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?
The River City Renegade 
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