Let’s talk about in-your-face female athletes…Kim blah-blah-blah Mulkey…the Cult of Dumb on Hockey Night in Canada…Jack and jackasses…and other things on my mind

Caitlin Clark

This just in: Female athletes cuss.

Who knew?

Moreover, female athletes also get royally PO’d and act out, waving their arms like those tall, inflatable thingies that you see on used car lots. The women holler at game officials, they screech at foes, fans and sometimes their own coaches/teammates, and some spit.

You know, just like the guys do.

Yet many among the rabble were shocked—shocked, I say!—when Iowa hoops star Caitlin Clark was observed on ESPN cameras telling unknown somebodies to either “Shut the f–k up!” or “Get the f–k up!” during a rather tense tussle with West Virginia in the madness that is NCAA March basketball stateside.

Either way, it was an F-bomb and, no surprise, social media was abuzz with chatter about improper, boorish behavior, even though it wasn’t anything we hadn’t seen or heard before.

Just last summer, for example, there was a nasty collision during a Canada-Australia women’s World Cup footy skirmish, whereby Allysha Chapman and Hayley Raso made like bumper cars while challenging for a free ball. Raso took the worst of it, prompting Matildas’ coach Tony Gustavsson to chirp Chapman from his perch on the sideline.

Sensitive off-pitch microphones failed to pick up Gustavsson’s trash talk, but there was no mistaking Chapman’s verbal volley.

“She f–king jumped into me, you tw-t!” the Canadian defender snapped back at him.

The decorous sport of curling offered another e.g. during the recent Scotties Tournament of Hearts, whereby a mic’d-up Val Sweeting of Team Einarson was overhead dropping back-to-back F-bombs about how she was having so much “f–king fun.”

So here’s what I find myself wondering: Are female athletes still held to a different standard than their male counterparts when it comes to bedside manner? Are they still expected to be prissy missies, like so many June Cleavers in sneakers or skates? Has Caitlin Clark been battered fore and aft in large part because she’s a she?

I’d like to think not, but I suspect otherwise.

As much as female sports is experiencing a considerable, long-awaited growth spurt (see: Professional Women’s Hockey League, international futbol, women’s college hoops), it comes with greater scrutiny and I’m not convinced everyone is peering into the same lens. That is, when we see Caitlin Clark acting out, do we see an athlete whining to a referee and flailing with her arms, or do we see a female athlete whining to a ref and flailing with her arms?

There should be no such distinction.

Females athletes at the elite level have the same yearnings as men. They want to win. Did anyone want to succeed more than Hayley Wickenheiser or Christine Sinclair?

Call it passion.

Watch the upcoming women’s world hockey tournament and you’ll see passion on public display, most notably when Canada and the Yankee Doodle Damsels are on the same frozen pond. No male hockey player is more “into it” than Marie-Philip Poulin or Hilary Knight.

And because female athletes are as passionate about their work as men, they’re prone to emotional outbursts. That can mean a moment of madness, or a potty mouth.

And, by god, female athletes need not make apologies for any of it.

This is their time and they’ve earned it. They’re confident, they’re proud, they’re loud (hello, Megan Rapinoe), they’re ruthless, they’ve got attitude, some of them are angry, they’re in your face, and they aren’t interested in being ladylike once inside the lines just to satisfy a dog-eared stereotype.

And, hey, keep this in mind: Between the National Hockey League and the PWHL, only one of the two has the word “Lady” in the name of an individual award, and it isn’t the women’s league.

Having said all that, few people in sports get up my nose quite like Kim Mulkey, head coach with the LSU women’s hoops team. I swear, she’s up both my nostrils. She’s a first-class boor who seems to hold to the misguided notion that it’s her world and the rest of us are allowed to participate in life only at her beckoning. She’s Bobby Knight in pumps and a clown suit. Her threat to sue Washington Post award-winning reporter Kent Babb last weekend (for a so-called “hit piece” that turned out to be a Nothing Burger) is a case in point: “Not many people are in a position to hold these kind of journalists accountable, but I am, and I’ll do it,” she said. Well, la-di-da, your Royal Haughtiness. Let us all bow and grovel.

Mulkey was at it again on Saturday, delivering another sermon and claiming that the “hall-of-famers, legendary coaches” who taught her “probably couldn’t coach in this generation.” Right. She’s better. Other talking points were sexism, requiring her players to pray on Sundays, and a Los Angeles Times article that she decided was “awful.” It was all spoken in a pontifical tone, with Mulkey trying to look and talk as tough and menacing as a school-teacher nun with a wooden ruler in her hand, but it was a pathetic piece of theatre.

Happy Easter to all. My favorite Easter-themed athlete names:
Bunny Shaw
Rabbit Maranville
Bugsy Watson
Hopalong Cassady
Bunny Larocque

True confession time: Way back when, I figured there would be palm trees, coconuts and a nightly luau at Portage and Main before Connor Hellebuyck became a top-drawer NHL goaltender. D’oh! The guy just played his 500th game for the Winnipeg Jets, and there hasn’t been a whole lot of clunkers in the bunch. A tip of the bonnet.

Ted Wyman is miffed that Rink Rat Scheifele was excused from the Jets skirmish Thursday night, a 4-1 loss to the Vegas Golden Knights. “The penalty to Scheifele was excessive,” Wyman wrote in the Winnipeg Sun. “They could have simply called him for roughing instead of giving him an instigator penalty and fighting major. His actions didn’t warrant being banished for 17 minutes, which would have kept him out through overtime had the game gone on that long.” Well, let’s see. The Rink Rat started a fight with Nicolas Hague. That’s two minutes. He fought Hague. That’s another five minutes. And instigating fisticuffs calls for 10 more minutes in stir. Seems to me the gendarmes got it right.

The Scheifele-Hague punch-up is part of NHL rot. One guy, Hague of the Golden Knights, flattened a foe, Vlad Namestnikov, and a third party, the Rink Rat, was so mortified at the sight of his comrade laid out on the freeze that he bared his knuckles and sought retribution. To fight for no reason is, of course, the NHL “code,” except the NHL “code” is a con job that players like Scheifele swallow whole, even if it means taking dumb penalties when a game hangs in the balance. Really, about the only thing dumber than the “code” are NHL players dumb enough to believe that a bodycheck is a command to open a can of whoop ass on an opponent. So when Kevin Bieksa and Kelly Hrudey go on Hockey Night in Canada to inform us that Scheifele’s brain fart was “admirable” and “honorable,” they’re merely reminding us that they’re also card-carrying members of the Cult of Dumb.

Saw this thread on X the other day:
“I don’t expect xG and G to track as closely at 5v4 as at 5v5.”
“NST showed a modest xGF/60 bump during the hot streak—but their GF/60 went bananas.”
“Depends on the xG model. Some are trained with state taken into account, some are not.”
That’s what passes for hockey talk with the kids these days. Bless ’em.

Dumb headline on the Sportsnet website last week: “Darryl Watts and PWHL Ottawa are heating up at the right time.” Say again? The “right time?” I must have missed a memo, because I thought Ponytail Puck had shut down for three weeks and Ottawa won’t crank it up again until April 20.

Just wondering: Am I supposed to care that golf great Jack Nicklaus pals around with Donald Trump? I mean, sure, the former U.S. president tells fibs (real whoppers), he paws and gropes women, he mocks men for their disabilities, he sends his stooges to storm the Capitol, odds are he’ll spend some time in an orange jump suit, he’s a grifter like we’ve never seen and is now peddling bibles to prove suckers are born every minute. He’s total cringe, a rancid human being. But, last time I checked, none of us, including the Golden Bear, requires permission to put on a red MAGA cap and act every bit the Trump toady. Nicklaus’ political leanings won’t change my life any. But, damn, it’s still kind of sad to see ol’ Jack playing the fool instead of playing golf.

If there’s a Jackass of the Year Award, UFC fighter Julian Eroso is the clubhouse leader, and I suspect he’ll still be at the head of the pack nine months from now. I mean, how else do we explain his wacko rant after beating Ricardo Ramos last Saturday, except to say he’s a jackass? If you missed it, for reasons known only to himself and the voices emanating from inside his tin foil-lined cap, Eroso thought his post-fight natter with news snoops was the proper time and place to challenge Lia Thomas to a fight in the octagon. Yes, that would be law student and former collegiate swimmer Lia Thomas, a transgender female. The way Eroso has it sorted out in his vacuous brain pan, he would make the transition to a woman while Thomas would skip a few law classes in order to hone her mixed martial arts skills. They would then get it on in the octagon, whereupon Eroso would kick “the dude’s ass.” Good grief. How many nights did Eroso lay awake coming up with that bit of dimwitted blather? But, then, Eroso also confirmed that he’s “not the smartest crayon in the box.” None among his audience disagreed.

But, wait. Closing fast on the inside as Jackass of the Year is Chris DiMarco, who has his fingers and toes crossed in the hope that Saudi-backed LIV Golf purchases Old Fogey Golf, which is to say the PGA Tour Champions. That way, he and the rest of golf’s 50-plus fossils can start making “real money,” rather than settle for the Monopoly money available to them on the geriatric tour. “We don’t really play for much money,” he moaned to the boys on something called the Subpar Podcast. “It’s kind of a joke.” Excuse me, but it’s not like the ol’ boys are playing for beads and trinkets. There’s $67 million available to them this year, including a $2.2 million purse at this weekend’s Galleri Classic. One of the fossils, a dude named Steve Alker, has pocketed $555,707. For three months of work. DiMarco pleading poverty is like Streisand begging for singing lessons.

For the record, DiMarco has cashed cheques totaling $22,656,443 as a PGA golfer, placing him 94th for all-time loot. Unless he has Homer Simpson for an accountant, $22-plus million should have been enough to make him nice and comfy as he greys at the temples. Golf should be a hobby by now. But, no, he’s still out there hacking away, and “hacking” is the operative word—he’s earned $36,591 this year. So it’s quite simple: If DiMarco wants more coin, shut the hell up and play better golf.

On the subject of coin, if you’re bored and want to prove there’s a sucker born every minute, you can make tracks for Arlington, Texas, where Mike Tyson and Jake Paul promise to throw punches at each other in a cash grab disguised as boxing on July 20. The sticker price to watch the con job at AT&T Stadium is anywhere from $359 to $16,097. I’m guessing Chris DiMarco can’t fit that into his budget.

And, finally, interesting post on X from Paul Samyn, editor at the Winnipeg Free Press: “HIRING ALERT: Come join a newspaper that wants to grow rather than gut the newsroom. Opportunities include the chance to work in our legislative bureau.” This is terrific news. Now, if only he’d recruit a female sports scribe and a sports columnist, then they’d be up to speed.

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 hosannas for Chevy …Bones gives Jets a public flogging…silliness on TSN…another Brier bust for the Buffalo Boys…UFOs…and other things on my mind

Hustler and Remis of Winnipeg Sports Talk.

Top o’ the morning to you, Kevin Cheveldayoff.

Well, Chevy, I just bet you’re peacock proud right about now, given your handiwork during the just-concluded National Hockey League swap-and-shop session. Yes, sir, you generally managed the Winnipeg Jets with such derring-do that you must be the envy of every other GM, with the exception of Kelly McCrimmon, of course.

It’s tough to keep up with Kelly, though. He sees someone who strikes his fancy and he pounces, like a pit bull on a pork chop, and—presto!—the Vegas Golden Knights are primed and prepped for another push toward the Stanley Cup.

Many believe there’s something sinister about McCrimmon’s methods, most notably the way he plays hide-and-seek with players on the limp, but, like yourself, he’s a good Saskatchewan boy and we aren’t about to accuse anyone from the Flattest of Lands of skulduggery, are we, Chevy.

But, hey, I’m not here to discuss Brad McCrimmon’s hocus-pocus.

This is about you, Chevy, and you should know the hosannas are raining down from Portage and Main to the Republic of Tranna. Lend an ear:

Paul Friesen, Winnipeg Sun: “Winnipeg’s wheeler-dealer hasn’t had this kind of deadline, with this kind of a team, since 2018, when he pulled Paul Stastny out of thin air.”

Mad Mike McIntyre, Drab Slab: “This seems like just another in a growing list of terrific Kevin Cheveldayoff deadline deals.”

Hustler Paterson, Winnipeg Sports Talk: “If you were doing a GM of the year from last year’s deadline to right now…hey listen, Cheveldayoff would get serious consideration. I would say going back to the Dubois trade in particular, he is going to get some significant consideration for some accolades he hasn’t been considered for in the past.”

Luke Fox, Sportsnet: “On paper, this is veteran GM Kevin Cheveldayoff’s best deadline to date.”

Ryan Dixon, Sportsnet: “Manitobans have to be thrilled with GM Kevin Cheveldayoff’s work.”

Cheryl Pounder, TSN: “I think that Kevin Cheveldayoff made an unbelievable move today in acquisitioning Tyler Toffoli. You can’t forget what he did earlier with getting Sean Monahan.”

Then there’s the rabble, Chevy. They might not fill the Little Hockey House On The Prairie anymore, but they’re as giddy as kids at a carnival, and perhaps some, if not most, of those 2,000 unoccupied chairs will be occupied by the time the Jets return home with the two new kids on the block—Tyler Tofolli and Colin Miller—in tow.

I swear, Chevy, you could run for mayor and dog catcher and win both elections in a landslide.

Come to think of it, Mayor Scott Gillingham and his cronies might want to put the giddyup on plans to reopen Portage and Main to foot traffic. You know, in time for the Stanley Cup parade in June.

Whatever the case, Chevy, the kids in Good Ol’ Hometown haven’t been this geeked up since the Beatles touched down at the airport in 1964, but you’ll have to excuse me if I hold my applause.

No, I’m not being a Debbie Downer. You’ve done boffo work. Fetching Toffoli from the New Jersey Devils in barter for a couple of wannabes/neverwillbes was wizardry, and the arrival of Miller shouldn’t be overlooked, especially if it convinces head coach Rick Bowness to keep Logan Stanley confined to the press box.

Yes, I know, Chevy. Stanley is so tall he has to duck low-flying airplanes, but last time I looked tall wasn’t a skill.

Anyway, before I join the hallelujah chorus, I’d prefer to see how it shakes down once the two newbes have joined the fray.

On first blush, it’s all good, Chevy. Toffoli’s 26 lamp-lighters indicates he’ll fill a goal-scoring need, while your hope is that Miller shores up the blueline, even if he’s half a foot shorter than Stanley. Your roster tinkering has positioned the locals for a deep dive in the NHL’s spring runoff, and maybe—just maybe—Tyler Toffoli will become your Butch Goring.

If that’s the case, it’ll be applause all around in June.

Jack Todd of the Montreal Gazette wonders why Toffoli has made more stops than a lost dog. “I don’t get why Tyler Toffoli is always the guy who gets traded,” Todd tweets. “He scores goals, he’s a great guy, his wife is a terrific member of the community—and yet he bounces around like the ping-pong balls on lottery day.” This will be the sixth different NHL jersey that Toffoli pulls over his head, but not to worry. Paul Coffey wore nine different jerseys. Ditto Jaromir Jagr. One’s in the Hockey Hall of Fame and the other will get there if he ever realizes there are more than 50 candles on his birthday cake.

Oh dear. Bowness delivered a public flogging to his players in the wake of their no-show vs. the Canucks on Saturday night in Lotus Land. Called the 0-5 drubbing their “worst game” in his two years as Jets bench puppeteer. “We didn’t have one player play a good game. Not one,” he told news snoops. So, do we cue the whine and cheesy party? I mean, I’m sure you recall how the workers reacted when Bones roasted them scant seconds after their ouster from the Stanley Cup tournament last spring. Their little egos were as bruised as bad bananas and, led by one-time Captain Cranky Pants Blake Wheeler, they mounted a counter attack, boo-hooing about their coach’s bad bedside manner. Well, Wheeler’s taken his exit, stage Gotham, so perhaps we won’t hear a group gripe this time.

True confession time: I did the couch potato thing on Friday. Yup, watched almost all the silliness on the TSN Trade Centre show, otherwise known The James Duthie Goof-a-Thon. (I know. Get a life.) It truly was silly (host Duthie called it “stupid,” but I’m not that harsh a critic). Still, I like silly, and the intro featuring Bruce Boudreau made me smile, while Jeff O’Dog and the Quiz Master champion skit made me laugh out loud. “It’s difficult to take myself seriously in this outfit,” O’Dog said. Ya think? … Can someone at TSN please explain Frankie Corrado in 25 words or less … Fashion review: Lindsay Hamilton looked striking in her fire engine red pant suit with the bell bottoms, but Tessa Bonhomme should sue the head of wardrobe for forcing her into a forest green pant suit. The jacket would have been loose fitting on Zdeno Chara. Meantime, Cheryl Pounder still can’t find her hair brush, and the knot in Craig Button’s neck tie was the size of a VW Beetle. Finally, do any men still wear dress shoes with a suit, or has it become sneakers all around? … When Duthie promised there’d be no lamas on the show, I thought, “Hey, I’m fine with lamas. Just don’t show me O’Dog’s butt cleavage again.” … At one point in my comatose state, I switched to Sportsnet and saw Paul Bissonnette among the talking heads. Gong. Back to TSN … Funny trade day tales from Wayne Simmonds. Good stuff … Button mentioned the possibility of a Toffoli-the-Jets transaction near the top of the show. Great call … Quote of the day goes to the aforementioned Corrado: “Sometimes as a player you are a little bit human.” Sometimes they’re human?

Among the great mysteries in life—right up there with the Caramilk chocolate bar and Trump worship—is this: Why can’t the Buffalo Boys win the Brier anymore? Manitoba has produced 27 national men’s curling championship outfits, but none since 2011, when Jeff Stoughton, Jon Mead, Reid Carruthers and Steve Gould toddled off with the Tankard. Our guys are one-for-the-21st century. By way of comparison, Buffalo Girls have won six Scotties titles since 2011 and 10 this century (12 if we count Chelsea Carey as ours). It makes no sense that our female Pebble People kick butt and the guys stub their toes every March.

Nobody asked me, but Joanne Courtney is an excellent voice on the TSN curling broadcast team. She’s knowledgeable, insightful and the banter between her, Hurray Hard Howard and Vic Rauter is healthy and good-spirited. Joanne is a keeper.

Not so good on TSN is that Anytime Goal Challenge by the SportsCentre anchors. Do they actually believe an in-house staff contest is entertaining? It’s a minute and a half of gasbagging. It’s stupid, and they should know that by now.

Lovely International Women’s Day feature by Dave Naylor on Maya Turner, the first female to play and score in a U Sports football game. The lady kicker with Brian Dobie’s University of Manitoba Bisons side was among the best feel-good sports stories in 2023.

Every International Women’s Day, I’m reminded of my favorite female athletes. Still atop the list is Wilma Rudolph, the sleek and elegant American sprinter who wowed ’em at the 1960 Olympic Games in Rome. I thought her to be the most fascinating athlete I’d ever seen, male or female. I suspect that won’t ever change.

So, how’s the Professional Women’s Hockey League getting on in its third month of existence? Well, the women are still popping up on late-night highlights shows on both TSN and Sportsnet, the dailies in Montreal and the Republic of Tranna are still paying attention, and the rabble hasn’t abandoned them. These were the head counts in the past week: 2,479, 2,554, 4,585, 4,459, 4,607, 10,172 and, oops, 728. That embarrassingly low crowd count was at the New York franchise’s game in Bridgeport, Conn., but they attracted 4,459 to their skirmish vs. Minnesota at UBS Arena in Elmont, N.Y., home of the New York Islanders. And, with the playoff push on, the level of feistiness has been amped up. Ponytail Puck is holding steady.

Good grief. Sideshow Jake Paul and Mike Tyson plan to go dukes up at AT&T Stadium in Dallas in July. Tyson, former heavyweight champion of all the world’s fist-fighters, will be 58 when he and Paul touch gloves. That’s old enough to qualify for a suite in my seniors building (the notion of Iron Mike living across the hall is kind of creepy). I’m not sure what they’re trying to prove, other than there are thousands of suckers born every day, but, even at age 58, Tyson should be able to chew up Paul and spit him out. Starting with his ears, of course.

Apparently there were 570 UFO sightings reported last year in Canada. Imagine that, at least 570 people saw little green men, or their space ships, in one year, but no one in the country has seen the Stanley Cup in the past 31 years.

Things that make me go hmmm, Vol. 1,162: A woman is suing Victoria Golf Club, the District of Oak Bay and Kane Wyatt because she claims a ball came through her car’s open window and struck her in the face. Among other things, she alleges Wyatt negligently hit the golf ball. Hmmm. That sounds like every tee shot I ever made.

Seems there’s trouble with the new Major League Baseball unis: The pants are see-through. Gives new meaning to the first line of the Star-Spangled Banner—“O say can you see?”

Congrats to Andrew (Hustler) Paterson and Michael Remis on the third anniversary of their Winnipeg Sports Talk podcast. That’s a lot of blah, blah, blah.

And, finally, I had left the rag trade by the time Dave Ritchie showed up as sideline steward of the Winnipeg Blue Bombers, so I can’t share any stories about the curmudgeonly coach. But he’s the fourth former Bomber that the Grim Reaper has taken from us (Kenny Ploen, Gerry James, Craig Roh) in recent days, and that’s always a sad bit of business.