If I’m reading and hearing correctly, we’re about to see the biggest teardown in Good Ol’ Hometown since the wrecking ball whacked into the old Eaton’s building to make room for The Little Hockey House On The Prairie.
Oh, yes, we’re told Puck Pontiff Mark Chipman and GM Kevin Cheveldayoff have put on their hard hats, pulled on their work boots and strapped on their tool belts, and they haven’t done any of that just to change a light bulb. Why, by the time the Chipper & Chevy Wrecking & Salvage Co. has finished its dirty work at Portage and Donald, the Winnipeg Jets roster will look like something the Property Brothers slapped together during a drinking binge.
Destined for parts unknown, we’re told, are Blake Wheeler, Pierre-Luc Dubois, Rink Rat Scheifele and Connor Hellebuyck, cornerstones all.
It’s like Pete Best kicking John, Paul, George and Ringo out of the band.
Except for this: It’s unlikely to happen, and I’ll tell you why.
The pundits on our flatscreens, the boys on the beat, the bloggers and the keyboard warriors on social media predicting a massive reno are discounting one very significant reality: Ownership/management holds hard to the illogical (idiotic?) notion that the Jets current core has not yet arrived at its best-before date. That is, Chipman and Cheveldayoff fail, or refuse, to see and hear what the rest of us see and hear.
We see a roster with greying trail horses, they see Secretariat’s offspring. We hear players braying like jackasses about head coach Rick Bowness, they hear the Rolling Stones’ greatest hits.
Thus, they continue to harbor faith in a bunch that never fails to fail them.
“If you look at all the different components as to why you think you should be able to compete for a Stanley Cup, I think we’ve got it,” Chevy said as recently as March, at the National Hockey League shop-and-swap deadline.
Has a first-round ouster from the Stanley Cup tournament softened that belief? Doubtful.
Oh, sure, they’ll do something eventually, because they really have no choice due to expiring contracts and those ugly, season-end natters with news snoops, whereby the players conspired to verbally ragdoll Bowness. But the operative word is “eventually.”
Expect the Puck Pontiff/Chevy to mostly twiddle their thumbs in the leadup to, and during, the NHL Entry Draft (June 28-29), then send the same cast of characters to skate around the mulberry bush next autumn. That’s because it isn’t in their DNA to be ballsy until someone has pushed them onto a ledge, and they aren’t quite there yet. Keep in mind they have until next year’s trade deadline to move out any or all of Dubois, Hellebuyck, Scheifele and Wheeler, so why do today what they can do tomorrow, right?
To dawdle would, of course, be folly, but I’m not sure they know how to operate at a cadence other than slow and plodding.
And that was “the plan” from the get-go.
You’re reminded that when the Jets joined the fray, Chipman wanted his franchise to become Nashville North, even if The Burt in Good Ol’ Hometown could never be a reasonable facsimile of the high temple of twang—the Grand Ole Opry House—in Music City.
As it related solely to the business of hockey, Nashville was his role model.
“That may sound strange to people in Winnipeg, that Nashville’s a team we’ve looked so carefully at,” Chipman informed news snoops in April 2012. “They’ve done it methodically, they’ve done it by developing their players and they’ve done it with a consistency in management and philosophy.”
That was said at a time when the Jets still had that new-car smell and Chipman was a man of the people, for the people, and readily shared his musings with a constituency that was in a teenage-like swoon and filled the NHL’s smallest barn in its smallest market to the brim each night.
Alas, more latterly the Puck Pontiff has had less to say than a hand puppet, and empty chairs in The Little Hockey House On The Prairie might have something to do with that.
Many reasons have been advanced to explain 1,749 customers (per night) abandoning the Jets post-pandemic—too costly, crummy game-day experience, the concessions suck, fallout from COVID-19, ownership/management don’t give a damn, etc.—but dissatisfaction with the on-ice product surely is part of the equation.
So let’s examine that Nashville North thing.
In choosing to copy-cat the Predators, Chipman wasn’t exactly going for the gusto. (He was no Bill Foley of the Vegas Golden Knights predicting, and delivering, a Stanley Cup parade by Year Six.) The Puck Pontiff fancied the Preds’ measured, steady-as-she-goes path, and we need only examine the numbers through 12 crusades and one pandemic to confirm the mediocrity of his hockey club.
Jets first 12 seasons…
0 first-place finishes
7 missed playoffs
3 playoff series wins
Predators first 12 seasons…
0 first-place finishes
6 missed playoffs
1 playoff series win
If meh-ness is what the Puck Pontiff was looking for as a Nashville wannabe, he’s succeeded.
The Jets draft-and-develop strategy always made sense (still does) because, although not the be-all and end-all of building a Stanley Cup contender/winner, it’s a tried-and-true method. And, back in the spring of 2018, it appeared to be working, with the Jets advancing to the Final Four.
But then draft-and-develop morphed into draft-develop-and-defection, and if the Jets lead the NHL in anything, it’s this repeated headline: “(Fill in player name) wants out of Dodge!”
Seriously, they’ve had more guys looking for a new home than you’ll find in a refugee camp, and skipping town wasn’t part of the original Nashville North plan.
So what’s “the plan” 12 years in?
Well, that’s the $64,000 question, isn’t it?
Since the Puck Pontiff has entered a witness protection program and Cheveldayoff has perfected the art of saying nothing while saying everything, we can only guess which direction the Jets are heading, but I’m betting they stay the course.
The Puck Pontiff wanted Nashville North and, by gum, he’s got it. And it’s meant more hurt than the songs on a Merle Haggard album for his team’s increasingly hostile fan base.
I believe that Dubois is the only one of the aforementioned cornerstones likely to be accommodated pronto. Which brings to mind something I scribbled in January 2021, after the transaction that brought Dubois to Good Ol’ Hometown in barter for Patrik Laine and Jack Roslovic: “Hey, anyone can be traded, including Patrik Laine. And the Jets will learn to live without Puck Finn. But that doesn’t mean anyone should be traded. Chevy and the Puck Pontiff bungled this one. Badly. And if they can’t convince Dubois to sign up for the long haul, they’ll really wear it.” Two years and five months later, it’s an even bigger bungle if the player they receive for Dubois has no plans to stay long enough to unpack his bags.
This is interesting: There’s a woman in Japan—Keiko Kawano—who teaches people how to smile. True story. Keiko is a smile coach at Egaoiku (translation: Smile Education), and apparently she can work wonders for people who have forgotten how to smile. You know, like Toronto Maple Leafs fans.
There are now more than 40 million folks who call Our Frozen Tundra home. And still the Maple Leafs can’t find a goaltender.
The TV numbers are in, and they aren’t flattering for shinny…
NHL final between the Golden Knights and Florida Panthers on TNT/TBS: Average of 2.6 million viewers for five games.
NBA final between the Denver Nuggets and Miami Heat on ABC: Average of 11.6 million viewers for five games.
Just wondering: Why do Americans love one of the games we invented, but treat the other like it has the cooties?
I wouldn’t walk across the street to watch LL Cool J perform, but 30,000-plus people were in B.C. Place to watch the rapper perspire (the man is a human waterfall) on Saturday, and if that’s what it takes for Amar Doman to make his Canadian Football League franchise relevant in an indifferent market, then I say go for it. The rabble, also the TSN panel, seemed to enjoy the LL experience, even if the entertainment value dipped significantly once the large man who perspires in rhymes gave way to the large men who play football. I mean, really, the Edmonton Elks scored zero points? In Rouge Football? Like, who does that? Well, the B.C. Leos, 22-0 winners, hadn’t pitched a shutout since 1977, and the Elks hadn’t been victim of a donut since 1976. I believe that’s also when LL Cool J wrote his first rhyme.
We’re two weeks into the Rouge Football season and you might have noticed some of the quarterbacking. Gawdawful. But then there’s Zach Collaros of the 2W, 0L Winnipeg Blue Bombers. Still brilliant.
Also brilliant: Bombers kick returner extraordinaire Janarion Grant.
Things that make me go hmmm, Vol. 2,157: A service dog named Justin recently received a diploma from Seton Hall University in New Jersey. Hmmm. That puts the pooch one up on 99.9 per cent of American college football players.
Predictably, there was a great rush to find the proper place for Nick Taylor on the pecking order of grand sporting achievements on Our Frozen Tundra, after the Winnipeg-born golfer had ker-plunked a 72-foot putt on a fourth extra hole to win the Canadian Open last Sunday. Naturally, the Paul Henderson goal has been mentioned, ditto Sid Crosby’s golden goal. Then there’s Joe Carter touching ’em all and Donovan Bailey skedaddling to Olympic gold and Mike Weir taming Augusta National. But the sole female name I heard was Brooke Henderson. What about Marie-Philip Poulin’s golden goal(s)? Take your pick. She’s had four of them, notably an OT tally in the 2014 Olympics championship skirmish. How about Bianca Andreescu whupping Serena Williams to win the U.S. Open tennis title? And, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t our soccer women win gold just 22 months ago at the Summer Olympic Games? That wasn’t as riveting, as pulse-pumping and as nation-unifying as a guy winning a golf tournament? Come on, man.
I can tell you where I was when Henderson scored in 1972 (at home in Transcona). I can tell you where I was when Marie-Philip scored in OT in 2014 (in a below-street-level nightclub, taking a break from mopping floors and scrubbing toilets). I can tell you where I was when our women’s soccer side beat Sweden on penalty kicks in 2021 (at home in downtown Victoria). But I cannot tell you where I was when Sid the Kid scored, when Carter touched ’em all, when Bailey crossed the finish line, or when Weir sank his tap-in putt at Augusta. So my personal pecking order is: 1) Henderson (always and forever), 2) women’s soccer side, 3) Marie-Philip.
If you’re looking for a fab read on freshly minted Canadian Open champion Nick Taylor, check out Mad Mike McIntyre’s recent piece in the Drab Slab. As my first sports editor, Jack Matheson, would say, it’s damn good stuff.
Stephen A. Smith says he fancies the notion of subbing for Pat Sajak, who plans to walk away from his gig as host of Wheel Of Fortune after one more season. Stephen A. also says he wouldn’t quit his day job as ESPN’s resident ranting-and-raving loudmouth on all things sports were he to step in for Sajak. He’d be willing and prepared to do it all. Is there an E, a G and an O on the board, Vanna?
The Los Angeles Country Club in Beverly Hills, site of the U.S. Open golf championship, has a lengthy list of taboos for members, like no wearing ball caps backwards, no short pants, no cash (except payment to caddies), no headphones and ear buds and, oddest of them all, no actors allowed. I can’t say that I blame them for not wanting people who pretend to be someone they’re not. You know, like Donald Trump, still pretending to be President of the U.S.
Bell Canada sent 1,300 people to the unemployment line last Wednesday, and that included jock talk radio in Edmonton. No notice. No hint. Just hit the bricks, people. Meantime, The Athletic put 20 people out of work, and Postmedia also did some slicing and dicing to sports staff in the past week. Does Bell Canada want to “Let’s Talk” about any of this, or are the suits too busy spilling blood to concern themselves with the mental well-being of employees?
A man in a cheap checkered suit from the Republic of Tranna climbed atop a desk in the Winnipeg Tribune newsroom on Aug. 27, 1980, and told us we were all out of work. Like the Bell Canada cuts, there was no heads-up. Scant hours earlier, I had been helping put together the sports pages, editing copy and writing headlines, but that morning I was wondering about finding a new gig, contemplating the possibility of relocation to another city, how long my severance package would last and, worst-case scenario, applying for pogey. I also silently cursed myself for turning down an offer to join the Winnipeg Free Press stable of sports scribes a few years earlier. I had been at the Trib since age 18, and its closure was a life-altering development, easily the most stressful time of my life. I felt lonely, lost and useless. I’m not sure I’ve ever fully gotten over losing that job. I hope all victims of the Bell, The Athletic and Postmedia cuts find their way.
Here’s how old I am: Whenever I see the name Epstein trending on Twitter, I always think it’s about the now-deceased, one-time Beatles manager Brian, only to discover it’s about the now-deceased sex trafficker and criminal creep Jeffrey Epstein.
Can we all please get past the Conor McGregor thing, whatever it is? His appearances at sporting events simply to make an ass of himself grew old quite some time ago, yet media outlets continue to insist that there’s a there there. There isn’t.
Hey, one of the all-time good guys, Ted Foreman, has been saluted and feted by the Rotary Club of Winnipeg-Fort Garry for his many years of volunteer work. I got to know Teddy through hockey, notably while working the Jets beat, but he was also heavily into the Fort Garry Blues. A good man and fun guy.
Okay, stop it right there! Winning the most men’s Grand Slam singles titles is not merit enough to certify Novak Djokovic as the finest male tennis player of all time. If that were true, Margaret Court’s 24 Slam singles titles would make her the greatest female player of all time, and who thinks that? Perhaps ol’ Maggie believes she is, but I can’t think of anyone else who’d go there. If Grand Slams are the measuring stick, Rafael Nadal has an 11-7 record vs. Djokovic and he’s 5-4 in Slam finals. Rafa also has a winning record vs. Roger Federer in Slams—10-4/6-3. So there.
And, finally, I believe America’s Got Talent sank to new depths last week when three of the four judges advanced a young Italian man to the next round. His talent? Hand farting. Only Simon Cowell gave it a thumbs down, meaning Heidi, Sofia and Howie were as dumb as the act. Lest there be any doubt about Howie’s eye for talent, he also voted “yes” for a guy whose talent is fist bumping. Good grief.
The River City Renegade 
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