And, finally, tough call today: The Masters or Canada vs. U.S. A. in the world Ponytail Puck title skirmish? Probably the women’s hockey. Marie-Philip Poulin moves a lot faster than Bryson DeChambeau.

Let’s talk about silly, stupid, staged NHL fights and the blood-thirsters in the crowd…St. George’s Cross gets a “lesbian” makeover from Nike and the FA…a plague in college hoops… getting their kicks (or not) in Rouge Football…& other things on my mind

By George, that’s not England’s St. George’s Cross.

I could tell you that everyone—everyone!—thinks the staged, bare-knuckle brawl in hockey is stupid. Like, a Homer Simpson level of stupid.

But who’d believe me?

I mean, as sure as many among the rabble in Rome once upon a very long time ago enjoyed the spectacle of hungry lions and other beasts gnoshing on no-goodniks, there exists a considerable constituency that lusts for the gladiatorial spilling of blood in our 21st-century ice coliseums.

They don’t think it’s stupid. More to the point, they believe people like myself are stupid for thinking it’s stupid.

Thus, when Nicolas Deslauriers and Ryan Reaves—or Reaves and Matt Rempe, or Rempe and Deslauriers—interrupt a National Hockey League game by agreeing to serve up their faces to each other’s fists, there is glee and delight among the blood-thirsters in the audience. They rise to their feet in unison and, depending on rooting interests, they either vilify or cheer on the combatants, and at no time in history has someone said, “Say, let’s go get a hot dog and a beer while these two clowns chuck knuckles.”

“People want to see blood,” former thug Jeff Odgers once told The Hockey News.

“Make hockey violent again,” Reaves crowed earlier this year, after one of his Toronto Maple Leafs’ foes incited mayhem by—egads!—slapping the puck with excessive force into an unguarded net.

That is correct. Ridly Greig…shot…the…puck…too…hard.

Now, after observing shinny for nigh on 70 years, I thought I’d considered every reason why one player might feel obliged to shuck his mitts and use his bare knuckles to raise welts on an adversary’s noggin—slew foot, knee-on-knee hit, blind-side assault, any blow to the head, etc.—but shooting the puck too hard? That’s kid stuff meant for frozen playground ponds, not guys wearing big-boy pants.

Alas, so aggrieved were the Maple Leafs that the normally passive Morgan Rielly shook off his halo and committed a criminal act, assailing Greig with two hands worth of graphite to the side of the head.

But, hey, that’s the players’ way of “policing” the only one of five major men’s professional sports leagues in North America that accepts and condones fisticuffs, staged or otherwise, and, indeed, they often use it as a sometimes deliberate gambit designed to re-tilt the freeze in their favor.

And now even the silliest of slights has become cause for violence, because the Lords of Puck continue to convince themselves that hockey can’t be hockey without bare knuckles bouncing off bare faces and helmets.

Well, we know that argument to be pure piffle, since fisticuffs is forbidden in Olympics hockey, and there’s no better shinny than best-on-best shinny.

Sadly, not even dying young is a deterrent.

Surely NHL players, coaches, managers, owners and the men and women in commissioner Gary Bettman’s ivory tower are familiar with the findings of a study that delivered this conclusion: “NHL enforcers with 50 or more career fights or three or more penalty minutes per game died 10 years earlier and more often of drug overdose and suicide when compared with age-matched NHL player controls.”

Chris Simon died of suicide this past week, the latest name added to a roll call of enforcers who left before their time—Bob Probert, Rick Rypien, Derek Boogaard, Wade Belak, John Kordic, Todd Ewen, etc.

Death doesn’t matter.

The Lords of Puck pooh-pooh science, disregarding the evidentiary link between brain damage and bare-knuckle brawling. They just offer thoughts and prayers, then permit the boys to fight on. Business as usual.

So ask yourself this: What exactly has the NHL done to eliminate fighting? Answer: Squat.

Yes, there are fewer incidents of fisticuffs compared to the 1970s and ’80s, when too many nights were bathed in blood, but that’s not down to executive decision-making. It’s been the evolution of the game, whereby the skill level has arrived at such a lofty level that knuckle-draggers need not apply, the aforementioned Reaves being an exception.

Maple Leafs general manager Brad Treliving made a misguided rush to recruit the throw-back forward last summer, believing his fists would mean a stronger playoff push, but, trust me, there shall be no Stanley Cup parade in the Republic of Tranna this June whether Reaves is available for his eight-minute allotment of ice time or not.

Reaves and those of his ilk are Sideshow Bobs, pitiable fragments of a time gone by. Yet he and Deslauriers or Rempe are still allowed centre stage for their bicycling bear routines, because the NHL—from players to owners to ivory tower—grants them the okie-dokie to satisfy the appetites of the blood-thirsters in the audience.

And it’s stupid. It’s a Homer Simpson level of stupid.

Make no mistake, media is complicit in perpetuating the fraudulent narrative that hockey can’t exist without fighting. I mean, consider this: The week another enforcer, Chris Simon, died from suicide, Sportsnet had a highlights package featuring Reaves and Deslauriers trying to beat each other to a pulp: “Watch as Ryan Reaves and Nicolas Deslauriers drop their gloves at centre-ice and get into it with one another to put on a show for the fans.” Yup, it’s all “for the fans,” with no regard to those who die young. Meantime, scads of newsprint and air time has been devoted to low-talent New York Rangers ruffian Rempe, who has achieved folk-hero status simply because his hockey gloves are off more than they’re on. Sigh.

I agree, the NHL is a high-speed bit of business. Emotions become frayed. But why is it that there must be immediate retribution (read: fighting) for a legal body check? I mean, even though a National Football League game is played at a slower cadence, it’s a very violent sport and emotions become frayed. Yet a large, menacing, hell-bent-on-destruction defensive end can blindside Patrick Mahomes with a hit that rattles the dead and there’s not a speck of retaliation. His mates assist him to his feet, they huddle up, and they run the next play. If fists fly, ejections ensue. So what part of “legal hit” do NHL players and their overlords not understand?

For those of you scoring at home (and I know many are), the folks at hockeyfights.com tell us there have been 265 fights in the NHL this season. And, no, Matt Rempe hasn’t been in all of them. It just seems that way. (The tally was 334 in 2022-23.)

I found it interesting that both DeMar DeRozen and Dillon Brooks were excused from the Chicago Bulls-Houston Rockets joust on Thursday night, after they engaged in a squabble that was barely a notch above a tiff. DeRozen ignited the dispute by gooning Jalen Green, which prompted the villainous Brooks to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. The two large men nattered, they grabbed at one another, they were quickly separated, and a pack of people tumbled into a scrum. Zero—zero!—punches were thrown. Still they were ejected from the National Basketball Association game for their roughhousing. The NHL could apply a similar standard, but no.

Things that make me go hmmm, vol 1,175: It’s about that dust-up between greybeard boxer Mike Tyson and 27-year-old YouTuber Jake Paul scheduled for July: Current WBC heavyweight champ Tyson Fury figures it’s a swell idea. “I just don’t know what’s not to like,” he told The Stomping Ground. “Okay, the guy’s 57 years old, but he’s a former undisputed world heavyweight king, and one guy plays computers for a living and he’s come to boxing about a year ago, so pretty even match. You got to admire them both. People say, ‘Ah, it’s shit,’ and this, that and the other, but I bet they still watch it. Who’s not intrigued?” Hmmm. I’m intrigued by those who are intrigued by it.

Our Pebble People came up short at the Scotties and Brier this year, so a tip of the bonnet to Kadriana and Colton Lott for delivering a reminder that Manitoba remains the epicentre of curling in Canada. Kadriana and Colton, who play out of Winnipeg Beach, went a perfect 10-0 to win Our Frozen Tundra’s mixed doubles title on Friday in Fredericton, and now they’re bound for Sweden for the world tournament in April. Bonne chance.

Sure wish I could watch Rachel Homan and her Canadian crew in the final of the World Women’s Curling Championship today, but TSN has decided that those of us who hang our hats on the Other Side Of The Rocks would rather watch a tennis tournament from Miami. Pathetic.

Things that make me go hmmm, vol. 1,176: Apparently, organizers of this summer’s Olympic Games in Paris have ordered 300,000 condoms for athletes. Hmmm. Wonder what they’ll do during the second week.

Oh dear. They’re in quite a tizzy in jolly, ol’ England because Nike and the FA had a fiddle-about with the St. George’s Cross on the collar of the national men’s futbol kit. Out is the red cross on white background. In is a navy blue/light blue/purple cross. “Trying to sneak that Woke, Gay communist nonsense onto the England national team jersey,” former player and manager Joey Barton posted on X. “It’ll be to appease all of the lesbians who play for the Lionesses and in women’s football.” Right, Joey, it’s all part of that dreaded global gay agenda that we keep hearing about.

What genius decided Canada’s colors are black and red?

Radio host and former Crystal Palace bankroll Simon Jordan was among many providing backup vocals in L’Affaire Kit and, while declining to malign lesbians, he harrumphed, “No other country would allow this to happen.” Actually, Simon, at least one other country would and has—Canada. Our flag has a red Maple Leaf with white background and red trim. Red and White. Yet our Lords of Sports have on occasion required our athletes to dress in black unis with a black Maple Leaf crest. (Yes, even the lesbians had to wear them.) It was kind of like putting a Canadian Tire label on a bottle of Molson Canadian. It was wrong and it was ugly.

Things that make me go hmmm, vol. 1,177: Tim Micallef of Sportsnet wonders if Zach Edey is “vastly underappreciated in his home and native land.” Hmmm. Let’s see: The guy is from the Republic of Tranna, which means nine provinces and three territories don’t really give a damn about him, and he plays college basketball at Purdue, which about 40 million Canadians couldn’t pinpoint on a map. So what are we expected to do? Have a parade for Edey?

We can count American scribe and squawk box Dan Le Batard among those who vastly underappreciate the 7-feet-4 Canadian giant. “Zach Edey just plants himself like a tree,” says Le Batard. “I haven’t seen a body like that since Yao Ming’s. And his ankles are bigger than anyone’s thighs. And we’re distorting the sport. Have you seen (Victor) Wembanyama? Like he just stands over these 6-10 people who are bigger than anyone you’ve ever seen and just places the ball over them in the basket. It’s so unaesthetically pleasing. Zach Edey is a plague, I’m sorry. Purdue, you’re a plague.”

Pete Rose after hearing about the Shohei Ohtani gambling scandal: “You mean I could have gotten away with betting on baseball if I’d have pretended I couldn’t speak or understand English?”

There’s no evidence to date that suggests Ohtani has wagered on sports with an illegal bookie, thus he’ll carry on swatting dingers for the Los Angeles Dodgers. Unless, of course, his now-former interpreter and now-former Man Friday, Ippei Muzihara, rats him out when the feds come calling and ask difficult questions. Then all bets are off (pun intended). As a Dodgers fan dating back to their days in Brooklyn, I hope for the best but fear the worst.

Will someone at Maple Leaf Sports & Entertainment please stand up and tell us that the Toronto Argos don’t plan to march into their 2024 Canadian Football League crusade with Chad Kelly at quarterback? The guy’s a bad egg.

Received an email last Thursday inviting me to stream the CFL combine, live and direct from Good Ol’ Hometown. “Get a front row seat” to the bench press and the 40-yard dash, it encouraged me. Hey, I realize I don’t have much of a life, but I’ll be ashes in an urn before I spend five seconds watching men lift weights. I see enough bad TV already.

Well, guess who’s pitching their tent in Victoria. That’s right, the B.C. Leos and Rouge Football. The Leos and Ottawa RedBlacks will grab grass in a regular season skirmish on Aug. 31 at Royal Athletic Park, which is exactly one block away from my humble dwelling on the edge of downtown. I might just walk across the street and ask Glen Suiter about that Keith Urban groupie thing.

To kick or not to kick seems to be a hot-button issue among the Lords of Rouge Football, and they’ve decided to punt the discussion about player safety on kickoffs down the road rather than tinker with the rules now. “The whole thing makes no sense for our game,” says longtime CFL coach and exec Jim Barker. “The injury thing? I don’t know the data, but I know it’s an exciting play in our game.” Yo! Jim! If you don’t know the data, then get the data before spouting off. (And this guy is an analyst on TSN’s CFL coverage?)

If Barker wants the data on the dangers of kickoff/returns in Rouge Football, he need only lend an ear to Kyle Walters. “From a kickoff/kickoff return standpoint, the rate of injury on that play is higher than an average offence or defensive play,” the Winnipeg Blue Bombers general manager told Ted Wyman of the Winnipeg Sun. “That’s what the statistics show, so then the Health and Safety Committee has to sit and say ‘If this is, in fact, the most dangerous play, statistically, how do we make this play safer?’ ”

I look at the top of the leaderboard at the Valspar Championship on the PGA Tour and I see these names: K. Mitchell, S. Power, P. Malnati, B. Todd, C. Phillips, C. Champ, R. Hoey. I ask myself, “Who are these guys?” Would someone please fix men’s professional golf?

And, finally, spring has sprung, the grass is riz, I wonder where my sunscreen is. Happy spring.

Let’s talk about the Puck Pontiff fanning the flames of fear…giving local news snoops the cold shoulder…Gobuty and Shenkarow never went into hiding…Jen’s farewell…a Buffalo Boy in green…and guess who’s coming home?

Mike McEwen in the green of Saskatchewan.

Top o’ the morning to you, Mark Chipman.

Well, that was a special kind of nice of Gary Bettman to take time away from his irksome and tireless Save the Coyotes crusade and touch down in Good Ol’ Hometown to stomp out the brush fire you started.

I mean, I call you the Puck Pontiff, Mark, but we both know that Bettman is the real Puck Pontiff, him being commissioner of the National Hockey League and all, so anytime he braves the snow and the cold for a drop-in at 300 Portage Ave. is cause to polish the fancy silverware and break out the fine China.

Nothing’s too good for House Guest Gary, right Mark?

It wasn’t always that way, of course.

I don’t have to remind you that Commish Gary was fitted for a black hat when the Winnipeg Jets were whisked away in 1996. Even though it wasn’t his fault that no one in Good Ol’ Hometown was prepared to bankroll Jets 1.0 back then, or that the Canadian loonie was worth about 10 cents U.S., he was the bad guy in the eyes of a PO’d public. The rabble reckoned that he allowed the franchise to defect from Our Frozen Tundra to the Arizona desert with little, if any, resistance.

Thus the villainous commish was persona non grata until 2011, when you and your money-bags partner, the 3rd Baron Thomson of Fleet, cut a cheque for $170 million and gave a withering Atlanta Thrashers franchise a new home and a fresh start on the potholed streets of downtown Winnipeg.

I wouldn’t say all has been forgiven and forgotten, Mark, but I will suggest fewer among the rabble are sticking pins in Gary Bettman dolls these days.

Which brings me back to Commish Gary’s whistlestop in Good Ol’ Hometown last Tuesday.

The man engaged in a verbal parry-and-thrust with a gathering of news snoops, and among his bon mots was this: “I’m kind of mystified at the tension that seems to have developed here.” And this: “I’m not sure why people are now speculating that somehow (the Jets) not going to be here.”

Hands up anyone fooled by that “what, me worry?” side show.

I don’t think Commish Gary is a dumb man, Mark. He just sometimes plays dumb. Like, he isn’t remotely “mystified” about anything re the Winnipeg franchise. He knows the burg’s history vis-a-vis the NHL. He knows season ticket sales have sagged. He knows the Little Hockey House On The Prairie has about 2,000 unoccupied chairs most nights (87 per cent capacity to date). And he most certainly knows precisely who’s responsible for stoking folks’ fear of Jets 2.0 morphing into the Salt Lake City Saints or the Houston Apollo.

It’s you, Mark. Yes, you.

The flapping of gums re the vibrancy and viability of the Winnipeg market wouldn’t exist today if not for your sound bites.

It began last April with the Forever Winnipeg marketing campaign that you signed off on, Mark. Reminding the rabble that the original Jets skipped town for Arizona in 1996 isn’t a sales pitch. It’s a buy-tickets-or-else threat. It was daft. Also regrettable.

Then, in late October, you had a sit-down with Darren Dreger, who asked point-blank if thousands of empty seats this season have given rise to the risk of you putting up a For Sale sign and pulling up stakes. This is what you told the TSN insider: “No. I say not on our watch.”

Many believed you, myself included. Silly moi.

I mean, I ought to know better, Mark. After all this time (69 years watching, covering and writing about hockey), I should be able to recognize the barking of a carny. Yet you hoodwinked me with some slick blah, blah, blah about your Jets’ forever shelf life in Good Ol’ Hometown.

But, hey, why wouldn’t I swallow your spiel whole, like the great biblical fish inhaling Jonah? After all, you own half of downtown Pegtown and the 3rd Baron has more coin than the Royal Canadian Mint out there on Lagimodiere Boulevard. So sure, with your good name and the deepest pockets in Canada, any notion that the Jets can’t make a go of it at 300 Portage Ave. is pure piffle.

But wait. Less that two weeks ago, you engaged in a verbal to-and-fro with yet another jock journo from the Republic of Tranna—Chris Johnston of The Athletic—and this is what you had to say about empty seats and the shelf life of your Jets 2.0: “This place we find ourselves in right now, it’s not going to work over the long haul. It just isn’t.”

Yikes.

No, Mark, you didn’t literally tell the rabble that the NHL will flee Good Ol’ Hometown yet again. You were speaking your truth. Trouble is, your truth in February wasn’t your truth in October. And that’s what I don’t get. How can you assure the rabble that there’s no threat of the hockey club leaving (“Not on our watch.”) and then, just four months later, “it’s not going to work over the long haul.”

What I heard was “buy tickets or else.” I mean, I don’t know about you, but if someone tells me they’ve got a gun I’m inclined to think they plan to use it.

None among us knows what was said behind closed doors during Commish Gary’s drop-in last week, Mark, but I submit he’d have been wise to advise, or instruct you, to stop playing ping-pong with people’s emotions. It’s disgraceful.

Also disgraceful is Puck Pontiff Chipman’s relationship with local jock journos. On the rare occasion when he believes he has a sound bite worthy of our consumption, he runs to a reporter from the Republic of Tranna rather than one or more of the girls and boys on the Jets beat. Once he’s provided the outrider from The ROT the full-meal deal, he might (might!) hand one of his pets at the Drab Slab a table scrap. I don’t know who penetrated the Puck Pontiff’s ultra-thin layer of skin (I have my suspicions), but Chipman is being petty and petulant.

Bettman had places to be and people to see, so his “what me worry?” to-and-fro with news snoops was limited to 15 minutes. But get this—his close encounter with the local media didn’t turn him into a block of salt! Gasp! Take note, Mark Chipman.

I don’t recall either Michael Gobuty or Barry Shenkarow running and hiding from those of us with notepads and recording devices during their time as stewards of Jets 1.0. It didn’t matter if it was the NHL or World Hockey Association, Michael and Barry were usually a phone call away. And, hey, they even returned calls. What a concept.

Do many among the rabble give a damn that the Puck Pontiff isn’t warm and fuzzy with local news snoops? Probably not. Does his cold shoulder make a reporter’s or a columnist’s job more difficult? A reporter perhaps, a columnist absolutely not. So what’s he trying to prove, other than he can be petty and petulant?

Still missing in action at the Drab Slab is a regular sports columnist, but if they’re ever inclined to fill the position I recommend they give Jeff Hamilton a shot at the gig. Jeff appears to be the only guy in the toy department at 1355 Mountain Ave. who’s willing to deliver opinion, sometimes with snark, and a case in point would be his recent piece on Toronto Argos loose-cannon quarterback Chad Kelly. This was his most-biting line: “There’s little evidence to suggest CFL commissioner Randy Ambrosie understands the league’s violence against women policy.” Atta boy, Jeff.

I once saw Kelly on an American podcast, and he came across as a full-of-himself, my-stuff-don’t-stink frat boy, so I’m not surprised that a female, now-former Argos coach has sued him for being an oinker.

The Jennifer Jones farewell at the Scotties Tournament of Hearts last Sunday was a curling Kodak moment, even if the legend finished the night on the short end of the scoreboard vs. Rachel Homan. My main question was this: Why the hell did Jennifer allow coach Glenn Howard to talk her into making a second-choice shot at the end? Howard made it sound like drawing the lid with all sorts of gunk blocking the way is as simple as sorting socks and, frankly, I was astonished that Jennifer bowed to his wishes.

I don’t know about you, but my mind’s eye will always see Mike McEwen with the Manitoba Buffalo on his back, so I’m not keen on him wearing Saskatchewan green at the Brier. I mean, Kermit the Frog is green. St. Paddy’s Day is green. Envy is green. But Manitoba’s great Pebble People shouldn’t be seen in green. It’s as wrong as Pope Francis wearing a pair of MC Hammer pants while saying mass. Yes, I realize that curling’s new-age rules have expunged long-held geographic imperatives, but I don’t have to like it when a four-time ‘Toba champion from Brandon/Winnipeg is representing the folks on The Flattest of Lands.

Speaking of change, when did the Brier Patch become the Original 16 Patch? Did I miss the memo?

Michael Jordan says he could score 100 points in today’s NBA: “It’s less physical, and the rules have changed, obviously. Based on these rules, if I had to play with my style of play, I’m pretty sure I would have fouled out, or I would have been at the free throw line pretty often, and I could have scored 100 points.” I call BS on that. His Royal Airness is 61 years old. He couldn’t score more than 80 or 90 points in a game today.

My first impressions of the current season of The Voice: I’ve yet to hear an exceptional voice, and rookie judges Dan + Shay seem to think the show is about them rather than the singers.

And, finally, I’m coming home. Not that anyone cares, but that’s the plan after a quarter century on the Left Flank of our vast country. I just need to find suitable lodgings in a suitable area of Good Ol’ Hometown (I’ve discovered it’s not the easiest thing to do via the internet), and I’ll be back. Hey, maybe I can get there in time for the Stanley Cup parade. The Jets are going to win the Stanley Cup aren’t they?

Let’s talk about Christivus gifts and the airing of Sports Santa’s grievances in a year of fart parcels and passing gas

Happy Christivus, kids, and welcome to Sports Santa’s annual gift-giving and airing of grievances, celebrated annually on the day between Festivus and Christmas. Let us begin…

GIFT: Contrary to what the supermarket tabloids tell us or what we see on our flatscreens, Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce cooing and cuddling was not the feel-good football story of the year, even if their tryst has attracted more eyeballs than the moon landing.

Instead, I direct your attention to Maya Turner, lady place-kicker extraordinaire and barrier-buster.

Maya delivered the warm-and-fuzzies on a Saturday afternoon of firsts in September, when she a) became the first female to participate in a regular-season U Sports men’s football game, and b) became the first female to score. But that wasn’t the last word on her debut. It got better. There was also the matter of the storybook ending, which Maya authored with the swing of her right leg in double OT, her field goal lifting the 0-fer University of Manitoba Bisons to their first W of the season. Maya finished the year 11-for-14 in FG attempts (longest 48 yards) and 16-for-16 in converts. (Just wondering: Do you suppose she’s a Swiftie?)

GIFT: No surprise that U of M head coach Brian Dobie would pooh-pooh gender stereotyping and give Maya her chance to compete with, and against, the boys. Brian’s one of the truly good guys in sports, and he operates an equal-opportunity program on the south side of Winnipeg. He gets it.

LUMP O’ COAL: Former footy manager/Premier League player Joey Barton overdosed on misogyny pills after England and Manchester United goalkeeper Mary Earps was anointed BBC Sports Personality of the Year. Barton reckons that snooker star Ronnie O’Sullivan or jockey Frankie Dettori would have been more suitable winners, and he described Earps as “a big sack of spuds that plays in goal for a girls’ team.” He also boasted he’d score on Earps 100 times out of 100 penalty attempts, “Any day of the week. Twice on a f—ing Sunday.” Sigh. Barton previously took aim at female commentators in men’s futbol, saying, “Women shouldn’t be commentating with any kind of authority on the men’s game.” And any bloke who disagrees with him is “an absolute fart parcel.” Double sigh.

LUMP O’ COAL: Spain’s now-defrocked slimeball futbol kingpin, Luis Rubiales, celebrated the country’s Women’s World Cup title by planting a smooch on Spanish star Jenni Hermoso’s lips and also grabbed his crotch, which might have been his way of saluting the flag. Rubiales refused to go gentle into the night, but a sexual assault charge and unrelenting international scorn convinced FIFA to give him the official kiss off. He was told to get lost for three years.

GIFT: Christine Sinclair went home to beautiful B.C. to bid adieu to our national women’s soccer side in a friendly vs. Australia, and dry eyes were scarce. It was a lovely, emotional farewell to a footy legend and Canadian treasure.

GIFT: Mark and Kimbra Walter brought great gobs of coin and renewed life to Ponytail Puck when they unlocked the vault to purchase the Premier Hockey Federation in June, then create the Professional Women’s Hockey League. Six franchises to be named later will drop the puck next month, and the three Canadian sides (Montreal, Ottawa, Republic of Tranna) are talking about performing in sold-out barns and/or in front of record-setting gatherings for their home openers.

LUMP O’ COAL: Let’s make it an entire coal bin for Puck Czar Gary Bettman, who exposed the “Hockey Is For Everyone” rallying cry as the National Hockey League’s Trademark Big Lie. First, he gave the NHL’s 700-plus players his official okie-dokie to make anti-gay statements (i.e. refusing to wear Pride specialty jerseys in warmup.) “We continue to encourage voices on social and cultural issues,” he said. (Oh hell, Gary, why not just say, “You have the right to be a bigot!” and be done with it?) Next, to spare bigoted players public scorn, he banned all specialty jerseys, but we all know it was a ban on Pride jerseys. He called them “a distraction” and he was right—the bigotry became a distraction. Then he put the kibosh on Pride tape, outlawing its use pre-game, in-game, at practice, and whenever any NHL player wanted to join in a spirited game of street hockey with the neighborhood kids. Puck Czar Gary stopped short of barring those in the LGBT(etc.) community from purchasing tickets and entering the NHL’s 32 barns, but, hey, the year isn’t over.

LUMP O’ COAL: Ivan Provorov, then of the Philly Flyers, started the NHL’s Rainbow Resistance Movement last January when he refused to play along with teammates while they frolicked, pre-game, on Pride Night. As they flitted about the freeze in special Pride unis, the Russian Orthodox rearguard sat in the team changing room, searching for Bible scripture to support his anti-LGBT(etc.) beliefs. He became Pied Piper to seven other NHLers—James Reimer, Eric Staal, Marc Staal, Ilya Samsonov, Ilya Lyubushkin, Andrei Kuzmenko, Denis Gurianov—and three teams—New York Rangers, Chicago Blackhawks, Minnesota Wild—to form the Rainbow Resistance Movement. The players cited either religion or Russia’s anti-gay laws to explain their position, whichever was most convenient.

GIFT: Travis Dermott of the Arizona Coyotes, recognizing that the Pride tape ban was a truly dumb directive, flipped Puck Czar Gary the bird (figuratively) and used the Rainbow wrap on the shaft of his stick. More recently, Connor McDavid was observed with Pride tape on the blade of his stick, and New Jersey Devils players arrived at their rink wearing specialty Pride jerseys. Civilization as we know it did not crumble.

GIFT: The man is a motormouth beyond compare and his rants on various platforms, including ESPN, induce hemorrhaging of the ears, but Stephen A. Smith delivered my favorite sound bite of the year. Noting that world-class glutton Joey Chestnut had successfully defended his Nathan’s Famous International Hot Dog pigout title by scarfing down 62 tube steaks in 10 minutes, Smith said: “It’s nasty as shit. His significant other does not want to be around him for the next few days. It’s gonna be a lot of gas passed. It’s a lot of gas. I know ’cause I don’t eat hot dogs like that and I pass gas sometimes. Stay away from me. I don’t want to meet you. You might burp and I might smell it from a mile away. I don’t need that in my life. No, no, no.”

GIFT: Also in the favorite-quotes category were New York Mets broadcaster Keith (Magic Loogie) Hernandez and hockey natterbug Greg Millen.
First Hernandez, who offered this batting tip: “You want to always be erect when you make contact. Like a telephone pole!”
Now Millen, on the Calgary Flames: “If you’re not scoring, ya gotta find ways to score.”

GIFT: Scant seconds after the Winnipeg Jets had been ushered out of the Stanley Cup tournament by Vegas Golden Knights, head coach Rick Bowness was in no mood to pat his players on their delicate egos. Instead, Bones had the (apparent) bad manners to deliver a public flogging. He noted the absence of pushback against Vegas and described the Game 5 effort as “crap,” saying he was “disgusted. Their better players were so much better than ours, it wasn’t even close.” Hmmm. Rick Bowness unplugged. Bravo, Bones.

LUMP O’ COAL: Bones wanted pushback from his players? He got it on garbage bag day. His truth bomb had lower lips drooping in the changing room, and the poor dears boo-hooed their way through season-ending natters with news snoops. The Sad Sack bunch that wouldn’t push back vs. Vegas attacked Bowness, dissing their bench puppeteer as a big meanie who stole their lunch money. And, no surprise, it was now-departed former Captain Cranky Pants Blake Wheeler leading the group pout. It was a pathetic, whine-and-cheesy pity party that confirmed the time for Wheeler to leave the building was long overdue.

GIFT: Many pundits expected Puck Pontiff Mark Chipman and GM Kevin Cheveldayoff to go all Property Brothers and undertake a massive renovation of the Jets roster. You know, strip it to the studs! Instead, the reno was limited to shedding themselves of a very bad contract, Wheeler’s, and peddling sourpuss centre Pierre-Luc Dubois to Tinseltown in barter for Gabriel Vilardi, Alex IaFallo and Rasmus Kupari. They then convinced 30somethings Mark Scheifele and Connor Hellebuyck to stay for the duration, signing both to seven-year extensions that kick in next year. Those contracts will age about as well as a carton of milk in a desert sun, but they seem to have already stirred something fresh into Scheifele’s game and the Jets overall brew (see current NHL standings).

LUMP O’ COAL: The Jets season-ticket campaign Forever Winnipeg last spring came across as a buy-or-else threat to the rabble, rather than a rah-rah pep rally. I mean, you might show film of a funeral to sell caskets and long, black cars, but you don’t do it to lure warm bodies to the Little Hockey House On The Prairie. Yet the geniuses in the True North Sports + Entertainment marketing department decided Forever Winnipeg should include footage of Jets 1.0 skipping town in April 1996, a grim reminder of the Day of the Long Faces. That was totally lame-o.

GIFT: Same as last year, Kerri Einarson, Val Sweeting, Shannon Birchard and Briane Harris brought pebble glory to the centre of the curling universe, winning the Scotties Tournament of Hearts. If you’re scoring at home, that’s four in a row for the Gimli Girls and, if all goes well, they’ll hunt down a fifth title in Calgary two months from now. Go get ’em, girls!

GIFT: I suppose there are some elite curlers who wish Jennifer Jones would take up another hobby (beach combing, collecting stamps, birding…anything!) to occupy her time at age 49, but our country’s Grand Dame of Pebble People won’t oblige. Jen & the 20somethings— Karlee Burgess, Mackenzie Zacharias, Emily Zacharias, Lauren Lenentine—won the Manitoba title (Jen’s ninth as a skip) and they didn’t stop winning until the final of the national Scotties, when they ran up against the juggernaut known as Team Einarson.

GIFT: The Grey Cup champion Montreal Larks wrote a gripping yarn in Rouge Football, starting with the purchase of the orphaned franchise by media mogul Pierre-Karl Péladeau and culminating in a happily-ever-after finish in the Grey Cup game. Ya, it’s a total bummer that the Larks torpedoed the Winnipeg Blue Bombers’ bid to grab the Grey Grail for the third time in four seasons, but I like it when a filthy rich guy buys a sports toy and stays the hell out of the way so the football minds can do their work. And GM Danny Maciocia, sideline steward Jason Maas and QB Cody Fajardo definitely got the job done for Monsieur Péladeau.

GIFT: Amar Doman is another Rouge Football bankroll who has the smarts to let the football people with his B.C. Leos do the football things. Doman focuses on getting bodies into the pews at B.C. Place, and if that means recruiting LL Cool J or OneRepublic to fill chairs, he opens the wallet then steps aside.

GIFT: When he wasn’t rescuing dogs, Brady Oliveira was running over, under and around Canadian Football League defenders. The Bombers tailback topped the three-downs game in rushing, yards from scrimmage and touchdowns.

LUMP O’ COAL: The Football Reporters of Canada were under the misguided notion that Chad Kelly was the most outstanding player in the CFL, even though the Toronto Argos quarterback led the league in absolutely nothing. I’m not convinced he was the best QB, let alone the premier overall player. The George Reed MOP trinket belonged to Oliveira.

LUMP O’ COAL: Davis Sanchez of the CFL on TSN panel compared Kelly to Doug Flutie: “(Kelly’s) that good, that talented.” Oh, put a sock in it Chez!

GIFT: The football writers got one thing right: They finally inducted a woman into the Media Wing of the Canadian Football Hall of Fame. Vicki Hall became the first female to join 104 men in the old boys’ club, and it shouldn’t have taken this long.

LUMP O’ COAL: If Globe and Mail jock columnist Cathal Kelly scribbled anything from The Hammer during Grey Cup week, I missed it. How does a national newspaper skip the national football final and the accompanying hijinks? The mind boggles.

LUMP O’ COAL: How does the Drab Slab (Winnipeg Free Press) continue to publish a sports section without a sports columnist?

LUMP O’ COAL: The Drab Slab ran an editorial on the hassle between Soccer Canada and our women’s national side, which stated: “This dispute is not just about resources. It’s also about respect. Women’s sport has chronically been devalued and dismissed, and often ignored entirely. It would be a shame for the beautiful game to continue to be marred by such ugly gender inequalities.” Sorry, but here’s what’s actually shameful: The opinionists at the Freep refuse to recognize the “ugly gender inequalities” on their own sports pages.

LUMP O’ COAL: Damien Cox of the Toronto Star also weighed in on the matter of male/female sports coverage, submitting this nugget of nonsense: “It certainly seems acutely unbalanced” Yikes! It seems unbalanced? That’s like saying Shaquille O’Neal seems to be bigger than Simone Biles.

GIFT: The Drab Slab continues to dispatch scribes hither and yon to cover the Jets, Bombers and big-ticket curling events. That’s how it’s supposed to be done.

GIFT: Paul Friesen, Ted Wyman and Scott Billeck keep fighting the good fight for the Winnipeg Sun, even though the parent company, Postmedia, has their hands tied behind their backs and their feet in shackles.

LUMP O’ COAL: No one is as prolific at airing grievances as Steve Simmons, and the Postmedia Tranna columnist didn’t disappoint in 2023. He spent much of the year yelling at the kids on his lawn, and his grousing included this gobsmacking gem: “I do love watching the Masters, but I wonder: Can we edit out the bird chirping that’s heard in the background?” (Oh, yes, by all means, Steve. And perhaps we can also take a weed whacker to those pesky azaleas at Augusta National. Good grief. You know a guy’s achieved cranky old man status when springtime delights like birds chirping disturbs his couch potatoing.)

LUMP O’ COAL: When Tiger Woods wasn’t missing the cut at the few golf tournaments he entered, he was playing frat boy pranks, like handing Justin Thomas a tampon after out-driving him at the Genesis Invitational. It was Tiger’s way of saying, “You play like a girl, fella.” You know, giggles between buds. Well, tee-hee. Tiger is funny like a bag of Old Dutch potato chips and a Slurpee is French cuisine. And, as an aside, where did he get that tampon? At the neighborhood 7-Eleven or from his teenage daughter, Sam?

And, finally, happy ho-ho-ho to all and may none of your sports heroes fall from their pedestals in 2024.

Let’s talk about a hairball from the Football Reporters of Canada…a newspaper battle in Good Ol’ Hometown…Grey Cup Sunday…three Canucks and a Jet atop NHL scoring…a Torch and a Slurpee…and other things on my mind

It’s another Couch Potato Day at Chez Swansson, listening to Matt and Milt and Bo and trying to tune out Davis and Lapo and Jim B while waiting for the Winnipeg Blue Bombers and Montreal Larks to grab grass at Timbits Field in The Hammer…

Chad Kelly got what he deserved last weekend.

This past Thursday, he got what he didn’t deserve.

Oh, yes, five days after Kelly had coughed up a hairball the size of Lake Ontario, the Football Reporters of Canada coughed up a hairball the size of Lake Superior and anointed the Toronto Argos quarterback the finest performer in Rouge Football.

Embarrassed? Well, football reporters should be, but news snoops are usually only red-faced at closing time.

Come to think of it, perhaps a pub is where most of them filled out their ballots for the Canadian Football League’s year-end awards, because impairment is the only possible explanation for handing the George Reed Most Outstanding Player trinket to Kelly.

It’s not that Kelly soiled the sheets during the 2023 crusade. But, individually, he didn’t do anything extraordinary. Did he lead the league in passing yards? No. Did he lead the league in pass completions? No. Did he have the best passing percentage? No. Did he toss for the most TDs? No. Did he have the highest efficiency rating? No. Did he scamper for more yards than every other QB? No.

Cripes, man, Winnipeg Blue Bombers QB Zach Collaros was better than Kelly in all but one of those six disciplines.

Meantime, the other man on the final MOP ballot, Brady Oliveira, ran like a scalded dog all season, topping out in rushing yards (1,534), yards from scrimmage (2,106) and touchdowns (13).

It sure seems to me that the football reporters are guilty of VWITG (voting while in the grog).

So, yes, they should be ashamed, and anointing Kelly MOP is a horrible optic when coupled with his calamitous performance in last Saturday’s East Division final vs. Montreal Larks. There’s only one reason the Argos won’t be grabbing grass at Timbits Field in this evening’s 110th skirmish for the Grey Cup—Kelly’s ghastly, deer-in-the-headlights quarterbacking. He was Larry, Curly or Moe. Take your pick. He kept giving the Larks the pigskin (four interceptions, two pick-sixes, one lost fumble, two failed third-and-shorts), and that seldom pays dividends in playoff football. Or on a sandlot, for that matter. Thus, the Boatmen were one-and-done, deservedly so.

Of course, Kelly’s Keystone Kop QB shtick in a 38-17 drubbing by the Larks wasn’t a consideration in MOP voting, because the ballots were in long before his deep dive into slapstick. The verdict had already been delivered (39 ayes for Kelly, 22 for Oliveira), and I suspect the news snoops know they look like twits, even if most of them won’t admit it.

But, hey, it’s not at all surprising that they’d opt for Kelly over Oliveira. They’re cult-like in their admiration for QBs and, remember, this is the same Old Boys Club that took almost half a century to elect a female to the Media Wing of the Canadian Football Hall of Fame.

Hands up all those who believe Kelly’s claim that he was concussed during the Argos-Larks skirmish. That’s the tale he told John Hodge of 3DownNation a few days after the fact, although Kelly couldn’t pinpoint the moment he had his bell rung. Which, if you’ve ever had your bell rung, makes sense. Among the many symptoms of a concussion, you see, is wonky recall. Except there’s this: It was a self-diagnosis. That’s right. QB Kelly became Dr. Kelly. He had nary a natter about a whack to the noggin with anyone holding a medical degree. Medics didn’t detect any signs of head trauma in observing his play or sideline behaviour. Nor did his coaches. Kelly never spent time in the quiet tent. He simply diagnosed himself as concussed. Thus, it lends itself to skepticism. Saying “my head was not good” comes across as a complete copout, a way to excuse a game gone horribly wrong. I mean, the guy was flinging the football to the wrong team from the get-go, which is to say the Boatmen’s opening offensive salvo. Are we to believe he hit his head on the changing room door en route to the field? But, as someone who’s suffered multiple concussions and remains affected by them to this day, I can say that they make you say and do peculiar things. Like pretending to be a doctor. Trust me. Been there, done that. It’s scary stuff. Kelly’s comments ring genuine to me.

I’m all for the Lords of Rouge Football honoring the game’s greats, but it seems odd that they’d name the MOP in honor of a running back, George Reed. Not that the Saskatchewan Roughriders legend is unworthy. It’s just that the football reporters’ fascination with quarterbacks has made it a QB award, with 17 of the past 23 winners (42 overall) behind centre. Seems to me that Ol’ Spaghetti Legs, Jackie Parker, would have been more appropriate.

If you’re wondering, Vicki Hall becomes a rose among 104 thorns this very day when FRC members gather to officially welcome her to the Media Wing of the CFHofF. And, no, I can’t explain why it took them so long to add a female member.

There’s always been a feel-good vibe between the CFL and the boys and girls on the beat, even when the Lords of Rouge Football are doing cockeyed things like swooping into the U.S. or keeping female reporters out of changing rooms (hello, Cal Murphy). The scribes and talking heads genuinely like the league, the quirkiness of the game, the characters (hello again, Cal Murphy), the accessibility of the players, and the closeness of the small community. Alas, the herd of news snoops covering the three-downs game has dwindled this century, with few outlets dispatching their people to games hither and yon. That was among the talking points in CFL commissioner Randy Ambrosie’s natter with news snoops during Grey Cup week.

“It’s certainly something we talk about all the time and we think about all the time,” Commish Randy said. “There’s been an erosion of kind of the mainstream media industry and many of you have seen colleagues of yours who covered our league and covered sports for a long time come and go. I think the answer is…we know we’re gonna have to be much more self-reliant, we’re gonna have to focus on many of our own solutions to get our story told. We do have some remarkable professionals that do work inside of our league that help get that story told.

“And, of course, we rely on all of you and I do want to emphasize that I thank all of you for the role you play. We try to work as much as possible with all of you to give you the fuel and oxygen you need to tell our story, but I think longer term we are convinced that in some ways we’ll have to be able to do more of that heavy lifting on our own and be responsible for more of that.”

Translation: Will the last news snoop to leave please remember to turn out the lights?

The sports columnist at our national newspaper, Cathal Kelly, won’t be the last to leave. He’s already gone. I mean, if he was in The Hammer to opine on the Grey Cup participants or hijinks in advance of this evening’s Bombers-Larks skirmish, he wasn’t there long enough to run up a decent bar tab. Nary a word from Kelly re Grey Grail appeared in the Globe and Mail during the week. But, hey, he managed to scribble something about Jim Harbaugh, an American college football coach, so there’s that. (Trent Frayne will be spinning like a lathe in his grave.)

The Grey Cup week shocker was Paul Friesen and Ted Wyman of the Winnipeg Sun putting feet on the ground in The Hammer. Postmedia doesn’t get a whole lot of things right, but taking the travel shackles off the two Sun scribes was definitely the right thing to do with the home side in the hunt for a return to Grey Grail glory. With Friesen and Wyman on site, it made for a dandy newspaper battle between the Sun and Drab Slab, which sent Jeff Hamilton and young Taylor Allen into the fray. They all scribbled boffo stuff, of course, and the final article count was Sun 24, Drab Slab 22.

Best Grey Grail read for me was delivered by young Eddie Tait, whose rock bottom-to-top of the heap yarn on Brady Oliveira was boffo stuff. Young Eddie, of course, was once the premier writer on all things three-downs football at both the Sun and Drab Slab, and he often reminds us what we’ve been missing in our daily newspapers. Fortunately, we can always find it at bluebombers.com, where his tale-telling continues to flow.

If the Bombers topple the Larks today, remind me to ask Young Eddie if it’s difficult typing with Grey Cup rings on three of his fingers.

I couldn’t work in jock journalism today (newspaper department) if I was required to perform all the self-promotion I see on X. The boys at the Drab Slab, in particular, are unabashed braggarts, constantly pumping their own tires as if a dangling participle has never found its way onto their pages. It’s all fabulous stuff. Just ask them. Well, if it’s all the same to them, I’ll make my own call on what’s good and what should have been spiked.

Hey, look who’s taken to social media to give a shoutout to the Bombers in advance of today’s skirmish vs. the Larks: Burton Cummings, that’s who. I assume Burton sent his well wishes from his home in Moose Jaw, but don’t ask me why a rock ‘n’ roll legend is hanging his hat in a remote outpost on the Flattest Of Lands. Can we expect Mick and Keith to settle in Speedy Creek or Biggar?

When I awoke this morning, three Vancouver Canucks—Quinn Hughes, Elias Pettersson, J.T. Miller—were atop the NHL points leaderboard with 28 apiece, and Kyle Connor of the Winnipeg Jets sat in the catbird seat among goal-scorers with 14. That must be such an inconvenience for both TSN and Sportsnet. I mean, if those four puck hogs from the colonies insist on putting up those kind of numbers, our two national sports networks might take notice and be forced to pre-empt their regularly scheduled slobbering over the Maple Leafs.

This from the TSN website: “After being selected first overall in the NHL Draft, (Connor) Bedard is off to red-hot start and on pace to set a new mark for modern-day rookie goal scorers.” Excuse me, but Teemu Salanne lit the lamp 76 times as an NHL freshman, in 1992-93. If that wasn’t ‘modern day’ when did ‘modern day’ begin?

Montreal Canadiens saluted former captain Pierre Turgeon last week by placing him in the Ring of Honour at the Bell Centre. As part of the ceremony, Turgeon carried the Habs Torch to centre ice. When they do that in Winnipeg, the player carries a Slurpee.

Personally, I don’t care that the Professional Women’s Hockey League is still without team names, team logos and a schedule. It’s enough that they’re at training camp and they’ll drop the puck in January.

Swift Current Broncos have suspended head coach Devan Praught for being a jerk to teenage boys, that on the heels of Kevin Constantine being booted out of the Western Hockey League for being a jerk to teenage boys. What the hell is wrong with these guys?

There’s a report that the Major League Baseball competition committee is toying with the nation of reducing the pitch clock with runners on base from 20 seconds to 18. Hey, I’m all for giving the game some giddyup, but if they keep tinkering with the pitch clock they might as well just play T-ball.

Megan Rapinoe says her injury in the National Women’s Soccer League final is proof there is no God. I agree. I mean, if there really is a God, she/he would have crippled Rapinoe’s mouth, not her leg.

Hey, Tiger Woods will be teeing it up in the Hero World Challenge, a golf tournament he hosts in the Bahamas. Finally, someone who can get Taylor Swift off the sports pages.

And, finally, enjoy the game and go Bombers!

Let’s talk about our two all-Leafs sports channels missing the boat on the Canucks…hug an Oilers fan…bye, bye Bo?…Rouge Football in Quebec City…neck guards and vanity…cleavage on the sports pages…and other things on my mind

A tweet is a tweet is a tweet by any name, so don’t call these the X files…

Let’s take inventory: The Vancouver Canucks have the third-best record in the National Hockey League, 8-2-1.
The Canucks are tops among the seven Canadian-based outfits.
The Canucks lineup features the league’s top point-collector, Elias Pettersson.
The Canucks lineup features the league’s top-scoring defenceman, Quinn Hughes.
The Canucks lineup features three of the league’s top-10 scorers.
The Canucks racked up another W on Saturday night, beating the Dallas Stars 2-zip.
So who did Sportsnet lead its highlights show with this morning? That’s right, the Toronto Maple Leafs, who lost.
And who did TSN lead its hockey package with this morning? That’s right, the Toronto Maple Leafs.
Well, of course they did. After all, Leafs coach Sheldon Keefe let his guard dog, Ryan Reaves, off the bench long enough to do nothing except snarl at some of the Buffalo Sabres. And sources say both Auston Matthews and Mitch Marner brushed their teeth post-game, so Sportsnet and TSN had no choice but to put the loser Leafs in front of the Canucks on the pecking order.
If it doesn’t happen in the Republic of Tranna, it doesn’t happen, right?
Pathetic. Truly pathetic. But not surprising.

If you meet an Edmonton Oilers fan today, speak softly when trying to talk her or him off the ledge. And, hey, let’s declare this Hug An Oilers Fan Day.

Looking for the name Connor McDavid in the chase for the Art Ross Trophy? Well, you’ll need a coal miner and a canary to find the Oilers captain, because he’s lower than Trudeau the Younger’s approval rating. He’s T56 with 10 points. Interesting thing, though: I still wouldn’t want to bet against McDavid winning the top-scorer trinket.

What a boffo sports weekend in Vancouver—the B.C. Leos and UBC Thunderbirds both won playoff football skirmishes, while the Canucks shut down the Dallas Stars, and now the Whitecaps are ready to join the fun with a playoff futbol kickabout this afternoon. Why, there hasn’t been this much excitement in Vancity since the rabble broke out the matches and tried to burn the place down in 2011.

Now that the Leos have booked a date with the Blue Bombers next Saturday in Good Ol’ Hometown, the big question in advance of the Canadian Football League West Division final is this: What level of nastiness will Ma Nature dial up? I mean, it’s one thing for the Leos to give the Calgary Stampeders a 41-30 wedgie in the climate-controlled environment of B.C. Place, but beating the Bombers on their frost-bitten, frozen tundra is a special kind of challenge. Prairie football in mid-November can be harsher than a hanging judge, so if Ma Nature is in a foul mood it’s advantage Winnipeg.

Chances are we’ve seen the last of Bo Levi Mitchell, Rouge Football quarterback extraordinaire. Bo spent all but 6½ minutes on the sidelines Saturday, his roll with the Hamilton Tabbies reduced to mop-up duty in a 27-12 loss to the Montreal Larks. He tossed four passes, one that went to one of his guys, one that went to one of the other guys, and two that missed the mark. It wasn’t what the Tabbies anticipated or expected when they handed the broken-down Bo a three-year contract that pays in excess of $500,000 per. “If you’re not playing your highest paid player on this team in a playoff game, I don’t foresee myself being here,” Mitchell told TSN’s Matthew Scianitti in a somber Tabbies changing room. Trouble is, his options are limited. Only one outfit in Rouge Football will be in the market for a starting QB—Ottawa—and they know Bo isn’t even a reasonable facsimile of his former self.

What in the name of Sam Etcheverry was Cody Fajardo thinking? I mean, the Montreal Larks QB chose to play the “no respect” card in advance of the CFL East Division semifinal, which is fine. Like, whatever floats your boat, right? But I’m not sure the guy who pays the bills, Pierre Karl Peladeau, appreciated his quarterback telling potential fans to get lost.“It’s too late,” Fajardo said. “It’s too late to buy stock in this football team and that’s our mindset. We’ll prove it when we get to the Grey Cup and we hoist that Grey Cup over our head.” That’s just dumb.

The Lords of Rouge Football have given commissioner Randy Ambrosie a mandate to grow by one, which is to say add an expansion franchise. But don’t bet on it being in the Maritimes. Commish Randy had a natter with Donnie and Dhali The Team the other day, and he sounded more bullish on Quebec City becoming the 10th member. “We’re trying to cross that last hurdle and be able to announce a team,” he told Don Taylor and Rick Dhaliwal. “Will we or won’t we, I don’t know for sure. But it’s not just about Atlantic Canada. We’re going to look at other markets. Quebec City is a fantastic market. In many respects, it’s the most logical next city by size—it’s just slightly smaller than Winnipeg, it’s bigger than both Regina and Saskatoon combined. It’s got a great community…Quebec has got a great football culture. It would establish a tremendous rivalry for the Alouettes. There’s lots of reasons to like that market. So we’re not exclusively Atlantic Canada focused. We need to look at these other markets.”

Once again, I ask this: How can the Football Reporters of Canada possibly hand Chad Kelly the Most Outstanding Player trinket when he leads Rouge Football in exactly zero—zero!—significant QB categories? Of the seven guys who tossed 300-plus passes this crusade, here’s where the Toronto Argos quarterback ranks:
5th in completions
4th in completion percentage
4th in yards
3rd in TDs
T2 in fewest interceptions
2nd in efficiency
4th in rushing.
Do the math, boys and girls.

Apparently Arash Madani failed math, because the Sportsnet natterbug and Football Canada board member revealed his final awards ballot on X, and he opted for Kelly over the more worthy Brady Oliveira, the Winnipeg Blue Bombers running back who covered more ground than an 1880s Oklahoma Sooner. Oliveira was first in rushing (by 400 yards), first in yards from scrimmage (2,016) and first in touchdowns (13). What part of “first” does Madani not understand?

No surprise that Madani would give his MOP vote to Kelly, because we’re accustomed to brain farts by arrogant news snoops in the Republic of Tranna. But his indifference is inexcusable. In naming his choice for top offensive lineman, he writes. “Hardrick, I guess.” He guesses? He guesses Jermarcus Hardrick of the Bombers is the best grunt guy in Rouge Football? He didn’t give it any thought? He didn’t consult anyone? Is he not aware that winning one of these awards could benefit the player at contract time? If Madani is guessing, why did the FRC give him a ballot? Shame, shame.

If we were to poll the 700-plus National Hockey League players, asking them if wearing neck/throat protection is preferable to a trip to the morgue, little doubt the result would be unanimous on the “yes” side. That’s because they know their skate blades are razor sharp and, if dragged across human flesh, they’re apt to cause injury. Deadly injury. They knew this before Adam Johnson’s neck was sliced open by an opponent’s skate blade during an Elite Ice Hockey League game in the U.K. last weekend, and they’re aware he died on an operating table at Northern Sheffield Hospital shortly thereafter. They also know about Clint Malarchuk and Richard Zednik. So why are so many declining to wear available neck protection?

Silliest reason for balking on what could be life-saving equipment: Vanity. “To be honest, I think guys just don’t like the look of them.” Brock Boeser of the Canucks told Sportsnet. Meantime, Ottawa Senators forward Mathieu Joseph provided the backup vocals: “It bugs some guys to wear them, and they don’t think it looks good, but we don’t want to lose another player like we just did.” Yo! Boys! People are paying in excess of $100 to get into an NHL rink to watch hockey, not to stare at your neck. Your wife or girl friend might think your neck is sexy, but it isn’t a selling point to anyone else.

Other players, like Buffalo Sabres blueliner Rasmus Dahlin, gave neck/throat protection a test drive last week and found it to be cumbersome and made him too hot, so he scrapped it mid-game. I’m guessing fire fighters find their equipment cumbersome, as well, but they won’t enter a burning building without it.

Just a thought: Why do NHL players need a reminder that wagering on NHL games is a definite no-no? Are they really that dense?

As I recall, Maple Leafs GM Brad Treliving recruited Tyler Bertuzzi, Ryan Reaves and Max Domi to provide more grit and toughness and sandpaper to a roster that had been lacking in grit, toughness and sandpaper. So how’s it working out? Well, here’s Terry Koshan’s take in the Toronto Sun: “Not only have Tyler Bertuzzi, Max Domi and Ryan Reaves not provided the snot that general manager Brad Treliving envisioned when he signed them during the summer, the trio hasn’t provided much of anything.”

Love this tweet from Josh Bradshaw: “Brad Treliving at the Free Agent Drive Thru this past Offseason: ‘Hey could I get an order of piss and vinegar? On second thought, hold the vinegar.’ ”

I saw a headline the other day that said they’d found evidence of rats in supposedly rat-free Alberta. I assumed Brad Marchand had been traded to the Flames or Oilers.

What happens first, Victor Wembanyama scores 50 points in an NBA game or I spell his name correctly without looking it up?

Things that make me go hmmm, Vol. 2,161: James Harden—late of the Oklahoma City Thunder, late of the Houston Rockets, late of the Brooklyn Nets, late of the Philly 76ers and now a member of the Los Angeles Clippers—is a curious bit of business, but not in an admirable way. Arguably the most annoying man in hoops, if not all sports, he had a meet-and-greet natter with L.A. news snoops the other day and delivered a most curious sound bite. “I’m not a system player. I’m a system,” he said. Hmmm. I think he meant to say he was a symptom of the Me-First Epidemic in today’s NBA.

I mentioned Conservative Party leader Pierre Poilievre’s phony smile in last week’s post, and that put at least one reader’s nose out of joint. “Don’t get Canadian political,” he scolded. Fair enough. I’ll get out of politics if Poilievre gets out of politics.

If I were to interview Poilievre, I think I’d do something rude. You know, like eat an apple while asking questions.

True story: I called up the the Toronto Sun website the other day and found an article by Dan Bilicki with the headline “Paige Spiranic says her breasts have gotten ‘a lot bigger’. If you haven’t been formally introduced, Spiranic is a one-time pro golfer and now a “golf influencer” (whatever the hell that means), and Bilicki tells us all about Paige’s girls, which are ample. I’m uncertain how the size and realness of Paige’s boobs qualifies as a sports article, but it’s rumored that a feature on the Real Housewives of Mississauga will be on the sports front next week.

Just wondering: Is it mandatory for me to include a pic of Taylor Swift with this post, or is it enough that I mention her?

And, finally, I’m a Beatles fan, but I’m not a Beatles fan who believes every song from the Liverpool lads is a classic. The Fab Four’s newest/old recording, Now and Then, is one of their non-classics, even if it brought tears to my eyes upon first listen. But after half a dozen listens since its release last Thursday, it hasn’t really grown on me. It’s similar to Free As A Bird, also not a classic. I’m glad Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr put it out, but it won’t replace A Day In the Life or I Am the Walrus or Got To Get You Into My Life or Dear Prudence or She’s A Woman on my playlist.

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.

Let’s talk about Mud Murdoch…a pinata named Rapinoe…Rouge Football balderdash from the Republic of Tranna…golfing on cow pastures?…and sickening news in tennis…

I remember the day Bob (Mud) Murdoch was introduced as the freshly minted bench puppeteer of the Winnipeg Jets, although certain of the details are sketchy.

To the best of my recall, which admittedly is grainy, it was a lovely summer day and us news snoops had gathered at a downtown hotel for Mud’s coronation, whereupon I approached him for a re-introduction once the formal portion of the proceedings had been cleared away.

I say “re-introduction” because Mud and I had a bit of history, dating back to the early-1980s.

Mud Murdoch

He had been one of Badger Bob Johnson’s assistants with the Calgary Flames, you see, and I wrote a daily sports column for the Calgary Sun, having escaped the Republic of Tranna.

“Didn’t you and I coach the Flames one night?” Mud asked with a knowing smile.

“We did,” I answered. “I was the head coach, you were my assistant.”

It was true.

The final act of the Flames training exercises that particular year was a full-on intrasquad game, Reds vs. Whites, in Okotoks, just a hoot and a holler down the road south of Cowtown. The reasons behind my participation behind the bench escape me, but no doubt it involved the promotions department of the newspaper and the National Hockey League club. Who benefited? Certainly no one on the shinny side of the hokey promotion, and not the newspaper, since I declined to recount my night as an NHL coach in the next morning’s sports section.

Basically, it was a silly idea and we all went along with the gag.

“You were terrible,” Mud reminded me at his coronation near Portage and Main. “You were a terrible coach.”

“Terrible?” I squawked in mock horror. “Who won the game?”

“We did.”

“Case closed. I retired undefeated. Let’s see if you can do as well with the Jets.”

We both laughed, then I offered him some tongue-in-cheek counsel: “Rent don’t buy. Coaches don’t last long in this town.”

Turns out that Mud coaxed a 37-32-11 record out of the Winnipegs in his first whirl, 1989-90, and that earned him the Jack Adams Award as top bench boss in the NHL. Alas, he was dismissed following his second season (26-43-11, out of the playoffs), and the Jets lost a good man. An cerebral man. A humorous man. An engaging man. A guy with the best mustache this side of Tom Selleck.

And now that good man has left us permanently, dead last week at age 76. RIP Mud, and thanks for the giggles.

Megan Rapinoe

Well, the American media won’t have Megan Rapinoe to use for a pinata much longer, but we can be certain they’ll get in a few good whacks before the veteran forward fades into life after futbol. It wasn’t Rapinoe’s fault that the U.S. failed to locate the back of the net through 120 minutes of nil-nil soccer vs. Sweden this morning, because she didn’t step onto the pitch until the second 45 of regulation. Still, she flubbed a penalty kick in the shootout that ushered the Yankee Doodle Damsels out of the FIFA Women’s World Cup, and that will be their main talking point, also a source of great glee. Some among her print/electronic antagonists are sure to heap further scorn on Rapinoe because she was observed smiling at the bitter end while a few of her younger associates were in tears. As sure as there’s a crack in the Liberty Bell, Rapinoe will take the rap for the Americans’ misfortune.

I don’t know about you, but I prefer my futbol on TV with a British accent. I tried watching the Fox Sports feed of the U.S.-Sweden skirmish, but it just didn’t work for me. I lasted about as long as it takes to butter my toast, then it was back to the TSN feed for English accents and the calming cadence and deeper knowledge of the talking heads.

Winnipeg Blue Bombers 50, B.C. Leos 14. Say no more. I mean, doesn’t that score say it all?

Here’s Davis Sanchez of the CFL on TSN squawk squad, comparing Toronto Argos QB Chad Kelly to the legendary Doug Flutie, whose collection of Canadian Football League trinkets includes six Most Oustanding Player Awards, three Grey Cups rings, three Grey Cup game MVP awards: “(Kelly’s) that good, that talented.” Good grief.

Come to think of it, the blab boys on TSN said the same thing about their favorite lousy quarterback, Johnny Manzel, when he came up north as an NFL washout and made his exit south as a CFL washout. I believe Johnny Rotten has since washed out of every football league in existence (and some that have disappeared), and the gum-flappers on TSN finally stopped talking about him last week.

There’s been chatter drifting from the Republic of Tranna that Kelly is the leading candidate for MOP this year. Can we table that discussion until post-Labor Day?

BMO Field

This morning’s comic relief comes courtesy Damien Cox, a Toronto Star scribe who sometimes notices Rouge Football, but only if Auston Mathews and Mitch Marner have gone fishing, or whatever it is that 20something multi-millionaires do with their downtime. And so it was last week when Cox decided to rain hosannas on the Argos, fresh off their sixth successive W in six skirmishes.

Here’s a sampling of his scribblings:

“For two decades, it seemed the Toronto Argonauts were intent on dragging the rest of thd Canadian Football League down with bad teams, bad attendance, bad marketing or all of the above. Now, it appears the Argos are the CFL franchise determined to pull the rest of the three-down league up by its collective bootstraps. How’s that for a turnaround in fortunes?
“Indisputably the best in Canadian football right now.”
“In terms of on-field product, the Argos are the class of the league.”
“They are setting a standard that only the Lions seem capable of matching.”
“For now at least, an unbeaten and untied Toronto squad gets to be the flagship of the league.”
“Their latest triumph should at least start chatter about whether the Argos are capable of running the table.”

Hoo boy. Where to begin? Well, let’s start with that “flagship of the league” hooey. It takes more than six wins to become the flagship of Rouge Football. It also includes community interest and support. In their two assignments at BMO Field this crusade, the Boatmen are averaging 14,220 customers. By way of comparison, the Bombers (the actual flagship franchise) attracted more than double that (30,874) to the Football Field In Fort Garry on Thursday night, when they rag-dolled the Leos, 50-14. Calling the Boatmen the “flagship” is like calling a cocktail napkin a beach blanket.

As for the rest of Cox’s d’oh boy musings, we know the Argos won’t be “running the table” unless there’s a recount on their 20-7 drubbing vs. Calgary Stampeders on Friday, and…well, let’s just say he jumped the gun on all counts.

The Train Trestle Hole at Kildonan Park Golf Course.

Here’s something weekend hackers in Good Ol’ Hometown and environs probably didn’t know about their golf courses: They’re cow pastures. I mean, what other conclusion is there to be drawn after scanning SCOREGolf’s list of the top 59 public courses on Our Frozen Tundra? Get this: Nine provinces are represented, the sole outrider being Manitoba. Here’s the evidence:

BC: 18
Ontario: 17
Alberta: 9
N.S.: 6
Quebec: 3
P.E.I.: 3
NL: 1
N.B.: 1
Saskatchewan: 1
Manitoba: 0

That’s right, according to SCOREGolf, even the Flattest of Lands has a public 18-hole track (Waskesiu Golf Course in Prince Albert National Park at No. 22) superior to anything you’ll find in our own backyard. (I agree, it’s hard to imagine Saskatchewan having the 22nd best of anything, let alone a golf course.)

Well I call BS on the whole thing. I mean, give me Kildonan Park and its Train Trestle Hole any day. And, hey, there’s a Sals on site.

If you’re interested in teeing it up at the best of the best according to SCOREGolf, you’ll have to pack a bag and a toothbrush and head to Nova Scotia or Alberta. The top five are: Cabot Cliffs and Cabot Links in Inverness, N.S., Fairmont Jasper Park Lodge and Fairmont Banff Springs, and Cape Breton Highlands Links in Ingonish Beach, N.S.

And, finally, it pained me greatly to read about now-former Tennis Manitoba president David Scrapneck, who stepped down in disgrace after some disturbing posts surfaced on social media last week and exposed him as a raging homophobe/transphobe. According to a Winnipeg Free Press report, one post featured side-by-side pics of two groups of kids, one waving Nazi flags and the other waving Pride flags. The caption: “Same evil, different era.” That’s beyond disgusting. It sickens me. It’s an immeasurable level of hate that can be emotionally crippling to those in the LGBT(etc.) community, especially the youth, and I assume gay kids play tennis in Manitoba. Maybe they’ll quit now. I hope not. I hope they know there are good people eager to provide them with a safe space on the tennis courts in Good Ol’ Hometown and, indeed, the province. They shouldn’t be hard to find, either. At least that’s my experience. My time covering tennis for the Winnipeg Tribune throughout the 1970s was pure joy, thanks to wonderful folks like Jo and Jack Brown, Ellie O’Gorman, Judy Peake, Rick Borland, Glenn Booth, Bob Moffatt, the Campbell sisters, Jim Matthews, Betty Tuch, George Kylar, etc. The Canoe Club and Winnipeg Lawn Tennis Club were special places, and those were special people.