Forget about the CFL gas bags on TSN. For the best take on all things Rouge Football, lend an ear to my two favorite gridiron girls, Lady Portage and Dame Main, both unabashed admirers of large lads in blue-and-gold linen. Take it away, ladies…
Lady Portage: “Oh dear.”
Dame Main: “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say after our Winnipeg Blue Bombers were flogged fore and aft by the Montreal Alouettes last Thursday night? Oh dear?”
Lady Portage: “That was just my starting point, girlfriend. Believe me, I’ve been full of blah, blah, blah and yadda, yadda, yadda the past two days, and a lot of what I’ve had to say isn’t the sort of thing we’d want our two kiddies to hear. If they repeated any of it, we’d be washing their mouths out with soap.”
Dame Main: “So you’re saying you’ve been salty since the Larks paddywhacked the Bombers, 27-12.”
Lady Portage: “Like Donald Trump every time a judge overrules his lawyer’s objection.”
Dame Main: “What can you say about the Bombers that’s fit for print?”
Lady Portage: “I expected so much more from the local lads, and I suspect the mob of 30,140 that assembled at the Rum Hut did too. What better way to kick off the 2024 Canadian Football League season than to avenge their Grey Cup loss to the Larks in front of a geeked-up gathering? Instead, they coughed up a hairball the size of a Portage Avenue pothole. Pitiful.”
Dame Main: “Maybe that loss wasn’t totally unexpected, though. I mean, Zach Collaros didn’t take one snap during the Bombers dress rehearsals. Zero. And Brady Oliveira was also MIA with an owie. So the starting quarterback and main running back had been in dry dock since last November, and a whole lot of rust can build up in six-plus months.”
Lady Portage: “Rust shmust! That’s dumb coaching, as least it is in Collaros’ case. Mike O’Shea has never struck me as a cocky guy, but he thinks his quarterback is so highfalutin that pre-season skirmishes are beneath him? Pffft. How’d that work out?”
Dame Main: “Quick aside, girlfriend: O’Shea ought to pass the legendary Bud Grant as the winningest coach in Bombers history some time this season. Any guesses when it will happen?”
Lady Portage: “Based on what I witnessed the other night, not before Labor Day. Maybe not at all. He’s six shy of Grant’s 102 Ws, and I don’t see any gimme games in their schedule. Well, okay, maybe the Ottawa RedBlacks will quiver at the sight of the Bombers later this week, but I wouldn’t count on it. They’ll watch film of the Thursday fiasco and realize there’s nothing to fear in Blue-and-Gold. But, listen, the O’Shea-Grant thing is a headline for another day. Let’s focus on what is, like a place-kicker who hoofs ’em right and left but rarely where he wants them to go.”
Dame Main: “Ya, Sergio Castillo had a rough night, missing two of three field goal tries and a convert. But there’s a reason for that: The chipheads at Genius Sports somehow conned the Lords of Rouge Football into sticking a microchip inside the ball this season, which allows them to collect some kind of data that we can probably live without. Castillo insists that chip does goofy things to the flight of the ball, and every time he trots onto the field he’s “praying the Rosary.”
Lady Portage: “Ha. Sergio might want to add a few novenas and Our Fathers to all those Hail Marys, because I’m not buying that computer chip baloney. David Cote of the Larks was 2-for-2 on FGs.”
Dame Main: “But other kickers across the country were singing from the same page in the hymnal as Castillo. They agree that there’s something spooky about that computer chip, like it’s the work of a mad scientist or a voodoo queen.”
Lady Portage: “Oh, come on, girlfriend. How big is the thing? It’s not like a goiter. It’s probably no bigger than the nails on your two pretty pinky fingers. You make the chip sound like it’s the size of a sun-baked cow patty. Which is kind of appropriate because it’s a pile of BS.”
Dame Main: “Commissioner Randy Ambrosie doesn’t think so. He heard the kickers squawk, and now they can pick either the microchip balls or the old balls. Hey, maybe that’s the Bombers problem—too many old balls on the roster.”
Lady Portage: “As if. That new, hot-shot kick returner, Myron Mitchell, is just 25, and he gave no indication that there’ll be life after Janarion Grant. The entire pass-catching corps is 30 and younger, and they were MIA on Thursday. Ditto the guy who lugs the mail, Brady Oliveira. Mind you, the guy flinging the football, Zach Collaros, has long teeth and—dare I say it?—this might be a sign that his best-before date is upon us. Zach’s game was ghastly. He looked every minute of his 35 years.”
Dame Main: “Whoa, Nellie! TSN just rated Zach No. 1 on its Top 50 list of the CFL’s best players, and now you’re telling me that Father Time has caught up to him?”
Lady Portage: “I’m saying he looked and played like an old man against the Larks. He wasn’t ready for the fray. None of them were ready, and that’s down to coaching. Mike O’Shea has to be better.”
Dame Main: “Well, the good news is it’s just one game, and I’d rather see a klunker in June than November.”
Lady Portage: “Amen to that, girlfriend. Now I’ve gotta run! I think I see one of our kiddies trying to stuff a microchip into the dog’s ear! If I don’t get that thing out of there pronto, ol’ Rouge will lose his bearings and start sniffing the neighbor’s trees instead of in our back yard.”
Frankly, Scarlett, I was surprised that the Lords of Rouge Football chose to kowtow to the kickers and give them a choice of which balls to boot, especially Commish Randy. He’s a former O-lineman, you see, and O-linemen look at kickers the way many among us look at UFOs—they’re out there, but we’d rather not have anything to do with them.
It would be nice if the CFL website included attendance figures in its game packages, but the stats page is something else the Genius Sports geniuses screwed up. Fortunately, we have CFLdb, the go-to website for all things three-downs.
Let’s be clear about one thing re the Stanley Cup final: The Edmonton Oilers are a National Hockey League team based in Canada, not Canada’s team. So the talking heads on our flatscreens and opinionists in print/online can cease with that faux storyline.
Let me tell you a brief tale: Back in the day, I held title to a 15-acre patch of earth south of Winnipeg, between St-Pierre-Jolys and Grunthal, and a herd of five horses. There were also barn cats. As it happened one hot summer day, I watched in wonder as one of the felines caught a mouse and commenced to playing with it. Each time the mouse attempted a dash to freedom, the cat would reach out with a paw and redirect the rodent back into its clutches. This went on for 10-15 minutes and, eventually, the cat became bored. Crunch! It sank its teeth into the mouse and enjoyed a mid-day snack. Well, that cat and that mouse were the Edmonton Oilers and Winnipeg Jets in the 1980s. So please don’t try to convince me that the fine folks in Good Ol’ Hometown have been swept up in a great swell of nation-wide Oilersmania. That’s pure twaddle. I mean, tell me that Wab Kinew has crossed the floor of the Leg to lead the Conservative Party of Manitoba and I might buy it. Tell me that Portage and Main is beach-front property and I might make vacation plans to spend a week there. But Peggers banding together to root, root, root for the Oil, the Evil Empire? We’ll see talking kangaroo at Dieter Brock’s favorite zoo before that happens. The Oilers of Gretzky, Kurri, Coffey, Messier, Anderson, Lowe, Fuhr et al used the local shinny side for their personal play thing in the ’80s, and many among the Jets faithful still have scar tissue to show for it.
I don’t know about you, but it doesn’t really bother me that Sportsnet talker Luke Gazdic is a homer, cheering for the Oilers in their Stanley Cup showdown vs. the Florida Panthers. It’s not like he’s the first TV gab guy to wave pom-poms on air, or has everyone forgotten about Don Cherry and the Boston Bruins tattoo on his butt? Kevin Bieksa doesn’t hide his affection for the Canucks during his Sportsnet hockey gig. Over at TSN, Milt Stegall wears his fondness for the Blue Bombers on his sleeve. But Gazdic got it all wrong when he appeared on something called Oilersnation everday and spouted off like a petulant school child going “na-na-na-na-na” in the playground. “Great day to be an Oilers fan. I’m happy,” he began. Then: “Canucks Twitter, you’re an absolute joke, your team’s a joke, you’re a bunch of losers. So, the Oilers are going to the Stanley Cup finals, and I hope you guys are having fun watching it on TV and watching me on the panel, because you guys are not there. Have fun with your little whining tweets.” He closed his hissy fit with “Go Oil.” That’s beyond lame for someone with a voice on a national broadcast.
Apparently rapper Drake has placed a $500,000 wager on the Oilers to win the Stanley Cup. Man, I’d love to rummage through his couch cushions just to scoop up his loose change.
On the subject of moolah, on paper every NHL outfit has an extra $4.5 million to spend now that the salary cap has been jacked up to $88 million. The Winnipeg Jets will use it to keep paying Blake Wheeler to not play for them.
Just wondering: Is Jets GM Kevin Cheveldayoff finally prepared to concede that sloth-like defender Logan Stanley was a mistake, or does he still believe being tall is a priceless skill he can’t live without. I mean, Ville Heinola’s career is going to rot for one basic reason—he doesn’t have to duck when walking through doorways.
My favorite hockey player, Melodie Daoust, retired last week, and there’s only one reason her departure failed to generate a bigger buzz: The men who make the decisions in mainstream sports media still think of female athletes as second-class citizens. We’re talking about an all-timer here: Twice an Olympics champion, one-time Olympics MVP, one-time world champion, one-time world tournament MVP, one-time world U-18 champion, multiple awards in university hockey. I’m not sure that those are Hockey Hall of Fame bona fides, but they ought to put her in the conversation at the least. The openly gay Melodie is also a great role model for LGBT(etc.) youth, and her next order of business, aside from being mom to son Matheo, is head coach at College Bourget in Rigaud, Que.
If it’s true that Caitlin Clark won’t be in Paris for the Olympic Games this summer, the folks who pull the strings for the U.S. national women’s hoops team have failed Marketing 101. Clark is the most talked-about player on hardwood, so why wouldn’t they want her to join the Yankee Doodle Damsels at the five-ring circus to attract more eyeballs to the women’s game. I mean, even if she were to spend most of the tournament with her butt bolted to the bench while the Yankee Doodle Damsels dismantle most of their foes by 50 or more points, her presence on the world’s biggest sports stage would be must-see TV.
Nice touch at the French Open, where organizers brought in tennis legends, life besties and cancer survivors Chrissie Evert and Martina Navratilova for the awards ceremony after Iga Swiatek had spanked Jasmine Paolini in the women’s singles championship match. Both Iga and Jasmine delivered awkward speeches, but I’m thankful they didn’t turn the microphone over to Navratilova. Who needs to hear another anti-transgender rant?
Just for the record, Jasmine Paolini is delightful. But I’m still pleased that Swiatek won her fourth French Open title and fifth Grand Slam. Some among the rabble might be tired of the Pole winning so often, but I don’t want to hear it. She’s a refreshing departure from former neighborhood bully Serena Williams.
One week into the “new dawn” for the Winnipeg Sun, I don’t see anything fresh or new on the sports pages. It’s still mostly Postmedia copy from hither and yon, put together by Postmedia deskers, so I have to wonder when new bankroll Kevin Klein plans to put more ‘Peg into a Winnipeg product. If he doesn’t have a man on site for the NHL Entry Draft later this month in Glitter Gulch, we’ll know for certain that he’s all hat and no cattle.
And, finally, I like pizza with my football, so I thought I’d try one of those new flatbread pies from Tim Hortons for the Bombers-Larks kickoff. Mistake. I’ve never eaten cardboard, but I’m reasonably certain it tastes like a Tim’s pizza with a few slices of pepperoni. Bland, bland, bland. You know, kind of like the Bombers offence last Thursday.
gig on 
The River City Renegade 
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