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.
The River City Renegade 
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