Let’s talk about the Blue Bombers humble beginnings … kowtowing to kickers and the balls they boot … scar tissue from the 1980s … Drake’s spare change … au revoir Melodie Daoust … the Caitlin Clark snub … really bad pizza … and other things on my mind

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.

Let’s talk about the Winnipeg Sun’s NEW DAWN and the end of the Torontopeg Sun … Coach Grunge chasing down the Silver Fox … the Bombers and their grey beards … former Jets … a female sports scribe at the Drab Slab … and other things on my mind

Top o’ the morning to you, Kevin Klein.

I must say, that was some kind of special, little ditty you dropped last Monday, informing the rabble that you and a band of locals with deep pockets in Good Ol’ Hometown had plucked the Winnipeg Sun from the clutches of the Evil Empire Known As Postmedia.

We aren’t talking about a meh moment here, Kevin. Try a gobsmacker.

Your purchase of the Sun registered high on my give-a-damn meter because I’m an alum of your now-wafer-thin tabloid, although I probably care more than I should.

I mean, it’s been a quarter-century since I last saw the inside of the newsroom at 1700 Church Ave., and those 25 years of separation—plus a decade of ruthless ransacking of the print product and staff by Postmedia overlords on Bloor Street in the Republic of Toronto—ought to have loosened the ties that bind.

But no.

“Finally,” I mused as the glad tidings of the Sun sale leaped from my computer screen. “No more Torontopeg Sun. It can become a true Winnipeg paper again, full of copy about Winnipeg people doing Winnipeg things rather than an assortment of fluff pieces on Mitch Marner’s pouting and Bo Bichette’s hair and Steve Simmons’ weekly musings on all things Leafs, Blue Jays, Raptors, TFC and Argos.”

Indeed, the front page headline last Tuesday informed readers that this is “A NEW DAWN” and, in your column today, Kevin, you bark about your purchase of the Sun being “a promise of a stronger commitment to local news.”

Yet, when I called up the paper this morning and went to the sports section, there it was, a two-page spread of Simmons’ musings on all things Leafs, Blue Jays, Raptors, TFC and Argos. Mentions of Winnipeg teams and athletes: Zero.

Hmmm. That’s local like the CN Tower is the Golden Boy.

But, hey, it’s only the second edition with your hands on the wheel, so I’ll give you a pass. A one-time pass.

In the meantime, Kevin, here’s what I want to know as you settle into your CEO chair:

Does your “NEW DAWN” include a bulked up toy department? At present, you have a stable of three sports scribes—two when you factor in commonplace absences like days off, vacation, sickness and the like. Two just won’t do, Kevin. Not if you expect Paul Friesen, Ted Wyman and Scott Billeck to compete with the mob over at the Drab Slab, which, if you hadn’t noticed, has added to its arsenal with a summer intern now on board.

Does your “NEW DAWN” include boarding passes and passports? The bean counters at Postmedia in The ROT kept Friesen, Wyman and Billeck confined to quarters, which is to say inside the Perimeter Highway, while the Jets, Bombers, elite curlers and all our wonderful athletes flitted hither and yon on their various crusades across the continent. The Jock Journo Three were like little kids not allowed to cross the street.

Does your “NEW DAWN” include an expanded sports section? I realize that depends largely on advertising, Kevin, and selling print media these days is tougher than convincing Donald Trump that elections and criminal trials are on the up-and-up. But come on, man, the Sun sports section has become as skimpy as outfits on the models in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. Seriously, two to four pages most days? That isn’t enough pulp to line the bottom of a bird cage. On the whole, your paper has fewer pages than the St-Pierre-Jolys phone book.

Does your “NEW DAWN” include coverage of female athletes/sports other than Kerri Einarson and Jennifer Jones? I mean, are we to believe that all the women in Good Ol’ Hometown and surroundings—other than our curlers—are at home in the kitchen? Well, Kevin, I have it on good authority that the ladies also run, jump, shoot, throw, dribble, scrap, skate, etc., and you might want to take note of the massive uptick in awareness of the goings-on in female hockey, hoops and futbol. And, hey, what about a female sports scribe, Kevin? Your Sun hasn’t had a woman on the beat since the turn of the century, when Judy Owen decided to spend less time talking to sweaty athletes.

I have more questions about the “NEW DAWN,” but those will do for now.

Just consider yourself on notice, Kevin, and I’ll remind you of something I scribbled back in January 2016, scant days after the suits at Postmedia had gone on a blood-letting binge, slashing 90 jobs, merging newsrooms across its network of dailies and, ugh, putting Winnipeg Sun content into the hands of editors/deskers who don’t know a Sals cheese nip from a corned beef on rye from Oscar’s:

“What I am left to wonder is how much Winnipeg will remain in the Sun,” I wrote.“It’s easy enough to recognize that the Winnipeg Jets and Winnipeg Blue Bombers are the big dogs in town and, thus, generate the most talk. But what of lesser players such as the Manitoba Moose, the Winnipeg Goldeyes, the University of Manitoba Bisons, junior hockey, local tennis, golf, curling, figure skating, etc.? My concern is that they shall be lost in the shuffle. I fear the worst.”

I believe we can agree that Postmedia certainly brought us the worst version of the Sun imaginable, Kevin, even if you won’t say it out loud.

The thing is, I don’t fear the worst from you.

I’m thinking that, in time, you’ll shed yourself of a “continued relationship” with Postmedia and remorph the Winnipeg Sun into a Winnipeg product, one with vibrancy, sass and the playfulness and community awareness we had back in the day, when we tweaked Fidel Castro’s nose and adopted a couple of Panda bears from China.

I’d say that’s probably more of a hope than a belief today, Kevin, but I’m counting on you to do the right thing. And I’m rooting for you.

I read with interest Paul Samyn’s most recent weekly Editor’s Note to Drab Slab subscribers, in which he mentioned the Sun’s “heyday decades ago.” Has it really been decades? Yup. The tabloid was good in the mid-to-late 1980s, with gusts up to totally boffo in the 1990s. We had top-drawer coverage in sports, entertainment and news. So many wonderful people, so many talented journalists collectively punching above their weight. I scarcely recognize the product today.

So what’s the top storyline as the Bombers embark on another Canadian Football League crusade in quest of the Grey Cup? It has to be Coach Grunge’s pursuit of the Silver Fox as the winningest sideline steward in Winnipeg FC history. Coach Grunge, of course, is Mike O’Shea, the present-day head coach with 96 Ws. The Silver Fox is Harry Peter Grant, known far and wide as Bud and whose 102 Ws and four Grey Grail titles is the reason there’s a bronze likeness of him outside the Football Field In Fort Garry. Grant is sporting deity. I’m not sure anyone thinks of O’Shea that way, but he can move past Bud as early as July 19, when the Bombers are on The Flattest Of Lands for a frolic with the Roughriders. My guess: It happens in August, and I just hope one and all appreciate the enormity of the achievement.

It was slightly more than a year ago when Milt Stegall gazed upon the three-downs football landscape and noticed a number of grey beards in the Bombers lineup. “The window will close on the foundation, the nucleus of this team, after this year,” he said on TSN’s pigskin panel in advance of the opening kickoff. “I say that because Father Time is undefeated. Adam Bighill 34, Stanley Bryant 37, Zach Collaros 34, Jackson Jeffcoat 32, Willie Jefferson 32, Mike Miller 34, Patrick Neufeld 34, Jermarcus Hardrick 33…all those guys will not be back next year. They can’t stand pat. I don’t care if they go 18-and-oh and win the Grey Cup, they will start making changes, so those guys need to understand this is the final run for the nucleus, for the majority of the nucleus, for this team.” Well, let’s take inventory: Bighill, still on board (albeit in sick bay). Bryant, still on board. Collaros, still on board. Jefferson, still on board. Neufeld, still on board. Do the math, Milt. The majority of the nucleus is back for one more “final run.”

Nobody asked me, but as the large lads in pads gird for the 2024 season, which commences Thursday night with the Montreal Larks in Good Ol’ Hometown for a Grey Grail encore, I find myself thinking the Alouettes and Bombers might be the last two teams standing when it’s winner-take-all on Nov. 17 in Vancouver. Seeing the Blue-and-Gold in the championship skirmish yet again might be a turnoff for some people, but I didn’t get tired of it in the late-1950s and early-1960s, so I’m not going to complain now.

B.C. Leos bankroll Amar Doman continues to press the right buttons on The Other Side of the Rocks, where they’ve opened the upper bowl at B.C. Place to accommodate a flock of approximately 50,000 for the Leos home debut vs. Calgary Stampeders on June 15. Ya, sure, the majority will be there to hear rapper 50 Cent do his thing pre-kickoff. So what? Get ’em in and they might come back. Well done, Amar.

The Leos, of course, have to hold up their end of the bargain. They wouldn’t want to follow 50 Cent with a two-bit performance. (Ya, I agree, that’s a total groaner, but I couldn’t resist.)

Another CFL pre-season thought: Which quarterback will the Football Reporters of Canada mistakenly give the Most Outstanding Player Award to this year?

Hands up if you saw this coming: The Mike Tyson-Jake Paul fist fight scheduled for July 20 in Dallas has been postponed. Surprise, surprise. That was as predictable as snow on the ground at Portage and Main in January. I mean, Iron Mike is 58 years old, prepping to go dukes up with a dude 30 years younger. You think he actually wants to go through with this faux fight? But, hey, apparently his health issue is legit. X-rays, in fact, showed the former world heavyweight boxing champ has an ulcer. Even worse, doctors discovered he still hasn’t passed the portion of Evander Holyfield’s ear that he chewed off in 1997. “That ear lobe has Mike’s bowels backed up like Manhattan traffic during a power outage,” one medic explained. “Less punching and more pooping and Mike will be good to go.”

According to reports, Tyson, a self-confessed pothead, was on a no-W training regimen for the Paul bout—no Weed, no Women, no Wonder the guy has an ulcer.

I don’t know about you, but I pay special attention to former Jets playing in the Stanley Cup tournament final four, and here’s my reading on three members of the New York Rangers, now on vacation: Jacob Trouba is reckless, dangerous and takes dumb penalties, Blake Wheeler should be confined to the press box, and Jack Roslovic skates in circles and accomplishes little.

Nobody asked me, but I say Luke Gazdic has been a nice addition to the Hockey Night in Canada panel on Sportsnet, confirming that a one-time National Hockey League plug can be every bit on-point in a TV studio as an all-time great like Wayne Gretzky. Luke actually looks the part of the hockey player-turned-talking head—he has a missing tooth.

Things that make me go hmmm, Vol. 1,178: According to the folks who track such things, we just experienced the warmest winter in Canada since 1948. Hmmm. And here I thought all the hot air was removed once the plug was pulled on Don Cherry and Coach’s Corner.

A thought while watching the Professional Women’s Hockey League post-season tournament: Sure would be nice to see a PWHL outfit in Good Ol’ Hometown. Unfortunately, I doubt Stan Kasten and Billie Jean King could point to Winnipeg on a map.

Say hello to Zoe Pierce, the freshest face in the toy department at the Drab Slab. Zoe’s a local lass on leave from her journalism studies at Carleton U in Ottawa, and you’ll be seeing her byline on the Winnipeg Free Press sports pages during the next few months. If the summer intern is anything like the last female to scribble sports at the Drab Slab, Melissa Martin, they’ve got themselves a good one.

So I’m tuned in to the Rafael Nadal-Alexander Zverev match at Roland Garros last week, hoping it wouldn’t be Rafa’s final match at the French Open but, at the same time, expecting it would be. The great Spaniard and King of Clay had just broken serve in the second set when … poof! TSN cut away to a bland, outside-court match between our Leylah Annie Fernandez and world No. 147 Jessika Ponchet (I had to look up her ranking). What the bloody hell? It had to be the worst programming call since the Heidi Game (look it up, kids).

And, finally, this is Pride Month. You all know LGBT(etc.) people. Let them know you’ve got their back.

About the greatest of them all Roger Federer…an emotional breakdown at Wimbledon…the still great Venus Williams…British knickers in a knot…a $1 million gaffe…and Sportsnet ignoring the CFL

I cannot survive in a 140-character world, so here are more tweets that grew up to be too big for Twitter…

I never thought I’d see a better running back than Jim Brown. I haven’t (although Gayle Sayers was absolutely breathtaking).

I never thought I’d see a better pitcher than Sandy Koufax. I haven’t.

I never thought I’d see a better baseball player than Willie Mays. I haven’t.

I never thought I’d see a better boxer than Muhammad Ali in his prime. I haven’t.

I never thought I’d see a better race horse than Secretariat. I haven’t.

I never thought I’d see a better hockey player than Bobby Orr. I haven’t.

I never thought I’d see a better tennis player than Bjorn Borg. I have. Roger Federer.

Roger Federer

Of all the athletes I have witnessed in my 66 1/2-year (so far) lifetime, Federer just might be the pinnacle. It’s a tough call, but he’s definitely in the discussion.

What I find most intriguing about Federer, who won his eighth Wimbledon singles title Sunday morning by dismantling a distraught Marin Cilic 6-3, 6-1, 6-4 on the lumpy lawn of the All England Club’s Centre Court, is his casual greatness. He plays tennis with a Zen-like calm that suggests the game is more of a stroll than a struggle. While his foes fret and fuss, it’s like Federer’s lounging in a recliner. He makes it look so…dang…easy. I mean, why does the Swiss maestro bother with a towel, on or off court? It can’t be to wipe away sweat. He sweats like the Pope swears.

Federer has been the dominant force in what must be cataloged as the platinum age of men’s tennis, with only health managing to slow him down. Temporarily.

He disappeared to the repair shop immediately after the 2016 Wimbledon fortnight and re-emerged six months later to earn the Australian Open title, with a five-set victory over nemesis Rafael Nadal, long Federer’s Kryptonite. He’s won five of the seven tournaments he’s entered this year, and he’s 2-for-2 in Grand Slam events.

Federer did, of course, skip the French Open in late May/early June, a decision he might regret should he carry on to triumph at the U.S. Open. That, mind you, is not to say Federer can’t get the job done on clay. He’s won on every surface but the moon. Still, success in Paris this year (or any year) was extremely unlikely, because Roland Garros is a Rafa Nadal thing. Ten times a Rafa Nadal thing. Jesus in sneakers couldn’t beat an on-form Nadal in Paris. Thus, Federer passed on Paris and prepped for Wimbledon. The results are in. Good call.

So, who or what can beat and stop Federer? Age. Eventually. There’ll be 36 candles on his birthday cake next month, and the aging process has to kick in one of these years.

In the meantime, I’ll continue to enjoy this seemingly ageless athlete who’s one for the ages.

Marin Cilic

How do you spell both the men’s and ladies’ singles championship matches at Wimbledon? D-U-D-S. After a final week of superb play—the Rafa Nadal-Gilles Muller fifth set was spellbinding—the lasting image of the ultimate matches is not one of terrific shot-making but that of Marin Cilic being reduced to an emotional train wreck during a side changeover vs. Federer. That was wince-inducing and very painful to watch. Been there, done that on the field of play, which is why I wanted to cry right along with him.

What’s that you say? Women’s tennis is lacking star power? Well, yes it is, with Serena Williams becoming a mama and Maria Sharapova trying to figure out how to play without the aid of banned substances. But there’s hope. The two most recent Grand Slam champions are French Open queen Jelena Ostapenko, just 21 and a powder keg of charisma and talent, and Garbine Muguruza, the 23-year-old Venezuelan-born Spaniard who paddywhacked five-time Wimbledon champion Venus Williams 7-5, 6-0 in the ladies’ final. Muguruza is the only woman to beat both of the Williams sisters in a Grand Slam final.

Steve Simmons of Postmedia just can’t seem to get out of his own way. After Muguruza had mopped Centre Court with Venus Williams on Saturday, he wrote: “Williams was a dominant player in 2000 and 2001 when she won the U.S. Open and Wimbledon. Since then, a good player, just not a great one.” Really. I’m uncertain how Simmons measures greatness in athletes, but Williams won Wimbledon in 2005, 2007 and 2008, and only four women—her sister Serena, Justine Henin, Sharapova and Kim Clijsters—have won more Grand Slams post-2001. Venus also has won 10 doubles Grand Slams post-2001. Venus Williams has been a great, not just good, player and champion for two decades.

Tsk, tsk. Venus Williams was in the pink at Wimbledon.

Nobody does pomp better than the British, but nobody gets bent out of shape like the British, either. I mean, tsk-tsking Venus Williams because she’s wearing a pink bra? Ordering players to the changing room to put on white skivvies? Talk about getting your knickers in a knot over nothing.

Okay, enough about Wimbledon. It’s about the Winnipeg Blue Bombers. I’m sorry, but I simply didn’t understand all the teeth-gnashing and angst after the Bombers came out of the chute at 1-1. How bad was it? Bad enough that those two pesky Grumpets at the Winnipeg Free Press actually had a chin-wag during which sports editor Steve Lyons asked columnist Paul Wiecek if Thursday night’s assignment against the Toronto Argonauts was a “must win.” Are you kidding me? A “must win” three games into the Canadian Football League season? Come on, man. Don’t talk to us about must wins until the frost is on the pumpkin.

A drophead in the Freep described the Bombers-Argos joust as an “epic battle.” Ya, 10 field goals, that’s epic. The Argos failed to score an offensive touchdown. That’s epic like I’m Shania Twain. Come on, man.

Only one thing about that game was epic—the officiating blunder that jobbed Karen Kuldys out of $1 million. For those who missed it, Karen was the Safeway/Sobeys Touchdown to Win contestant, meaning if two kickoff returns went the distance she’d win a million Canadian bucks. Well, Ryan Lankford of the Bombers takes the opening kickoff to the house, then Martese Jackson of the Boatmen skedaddles 109 yards for a TD. But wait. There’s a flag on the play. One of the zebras has observed Toronto’s Llevi Noel ambushing Mike Miller from behind, whereas in fact the Bombers special-teamer has tripped over his own shoelace. No touchdown. No million Canadian bucks for Karen. The good news is, all Touchdown to Win contestants are now allowed one challenge flag per half.

So which head coach gets punted first, Chris Jones of the Saskatchewan Roughriders or Kent Austin of the Hamilton Tiger-Cats? The smart money has to be on Austin, whose Tabbies are winless. Somehow I don’t think there’ll be a whole lot of tears shed when he’s shown the door.

Two games in the CFL on Friday night and not a mention of either on the front page of the Sportsnet website at 2 o’clock Saturday morning. And this is the gang that trumpets itself as Canada’s #1 Sports Network. They had headlines about Kevin Klein signing to play hockey in Switzerland, some guy named Nikita Gusev signing to play hockey in Russia, and a piece on a Honda Indy practice, but nary a whisper about the CFL. I returned for a looksee at 4:30 a.m. Still nada. There was no mention of Wimbledon either. That, like dissing Venus Williams, is totally lame.

Patti Dawn Swansson has been scribbling mostly about Winnipeg sports for 47 years, which means she’s old and probably should think about getting a life.

 

Red Cards and Yellow Cards to you, you, you and my own self

The World Cup is in the rear view mirror, but that doesn’t mean we have to put away the red and yellow cards. Matter of fact, I’m going to my pocket because there are some people who need to be carded…

RED CARD: To Steve Simmons of the Toronto Sun/Sun Media.

I have often red-carded Little Stevie Blunder because he is, perhaps, the most red-cardable jock journalist in the land. To err is human, but this Sun scribe is never wrong. Just ask him.

I did that very thing once upon a time. Little Stevie had written that the Minnesota Vikings never were champions of the National Football League. I sent him an email, suggesting he might be mistaken.

“The Vikings have never won the Super Bowl, but did they not win the final NFL title prior to the merger with the American Football League?” I inquired. “I’m looking at the official NFL record book as I write, and it lists Minnesota as the 1969 NFL champion. Is the official NFL record book wrong, or are you wrong?”

Well, didn’t that just ruffle his not-so-pretty plummage?

Little Stevie’s response was quite snotty. Basically, he told me I was a ditz who didn’t know pigskin from porcelain and I shouldn’t let the facts get in the way of his high-and-mighty huffing and puffing. Without saying the NFL record book was wrong, he said it was wrong.

So now we have Little Stevie playing loose with history once again, this time in Major League Baseball.

Sitting to the host’s right on TSN The Reporters with Dave Hodge this past Sabbath, Little Stevie went into full bluster and told us this about Clayton Kershaw, the Los Angeles Dodgers sensational southpaw: “His last eight starts, two no-hitters, five earned runs.”

Kershaw has one no-hitter in his entire career, not two in eight starts.

Normally, a foul of this nature would warrant only a yellow card, but Simmons gets a red card because he’s so arrogant.

RED CARD: To the Winnipeg Sun.

Why does PegSun run Little Stevie Blunder’s three-dot columns on Sundays? Too much of it is Toronto-centric. In his most-recent piece, Simmons offered 14 opinions on Tranna athletes/issues compared to just one about Winnipeg. Does anyone in River City actually care about the Raptors and the naming of a Scarborough street after Peter Zezel?

Why doesn’t PegSun have one of its own people do the column? Like Paul Friesen. Or a freelancer who’d make the thing more Peg-centric.

RED CARD: To Kevin Klein, grand poobah of MyToba.ca.

I’m sure Klein has some boffo ideas, because the MyToba.ca website is quite good. But his campaign to have Dancing Gabe Langlois inducted into the Manitoba Sports Hall of Fame is not among his boffo notions. It is, in fact, a really, really dumb idea.

Klein made his plea in a May column on MyToba.ca, and asked folks to sign a petition in support. Two months later, he has 157 of his targeted 10,000 signatures.

Take the hint, Kevin: Take the story down from your website.

YELLOW CARD: To Gary (La La) Lawless of the Winnipeg Free Press.

Gary La La engaged Dave Reid in one of those staged, to-and-fro chin-wags in which both voices talk loud and, often, at the same time on TSN’s That’s Hockey. Their debate focused on the merits of having either Jacob Trouba of the Winnipeg Jets or Seth Jones of the Nashville Predators as the centrepiece of your National Hockey League franchise.

“Leadership?” Gary La La said in summation. “You could slap the C on Jacob Trouba in Winnipeg right now and no one would blink.”

Yo! La La! I’m pretty certain Andrew Ladd would blink as they ripped the C off his sweater.

Jets GM Kevin Takethedayoff

YELLOW CARD: To Jets left winger Evander Kane and general manager Kevin (Takethedayoff) Cheveldayoff.

These two need to spend some time on Planet Pinocchio. Here’s why: When Kane arrives at training camp (on time but probably not soon enough for the naysayers), the news scavengers will be circling, They will be hungry. They will be prepared to pick at his bones. This will be their first volley:

“Do you want to be here in Winnipeg, Evander?”

This will be the central theme throughout training exercises—and into the NHL season—unless the polarizing player and the pulseless GM stop talking in circles about Kane’s life expectancy with the Jets.

Kane and Cheveldayoff need to do what most hockey people do—lie. The next time Kane is asked if he’s happy in Pegtown, he must say, “Yes.” When Cheveldayoff is asked if he is attempting to peddle his sometimes petulant player’s posterior to the highest bidder, he must say, “No.”

You and I will know both their noses are growing and their pants are on fire, but their big, fat fibs ought to curb the controversy. We then can move on to more pressing training camp issues. Like the size of Dustin Byfuglien’s girth.

YELLOW CARD: To local newsies for sticking their microphones and notepads under Dale Hawerchuk’s nose to get his take on the Kane situation.

Exactly what did the scavengers expect Ducky to say? That Winnipeg is a cesspool? That Kane should run for the hills?

There’s no suggestion that the Jets legend was anything less than sincere when he endorsed good, ol’ Hometown as a swell place to spend an NHL career, but come on, people. That’s not a fresh slant on a touchy issue. It’s not news. It’s True North propaganda.

YELLOW CARD: To my very own self because of what I scribbled about the Winnipeg Blue Bombers for The Huddle Magazine last September.

“Be afraid, kids. Be very afraid. Here’s why. What transpired at Football Follies Field in Fort Garry on Friday night might have been a preview of the 2014 Canadian Football League season.

Keep in mind that your Winnipeg Blue Bombers will be keeping company with B.C., Calgary, Edmonton and Saskatchewan next year, so the 53-17 paddy whacking the B.C. Lions laid on the locals could become the rule rather than the exception.

Scary thought, isn’t it?

I mean, if you’re the bottom feeder in the CFL East Division, what’s going to happen when you’re running with the big dogs in the West Division? Well, here’s a hint: The Bombers are 1-6 vs. West outfits in 2013 and they’ve been outscored 238-145 for a per game average of 34-20. So batten the hatches and hide all the women and children.

Oh, I suppose a lot will change between now and next July. Maybe the Bombers will find a general manager. Maybe they’ll find a head coach who knows where the Xs and Os belong on the offensive side of the football. Maybe they’ll find a quarterback who doesn’t give the ball away like candy on Halloween. Maybe they’ll find some large lads who can pass block. Maybe they’ll find some receivers who don’t have alligator arms in traffic. Maybe they’ll find someone who can kick a field goal.

And maybe I’ll be Miss Grey Cup 2013.”

Well, our football heroes are 3-and-oh and atop the Canadian Football League West Division standings.

D’oh!

(FOOTNOTE: I invite your comments. I do not, however, welcome some of your comments. If you believe what I’ve written is the natterings of a nincompoop and belongs at the bottom of a bird cage, let ‘er rip. Tell me why. I enjoy healthy debate. That can be fun. If, on the other hand, your idea of a critique is to attack/insult me about my gender or sexual orientation, then we aren’t going to get along. Let’s put it this way: It is permissible to question the size of my IQ, but not the size of my boobs. Bottom line: I don’t get paid to write this crap, so play nice, kids.)