About bah-humbugish people and things that have gotten up my nose…

A different kind of Sunday smorgas-bored…and it’s only fair to warn you that I’ve got a bad case of the bah-humbugs today because the PC Police are ruining Christmas songs for me. Seriously, Baby It’s Cold Outside is a banned song? What next, they haul Rudolph and his red nose off the air because he was bullied by the other reindeer and he drinks too much? Anyway, Robert Mueller is up Donald Trump’s nose (still) and here are some people and things that have crawled up my nose:

  • Brooke Henderson

    News snoops who vote on the Lou Marsh Trophy get up my nose, because they don’t have a clue about curling and curlers. Their snub of Rachel Homan last year was ghastly, so you can be sure that our girl Jennifer Jones won’t get a whiff of consideration this week when the girls and boys on the beat(s) put their little heads together to declare Canada’s top jock for 2018. I’m not saying Jones deserves the honor. Brooke Henderson does. But it would be nice if the world champion curler is at least in the conversation. Trouble is, few jock journos in the east know a hogline from Hog Town. Some of them still consider curling a social activity rather than a sport. (True story: When I joined the Toronto Sun sports staff, I was dispatched to London, Ont., for the 1981 world curling championships because, as sports editor George Gross informed me, “You’re from Western Canada, so you must know curling. No one else on our staff knows anything about it.”)

  • The national sports media (Sportsnet, TSN, Globe and Mail, National Post) are up my nose for their groupie-like gushing over the Tranna Maple Leafs. The Auston Matthews adulation is painfully over the top, and the Willy Boy Nylander contract saga received more coverage than the JFK assassination. Daily updates on Willy Boy’s whereabouts and activity while he played hooky instead of hockey included everything from the brushing of his teeth to the clipping of his toenails. There were 15—count ’em, 15!—breathless articles/videos about him on the Sportsnet website last Monday morning. The second coming of Christ won’t get that much play. Unless, of course, Jesus signs with the Maple Leafs and plays on a line with Matthews.

  • Connor McDavid

    The Edmonton Oilers are up my nose because, their current run of decent play notwithstanding, they’ve been a mess of steaming, hot hooey for too long. Normally I wouldn’t care, except they have this kid named Connor McDavid who deserves so much more than a supporting cast full of invalids. McDavid was too ill to play last Monday. Little wonder. The Oilers make me sick, too.

  • The National Hockey League is up my nose because it continues to snub Québec City, my favorite burg in North America. Okay, it didn’t work first time around for Ville de Québec, but the same must also be said for Winnipeg. And just look at what’s happening in River City now.
  • A portion of the rabble in River City are up my nose for the constant whinging about a perceived anti-Jets bias among NHL referees. As conspiracy theories go, it ranks right up there with the moon landing and whatever boogymen Donald Trump is spooked by these days. Nobody wearing arm bands is out to get the locals. Missed calls happen. Bad calls happen. That’s because some NHL refs are lousy. So there’s nothing to see here. Move along.

  • Former Kansas City Chiefs running back Kareem Hunt is up my nose because he’s apologized to everyone for shoving and kicking a woman except the woman he shoved and kicked while she was on the ground.

  • The Drab Slab known as the Winnipeg Free Press is up my nose for providing retired sports columnist Paul Wiecek with a platform to spew scandalous gossip about elite curlers being a bunch of “swingers” who spend their weekends cheating on their spouses with other curlers who are cheating on their spouses. Infidelity is newsworthy if an athlete’s name is Tiger Woods, but the everyday Janes and Joes who curl don’t deserve to be branded as adulterous sexaholics by a former jock journo with too much free time on his hands. The sexual hijinx of curlers is nobody’s business. It’s the sort of careless gossip you tell the boys at the bar, but a responsible newspaper wouldn’t print such trash. It serves no purpose other than to titillate and cast the “cheater” cloud of suspicion over everyone.

  • Postmedia is up my nose because of the way it has destroyed the Winnipeg Sun sports pages. I don’t recognize it as a Winnipeg newspaper anymore.

  • Jeff Blair of Sportsnet is up my nose for writing that no general manager in the Republic of Tranna has “won anything of significance for years, going back to 1992-93.” Figures. Let’s ignore the Argonauts. Typical Tranna, where the Canadian Football League is less significant than Drake’s bowel movements. The Boatmen have brought the Grey Cup home five times since 1993. Apparently Blair considers those meh moments. So only the Maple Leafs, Blue Jays and Raptors matter in The ROT. Sounds about right. And that’s a shame.

  • Mike Benevides

    The CFL is up my nose for its football operations salary cap. It’s the dumbest cap since someone put that pointy thing on the Pope’s head. Do we really care if the Saskatchewan Roughriders have 15 coaches and the Winnipeg Blue Bombers only 10? Or how much or how little they’re paid? The Montreal Alouettes just fired a mittful of coaches/scouts because of this new cap. And did Mike Benevides and the Edmonton Eskimos part ways because of the new cap? Losing quality coaches and scouts makes the on-field product better how?

  • Steve Simmons of Postmedia Tranna is up my nose for his sanctimonious scribblings re Baseball Hall of Fame balloting. Citing Rule 5 of qualifications for induction to Cooperstown, he focuses on “integrity, sportsmanship and character” in explaining his steadfast refusal to vote for Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Sammy Sosa, Manny Ramirez or any other ballplayer who stuck a needle in their butt. But this holier-than-thou Simmons is the same guy who glorifies woman-beater Floyd Mayweather, writing about his “dignity,” and he also expresses how much “fun” it is to have woman-beater Johnny Manziel in the CFL. Can you say fake piety, kids?

  • Tyson Fury

    Cathal Kelly of the Globe and Mail is up my nose for his pungent description of heavyweight boxer and oinker Tyson Fury. The British pug is a “delightful and often tortured oddball,” according to Kelly. Well, yes, he’s tortured. He’s battled the bottle, drugs, depression and suicide ideation. He also spews sexist, racist, anti-Semitic, homophobic and transphobic venom. A woman’s place is “in the kitchen and on her back” would be one of his tamer comments. He once said he would hang his sister were he to discover she’d been promiscuous. He compares homosexuality to pedophilia. Jews and Zionists own all the banks, newspapers and TV stations and have us all “brainwashed.” This is Kelly’s idea of a delightful human being?

  • I’ve probably gotten up some noses with this series of bah-humbugish mini-rants, but I’m sure the spirit of the season shall fa-la-la-la-la all over me once again on the morrow. Unless, of course, I find out about more Christmas carols that the PC Police won’t let me listen to.

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About Winnipeg Blue Bombers head coach Mike O’Shea and the Zen of Wile E. Coyote and pigeon poop

Welcome to the River City Shrink Wrap, the world-renowned sports psychology clinic. If you can’t wrap your head around something, Dr. Pigskin or her twin sister Dr. Puck will do it for you. Today, Dr. Pigskin is on duty and has just one patient, Winnipeg Blue Bombers head coach Mike O’Shea…

DR. PIGSKIN: Good morning, Coach O’Shea. I must say, I was surprised when you called to book an appointment, because everything I read and hear about you and your Bombers these days is positive. Nobody’s talking about your goofy shorts and smirk anymore. Seems to me that you’ve become the flavor of the month in the Canadian Football League.

COACH O’SHEA: Ya, they like me today—at least some of them do—but what about tomorrow?

DR. PIGSKIN: Well, beat the Saskatchewan Roughriders tomorrow in Regina and the love-in continues. It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that. It’s really quite simple, Coach.

COACH O’SHEA: That’s easy for you to say, Doc. That’s a very hostile environment we’re walking into. You should see those sodbusters. They’re big and hairy, they’ve all got beer bellies, and half of them don’t have more than three teeth in their head. Then there’s the men. They’re even uglier. And thick between the ears. Really, what kind of a guy dates a woman who wears a watermelon on her head?

DR. PIGSKIN: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Coach.

COACH O’SHEA: Trust me, Doc, there ain’t nothing beautiful about what comes out of their mouths. You should hear some of the things they call me and my players, especially after they’ve got a few cans of wobbly pop in them.

DR. PIGSKIN: Give me an example.

COACH O’SHEA: I can’t do that, Doc. You’re a lady and I’d never repeat those things in the company of a lady. Let’s just say that the fans in Regina mention my mother a lot, and it’s usually as an adjective in front of a word that rhymes with trucker.

DR. PIGSKIN: Oh my, that is nasty.

COACH O’SHEA: Nasty ain’t the word for it, Doc. You think there’s a lot of raw sewage pouring into the Red and Assiniboine Rivers in Winnipeg? You ain’t seen nothing until you’ve been to Mosaic Stadium. I ain’t saying Regina is the crotch of the country like another Bombers coach once did, but I need to get hosed down every time I leave the place.

DR. PIGSKIN: Well, okay, so you won’t be playing in friendly confines on Sunday. Boo freaking hoo. And you were expecting what for a playoff football game in enemy territory? The Welcome Wagon? A rose-petal pathway to your changing room? Man up, Mikey!

COACH O’SHEA: You’re right, Doc. I guess I sound kinda lame.

DR. PIGSKIN: Lame doesn’t begin to describe it. Look, I don’t believe for a minute that you’ve come to see me just because football fans in Regina have bad manners. Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here, Coach.

COACH O’SHEA: Well, the Toronto Argonauts just fired Marc Trestman. He’s won the Grey Cup three times, including last November. I’ve had this Bombers gig for five years and I’m still looking for my first playoff win. I’m Coach O-Fer. If I don’t get off the schneid in Regina, I’m thinking I’ll be saying one of two things at this time next week: 1) “Welcome to Wallmart;” 2) “Would you like fries with your order?” I mean, if a coach like Marc Trestman can’t hold on to his job, what hope do the rest of us slugs have?

DR. PIGSKIN: Oh, come on, Coach. Again, man up. Every one of us has an expiry date. Especially you professional coaches. It comes with the territory. So let’s try this one more time…why are you here talking to a shrink? Give me the straight goods.

COACH O’SHEA: Okay! Okay! I’m a compulsive gambler! There. I said it. Happy now?

DR. PIGSKIN: This isn’t about my happiness, Coach. It’s about you being comfortable in your own skin heading into your playoff game against Gang Green. Now, tell me about this compulsive gambling of yours. Do you bet on the ponies, the NFL, the NHL, dog racing, if Donald Trump will be impeached? What is it?

COACH O’SHEA: Naw, it ain’t that kind of gambling, Doc. They don’t pay me enough to waste my money like that. I gamble on strategy. Just when everything is going great for the team and it’s looking like we’re gonna win, I’ll make some dumb-ass decision and—kaflooey!—it blows up in my face like one of those exploding gadgets that Wile E. Coyote gets from ACME. Instead of punting on third down, I gamble. Even when the ball’s deep in our own end, I gamble. Ka-oom! Wrong again! Other times, like a couple of years ago in B.C. when I should have gone for it on third down, I gambled that my kicker could hoof a 61-yard field goal indoors where the air is deader than Jimmy Hoffa. Ask me how that worked out.

DR. PIGSKIN: Life is a gamble, Coach.

COACH O’SHEA: Ya, but I don’t know when to hold ’em and when to fold ’em. I keep thinking I can fool ’em with trick plays, like Wile E. Coyote trying to fool the Roadrunner. Sometimes I do fool ’em. That’s when you’ll see me smirk. But I can’t get the timing right for my gambling.

DR. PIGSKIN: Life is timing, Coach.

COACH O’SHEA: Is that the best you’ve got, Doc? Life is timing? I could have gone for a beer and the bartender could have told me that. I need you to tell me what to do about my compulsive gambling before I have another “D’oh!” moment that costs us another playoff game. Help me out here!

DR. PIGSKIN: First, there’s something you need to remember…every football coach makes bone-headed decisions. They’ve been doing it ever since someone thought a ball with pointy ends would be a cool thing to kick and toss around. The exception, of course, would be Bud Grant, a flawless coach who’s so respected in these parts that the pigeons refuse to poop on his statue outside Football Follies Field in Fort Garry. So here’s what you do next time you’re looking at third-and-one or more, especially on your half of the field—ask yourself this question: What do I want the pigeons to do?

COACH O’SHEA: That’s pretty deep, Doc. Kinda zenish. But can you spell it out for me in layman’s terms?

DR. PIGSKIN: If you want to be remembered as a royal screw-up, grasshopper, you’ll gamble. If you want to be remembered as the head coach who brought the Grey Cup home to Winnipeg after 27 years of failure, you’ll kick the ball away and rely on your defence.

COACH O’SHEA: You make it sound so simple, Doc.

DR. PIGSKIN: As legendary football coach Siddhartha Gautama said to his grasshoppers during a film session: “If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading.” Now, head to Mosaic Stadium and kick some Roughrider butt.

About foggy football…foggy grey matter…the Winnipeg Blue Bombers are in the playoffs…QB Joe Ordinary…looking for a scapegoat and a unique daily double in E-Town…pulling the plug on live mic CFL games…searching for Puck Finn in Finland…remembering daytime baseball…and other things on my mind

Another Sunday morning and another smorgas-bored featuring opinions that might also be yours (but I doubt it)…

It was a dark and foggy night….sorry, couldn’t resist opening with that cornball lede. But, hey, it truly was a dark and foggy night when the Winnipeg Blue Bombers and Calgary Stampeders gathered to grab grass and growl at Football Follies Field in Fort Garry on Friday.

1962 Fog Bowl

I swear, twas the best Bombers game I haven’t seen since the 1962 Fog Bowl in the Republic of Tranna. Winnipeg FC won that one, too. Beat the Hamilton Tiger-Cats 28-27 in the only Grey Cup game that started on a Saturday afternoon and ended after Sunday mass. We watched it but didn’t really see it. Same thing on Friday. Much of what went down in the second half was scarcely visible to my aging eyes. Fortunately, Chris Cuthbert was there in the TSN Tower of Babble On to inform me what he couldn’t see either.

Anyway, ya, the Bombers are great foggers. Not only did they overcome the pea soup that drifted into Football Follies Field to paddywhack the tobogganing Stampeders, 29-21, they also saw their way through the fog between Mike O’Shea’s ears.

Oh, yes, Coach Mikey almost got in his own way again, because he just won’t learn from his blunders.

Mike O’Shea

This time, the Bombers were confronted with a third-and-one on their own 28-yard stripe. They had a two-score lead, 29-18. The clock showed four minutes and 26 ticks remaining. Thus, the prudent course of action was to have Justin Medlock hoof the football far afield and force Bo Levi Mitchell and the Stampeders offence to go to great lengths to score twice against Richie Hall’s very stingy defensive dozen.

Not Coach Mikey, though. He had a different notion. He did his riverboat gambler thing. Again. And it failed miserably. Again.

Dave Dickenson

Fortunately for the home side, Stampeders head coach Dave Dickenson also had fog on his grey matter and, rather than kick a gimme three-pointer to reduce his deficit to one score, he frittered away the gift turnover with his own ill-advised third-down gamble. Game, set and on to the Canadian Football League playoffs for the Bombers.

“I won’t shy away from doing it again,” O’Shea said matter-of-factly when news snoops inquired about his decision-making.

That’s what makes me a bit of a nervous Nellie.

Coach Mikey has a history of significant risk-and-reward failures, including a brain cramp that turned an iffy West Division semifinal into a rout for the Edmonton Eskimos last November. He doesn’t do safe. He’d go all in with a fistful of nothing at a Las Vegas poker table. He’s Evel Knievel trying to leap the Snake River Canyon on a skateboard.

Well, that’s one (the main?) reason why he’ll enter next month’s Grey Cup runoff searching for his first post-season W in five years as the Bombers sideline steward.

O’Shea’s latest failed gamble isn’t much of a talking point today because it wasn’t punitive. Do it on the second, third or fourth Sunday in November, however, and it’s guaranteed that gums will be flapping in River City. There’s no backup plan for failure then.

As mentioned at the top, the Bombers have played in a thick fog before. Those of us who lived through it call it the Jeff Reinebold Era.

Winnipeg FC will be required to beat the Saskatchewan Roughriders and Stampeders—on enemy soil—to advance against the East Division survivor in the Grey Cup game in Edmonton. Tall order. But doable. After all, they laid a licking on both of their Prairie rivals and the Bytown RedBlacks during their late-season, 5-0 roll. But Coach Mikey will have to get out of his own way.

Matt Nichols

If you’re going to feel good about someone going to the Grey Cup tournament next month, make it Bombers quarterback Joe Ordinary. It wasn’t so long ago, remember, when the rabble at Football Follies Field had the bad manners to mightily boo Matt Nichols when his bearded mug appeared on the big screen in a public service announcement about the hazards of drinking and driving. The Bombers haven’t lost in five skirmishes since, and that’s due in large part to a timely September bye week that provided Nichols ample time to pull his head out of his butt and place it back on his stooped shoulders. Joe Ordinary has been extremely efficient with the football, tossing seven touchdown passes against one pick in the five Ws, and his calm cannot be measured. Good on him.

Coach Mikey, of course, gets a tip of the bonnet for his handling of the QB situation when Nichols was lower than whatever’s beneath a snake’s belly. The rabble and some news snoops were calling for change—and we can only wonder what kind of pressure he was under from his overlords in the Bombers bunker on Chancellor Matheson Road—but he didn’t flinch. Mind you, there’s a term for head football coaches who are influenced by the braying of fans and media—ex-coach.

TSN can pull the plug on its live mic broadcasts next season. It was interesting initially and I’m not offended by F-bombs from football players in the throes of combat, but the gimmick has become annoying and interrruptive. If the people in the Tower of Babble On are going to talk over the QBs and head coaches, what’s the point?

Jason Maas

So who takes the fall in Edmonton? Eskimos volcanic head coach Jason Maas? D-coordinator Mike Benevides? General manager Brock Sunderland? Surely one of those three will be the scapegoat after a crusade that wasn’t supposed to end until the final Sunday in November at Commonwealth Stadium in E-Town. I mean, when you’re the only West Division outfit that fails to qualify for the Grey Cup runoff something has to give. Is there a Paul LaPolice in the Eskimos’ future?

It occurs to me that E-Town’s two major sports outfits are chasing a unique daily double this year. Connor McDavid, most outstanding player in the NHL—Oilers missed the playoffs.
Mike Reilly, favorite to win CFL most outstanding player award—Eskimos missed the playoffs.
Has that happened before? Anywhere?

Why is it that the Winnipeg Jets were beaten by the Tranna Maple Leafs twice in four days but I still feel like our home side is the better outfit? I know, I know. Les Jets were a no-show at The Little Hockey House On The Prairie last Wednesday, and they coughed up a hefty hair ball in a 3-2 loss Saturday night in the the Republic of Tranna. Still, when the dust settles on this National Hockey League season, I’d put my money on Winnipeg HC advancing further along the Stanley Cup trail than les Leafs.

Puck Finn

For those of you keeping score at home (and I know you are), les Jets two PlayStation Pals—Twig Ehlers and Puck Finn—still have only four goals between them. Good thing Winnipeg HC is making a pilgrimage to Patrick Laine’s homeland later this week. Perhaps Finnish authorities can tell us who stole Puck Finn and what they did with him.

Seriously, does Laine have an evil twin brother who was switched with the real thing last summer? Do les Jets have Puck Twin instead of Puck Finn?

Damn Yankees

Couldn’t keep my eyelids open long enough to see Max Muncy of the Los Angeles Dodgers end the longest game in World Series history with an 18th-inning walkoff dinger vs. the Boston Red Sox on Friday night. The zzzzzzzs kicked in after the 14th inning. Made me yearn for the days when baseball’s championship games were played as it was meant to be—in the afternoon. Still remember being in class at St. Alphonsus School in Good Ol’ Hometown, listening to Game 7 of the 1962 World Series between the Giants and Yankees on Sister Somethingorother’s transistor radio. As I recall, it marked the first, but not the last, time the term “Damn Yankees!” escaped my lips. Fortunately, my expletive didn’t travel far enough to reach Sister Somethingorother’s ears, thus my tiny, dainty hands were spared her thick leather strap.

Donald Trump

And, finally, I note that Donald Trump took time out from lashing out at the “enemy of the people” (journalists) to second guess manager Dave Roberts’ handling of the Dodgers pitching staff during their 9-6 loss in Game 4 of the World Series on Saturday. I have no problem with that. People second guess Trump on a daily basis. But I really think his time would be better served by second guessing laws that allow bad people to play with guns in the U.S.

Yes, there’s sexism in sports, and it’s no more prevalent than in the media

In my previous life as a mainstream jock journo, I surely was guilty of a few sexist scribblings.

It doesn’t matter that it was during a more tolerant time and place. A time and place when we didn’t have the politically correct police parsing every syllable or turn of phrase we produced in print or on air. Even if written with a tongue-in-cheek quill—which it was—or to ruffle feathers—which it did—it still registered as sexist and today would result in a prompt and thorough scolding and scorn on social media. So, yes, guilty as charged.

I am reminded of my past indelicacies because the pungent odor of sexism is again awaft.

Everywhere you look, there is sexism in sports. On TV. On the Internet. In newspapers (what’s left of them). On the playing fields. In changing rooms. And, yes, in the press box. Definitely in the press box.

To believe, or pretend, otherwise is to believe Donald Trump doesn’t really live in the White House.

So, yes, sexism exists, most definitely in professional tennis, as we were reminded in the past two weeks.

Alizé Cornet

Alizé Cornet strips off her tennis top at the back of a court during a U.S. Open match. Code violation. Novak Djokovic and numerous other male players strip off their shirts—multiple times—courtside at Arthur Ashe Stadium. Crickets.

That is an undeniable, undebatable sexist double-standard.

And, quite frankly, what happened to Cornet was, to me, far more offensive and egregious than anything that went down in the U.S. Open women’s final between young champion Naomi Osaka and her bully of an opponent, Serena Williams.

Unless Williams, or any among her mob of angry apologists, had access to chair umpire Carlos Ramos’s inner thoughts last Saturday, they cannot say with any level of certainty that he issued three code violations and docked 23-time Grand Slam champion Williams a game simply because she is a she.

The fact that Williams chose to play the gender card does not make it so.

Novak Djovokic

Williams had been on the uncomfortable receiving end of a good and proper paddywhacking from Osaka when Ramos observed her coach, Patrick Mouratoglu, flashing hand signals from his perch in the viewing pews. For that, Ramos issued a code violation. Cue the sideshow. A racquet-destroying hissy fit earned another reprimand. The hinges were loosening. Branding Ramos a thief and a liar cost Williams a game. Completely undone.

Nothing Ramos did or said suggested sexism was on the table. He was governing the match according to the rule book. Williams—no one else—made gender the issue, on court and during her post-match chin-wag with news snoops.

So, is sexism something we should be discussing today? For sure. But not as it pertains only to tennis, which occupies a very small corner of the sandbox.

Let’s talk about sexism and the sports media.

In the fallout from the Williams meltdown, many opinionists—women and men—have been barking on air, in print and in cyberspace about the evils of sexism in sports, but they’re living in a glass house and throwing stones.

Surely you’ve noticed all the pretty faces and big hair that surface every night and day on TSN and Sportsnet: Jennifer Hedger, Tessa Bonhomme, Kara Wagland, Kate Beirness, Lindsay Hamilton, Natasha Staniszewski, Sara Orlesky, Caroline Cameron, Martine Gaillard, Evanka Osmak…all babes. Talented, but babes nonetheless. They look like they arrive at the studio directly from a Vogue shoot.

Is that by design or accident?

I think we all know the answer to that.

The men, on the other hand…meh. They can have a face like Yogi Berra’s old catcher’s mitt and a body shaped like an igloo and still get the job.

And, of course, the men have all the answers.

A woman is allowed to look pretty and read the teleprompter (stay in your lane, girl) because, you know—hair, cheekbones, eyes, lips, hips, legs and boobs are the only reason she’s there, right? It’s left for the men with their large brains to interpret, break down and make sense of what the woman has just read. The more the woman reads, the more mansplaining there is to be done. Let’s go to the boys on the panel.

Is that sexism? Absolutely.

It’s moderately different on the print side of the sandbox, in that the babe factor isn’t at play. A woman who doesn’t look like Michelle Pfeiffer can still apply. And find work. But she better have game, because there’s an entire world of men out there convinced she doesn’t know a football from a facial.

No one wonders if a male jock journo is a nitwit until he opens his mouth or writes his first article to remove all doubt. Conversely, it’s a given that a woman doesn’t have a clue right from the get-go. And she fights that misguided stereotyping her entire career, otherwise we’d hear more female voices in panel discussions.

Is that sexism? Absolutely.

Basically, sports media in Canada is a man cave and will remain sexist until it’s accepted that women have functioning brains.

Thus, before they tell tennis or any other sport/organization to clean up their back yard, they might want to look at their own first.

About the Gang Green joke book…honk if you like Knuckles…Pip-Pip to Johnny Rotten…Rink Rat Scheifele better than Blake Wheeler?…playing shirts-and-skins tennis…tsk-tsk and tut-tut to Serena’s tutu…gospel singing…and other things on my mind

A Sunday morning smorgasbord on a lazy Labor Day weekend

In advance of this afternoon’s Pile O’ Bones Bowl betwixt the Saskatchewan Roughriders and Winnipeg Blue Bombers at Mosaic Stadium in (rhymes with vagina), we share with you a few snippets from the official Gang Green Joke Book.

Q: How do you know when you’ve arrived in Regina?
A: The highway sign says “Paved Road Ends Here.”

  • The teacher couldn’t understand why Little Johnny wasn’t all geeked up about the Labor Day Classic between the Riders and Bombers.
    “It’s the biggest football game of the year,” she said. “Why aren’t you excited, Little Johnny?”
    “I’m not a football fan. My parents like curling, so I like curling, too,” Little Johnny replied.
    “That’s not a very good reason. What if your parents were morons?”
    “Then I’d definitely be a Roughriders fan.”

Q: What does a Riders fan call his tattered, old couch and living room chair?
A: Brand new lawn furniture.

  • Two Riders fans arrived at the big game and one said to the other, “I wish I’d brought my piano with me.”
    “Why would you bring a piano to the football game?” his friend asked.
    “Because that’s where I left the tickets.”

Q: What’s the biggest problem for Riders fans at a pie-eating contest?
A: The cows keep stepping on them.

  • Two buddies were walking in downtown Regina when one spotted a pair of Roughriders season tickets nailed to a telephone pole.
    “I think I’ll have me some of that!” one said to the other.
    “I can’t believe your good fortune!” his friend said excitedly.
    “I’ll say…I’ve been looking for a nail just like this for months now.”

Q: What did the Roughriders fan say when his wife gave birth to twins?
A: “Okay, cousin Doreen, who’s the other father?”

  • Five things you’ll never hear a Riders fan say:
    “I’ll meet you at the library.”
    “I’ll take classic literature for $1,000, please Alex.”
    “I feel
    soooooo underdressed in this John Deere t-shirt and ball cap.”
    “Johnny Cash! Johnny Cash! Is that all you can play on that damned jukebox?”
    “No pork rinds for me, thanks. I’m watching my waist.”

Knuckles Irving

I must join the Atta Boy Chorus and present today’s Happy Honker Award (apologies to Cactus Jack Wells) to Bob (Knuckles) Irving, who celebrates 45 years with CJOB by calling the play-by-play for the Riders-Bombers skirmish. Not only is Knuckles unequaled among Canadian Football League broadcast voices, he’s a lovely lad. One of the finest people I met during 30 years in mainstream jock journalism.

The Montreal Alouettes have now won two successive matches with Antonio Pipkin at quarterback. Would they seriously consider sending him back to the sideline and trotting out Johnny Manziel when they return from a bye two weeks hence? Only if ownership sticks its snoot into head coach Mike Sherman’s business and orders it. If so, shame on them.

Mike O’Shea

Some terrific stuff, as always, on the CFL from Kirk Penton of The Athletic. Among the insider (coaches/general managers) comments was this gem: “I took my daughters to see the movie Dumb and Dumber. Felt like I was watching it again when the Bombers were down by 20 points, with one minute left, and they still had (Andrew) Harris and (Matt) Nichols in the game (vs. Ottawa). What were Mike (O’Shea) and Paul (LaPolice) thinking?” Short answer: They weren’t.

One of the coaches/GMs also gave the talking heads on TSN a slap: “We all hear the guys on the panel because we have games on in the office, but we tune them out. If we do say something about what they’ve said, it’s seldom positive. It’s surprising how little some of them know but present as fact.” I think he’s looking at you, Milt Stegall.

Rink Rat Scheifele

So, the gab guys and scribes at Sportsnet put their noggins together and compiled a list of the top 100 National Hockey League players heading into the 2018-19 crusade. They had our guy, Rink Rat Scheifele, slotted in at No. 13, which is an odd bit of business given that he isn’t even the best player with the Winnipeg Jets. That would be the captain, Blake Wheeler, who came in at No. 19. Other local lads to crack the Sportsnet 100 were Puck Finn, No. 27, Big Buff, No. 38, Connor Hellebuyck, No. 64, and Twig Ehlers, No. 84.

Captain Mark Giordano, Sean Monahan, Johnny Gaudreau, Curtis Lazar and Sam Bennett of the Flames marched in the Calgary Pride parade on Saturday. Good on them.

Alizé Cornet

Sometimes you have to give your head a shake and wonder if this is 2018 or 1958. I mean, Alizé Cornet was assessed a code violation the other day at the U.S. Open tennis tournament in New York, New York. Her heinous crime? Revealing an unrevealing sports bra. Oh, yes, after realizing she had put her top on backwards during a heat recess, Cornet stepped toward the shadows at the back of the court and, in two bats of an eyelash, she stripped the garment on and off. It took all of 10 seconds. If that. Chair umpire Christian Rask was having none of it. He slapped her with the code violation for unsportsmanlike conduct. Either he’s no fan of sports bras, or he didn’t get a good enough look. Whatever the case, he’s a fool. Male players peel off their shirts courtside as often as Genie Bouchard double faults, and nothing is said, even when they sit topless during the entirety of an end change. We have to get the fashion police off the tennis courts.

Genie Bouchard: No code violation, just plenty of money.

Alizé Cornet takes her top off at the U.S. Open and earns a reprimand. Genie Bouchard takes her clothes off for Sports Illustrated and earns thousands of dollars. Go figure.

Dumb headline of the week was found on the TSN website: “Bouchard is reviving her career.” Ya, Canada’s tennis diva Genie Bouchard made it all the way to the second round in Gotham, whereupon she bowed out to Marketa Vondrousova. Such a revival. Meanwhile, Mark Roe of TSN had a chin-wag with Sport Illustrated‘s Jon Wertheim, who informed us that “The tennis world, no question, is taking notice of her.” Basically, no one notices Bouchard unless she’s taking her clothing off for the SI swimsuit issue.

Serena Williams

I only have this to say about the tutu look that Serena Williams has been rocking at the U.S. Open—tut-tut and tsk-tsk. Sorry, the tutu is not my favorite look unless I’m at the Nutcracker or Swan Lake.

Let me see if I’ve got this straight: Larry Nassar sexually abused hundreds of female student athletes during 20 years as a doctor at Michigan State University, yet the NCAA has ruled that no one at MSU did anything wrong? There were zero violations? It gets a clean bill of health, so to speak? Ya, and Donald Trump has never told a fib.

Joe McCarthy

This why some jock journos should definitely stick to sports: Damien Cox of the Toronto Star/Sportsnet tweets, “This is an extraordinary time in US history. More than half a decade after McCarthyism, Russia controls the White House.” Half a decade? Try more than half a century. U.S. Senator Joe McCarthy went on his commie witch hunt in the 1950s and died in 1957, four years before Cox drew his first breath.

The results are in on amateur sports coverage in the Winnipeg Free Press and Winnipeg Sun for the month of August: Drab Slab 11.3 per cent of all articles were devoted to amateurs; Sun 1.5 per cent. Meanwhile, Drab Slab opinionist Paul Wiecek, who scribbled an essay in early July expressing his dismay and considerable umbrage over the nation’s unappreciation of amateur athletes vs. play-for-pay jocks, wrote 11 columns in 30 publishing days. The closest he came to acknowledging amateurs was a rant about rich parents. Combined in July and August, he penned 24 pieces in 59 sports sections. Zero were on amateur athletes or their teams. So I guess he’s right: Amateur athletes are unappreciated, especially by newspapers and sports scribes.

The Queen of Soul

And, finally, this has nothing to do with sports, but I must say that they really got after the gospel music at the Aretha Franklin memorial on Friday in Detroit. Mmm, mmm, that was some kind of fiiiiine singing. Haven’t heard anything that uplifting since the Barack Obama inauguration, where the Queen of Soul sang My Country ‘Tis of Thee. Wept then, wept Friday.

About Matt Nichols still the man for the Winnipeg Blue Bombers…a battle for first place on Oct. 26?…adios Duron Carter…when is a concussion not a concussion?…CFL power rankings…headline hunting QBs…beer and Dodgers baseball…hockey in August…Tiger wows ’em…Daniel Nestor’s “window dressing”…and other things on my mind

Two soft-boiled eggs on whole wheat toast and some weekend leftovers for a Monday morning breakfast

Matt Nichols, still No. 1.

It has come to my attention that some among the rabble are less than enthusiastic about the work of Matt Nichols.

A pocket of people, in fact, were calling for Nichols’ removal on Friday night at Football Follies Field in Fort Garry, even though he had the Winnipeg Blue Bombers in front of the Hamilton Tiger-Cats, 19-7, when the large lads retreated to their changing rooms for mid-match down time.

To which I can only say: Have you lost your flipping minds?

I mean, sure, Nichols was off his game when tossing the long ball. If misses were kisses he’d have been covered in hickies. But take him out? You don’t want to go there. All Nichols has done for Winnipeg FC is win (27-15). If not for the objectionable and curious decision-making of his head coach, Mike O’Shea, in the past two Novembers there’d likely be a playoff victory or two on his resume.

Ask yourself this: What Canadian Football League quarterback would you rather have ahead of Nichols? If you say Mike Reilly or Bo Levi Mitchell, I’ll agree. If you say anyone else, I’ll be inclined to give you an argument.

So, unless Nichols is hobbled and sent to the repair shop, let’s have no more talk of his ouster.

First the bad news: The head count at Football Follies Field in Fort Garry is down 6,140 through four home dates. Now the good news: Still on the Winnipeg FC calendar are visits from the Saskatchewan Roughriders (2) and Calgary Stampeders (1). In an ideal world, which is to say if the pointy ball bounces in the Bombers box-office favor, the Oct. 26 skirmish vs. the Stamps would be an argument over top spot in the West Division. Can you say sellout, kids?

The surprise is not that the Roughriders shed themselves of multi-purpose pain in the ass Duron Carter the other day, the surprise is that he lasted so long with Gang Green.

Apparently, CFL concussion protocol doesn’t apply to quarterbacks named Johnny Manziel. He was knocked loopy in Montreal Alouettes’ loss to the Ottawa RedBlacks, yet permitted to carry on without missing a beat. Scary stuff.

Here are this week’s CFL power rankings…

1. Calgary (7-0): Didn’t play last week. Didn’t matter.
2. Edmonton (5-3): Three wins vs. West outfits.
3. Winnipeg (5-3): Still feasting on the East.
4. Saskatchewan (3-4): What’s next from mad scientist Chris Jones?
5. Ottawa (5-3): They were tooth and toenail to beat a horrible Montreal team. Not impressed.
6. Hamilton (3-5): Hard team to figure out.
7. B.C. (3-4): Dudes are tough at home.
8. Toronto (2-5): Didn’t play. Nobody noticed.
9. Montreal (1-7): Getting worse in either official language.

Quick now! Name the only starting quarterback who failed to toss a touchdown pass in the CFL last week. I’ll give you a hint—he’s TSN’s favorite lousy QB. That’s right, Johnny Manziel.

Now, who among the six starters flung the football for the fewest number of yards? Right again, Johnny Rotten.

Finally, who among the starting six is 0-for-the-CFL? Yup, heeeere’s Johnny!

So why is it that his name still dominates headlines in mainstream media and on the Internet?

News snoops and talking heads continue to fawn over Manziel like Republicans and Donald Trump, regardless how dreadful or ordinary his work might be. Most notable among the groupies is, of course, the ever-drooling mob in the Cult of Johnny, otherwise known as TSN, but they aren’t alone. The morning after Manziel and the Alouettes were paddywhacked by the RedBlacks, it was Johnny this and Johnny that clear across the www universe.

I swear, the last Johnny to get this kind of attention was a guy called Appleseed. Difference is, he actually accomplished something worth writing about.

I should point out that a couple other QBs also saw their names in headlines. But, whereas Johnny Rotten was described as “better” and “improved” in defeat, Matt Nichols “struggled” in victory. Mike Reilly, meanwhile, was “crap,” and that will never be mistaken for a compliment.

Here’s what went down in CFL quarterbacking last week, including the newest advance stat, Name in Headlines…

Manziel delivered a most curious sound bite after his second loss in two starts as the Larks QB: “It’s not about wins and losses right now.” It isn’t? Since when? Vince Lombardi must be spinning like a lathe in his grave.

This just in: If a trip to Los Angeles to watch the Dodgers in on your agenda, you no longer will be required to trudge up and down the stairs to concession stands for your beer. That’s right, patrons at Dodger Stadium now can order their brown pop from the comfort of their seats behind home plate, down the lines or in the bleachers. And I think that’s only fair. After all, Dodger fans like myself have been crying in our beer for 30 years, so why should we have to get up to get it?

I’d have something to say about the Hlinka-Gretzky teenage tournament that just concluded in Edmonton, but—how do I put this without sounding unCanadian?—the hockey thing just doesn’t work for me in the dog days of August. I realize we live on Planet Puckhead and some folks need their shinny fix 12 months of the year, but shouldn’t we all just all go to the beach? Or, in my case, the ocean?

I have just one thing to say about Tiger Woods and the mob that followed him in the final round of the PGA Championship on Sunday: Wow. Just wow.

Question for anyone who follows men’s tennis: If Denis Shapovalov weren’t one of us, which is to say Canadian, would we like him or would we look at him as a cocky kid who needs to be brought down a peg or two?

Noted hockey scribe Eric Duhatschek was on the tennis beat for The Athletic during the Rogers Cup in the Republic of Tranna, and he wrote that Shapovalov and Greek teen Stefanos Tsitsipas are “currently taking men’s tennis by storm.” Really?

Career titles on ATP World Tour: Tsitsipas 0, Shapovalov 0.
Career finals on ATP World Tour: Tsitsipas 2, Shapovalov 0.
Won/lost 2018: Tsitsipas 30-19, Shapovalov 23-19.

If that’s a storm, I’m Serena Williams’ live-in nanny.

Daniel Nestor

Rosie DiManno of the Toronto Star writes that tennis is “primarily a game of singles—the rest is window-dressing and filler.” That’s highly insulting if your name is Daniel Nestor, the most accomplished player ever produced in the True North. Nestor has made a career out of doubles tennis, on numerous occasions reaching world No. 1 status. His CV includes eight Grand Slam men’s titles, 91 tournaments titles, four Grand Slam mixed titles, one Olympic gold trinket, and career earnings of $12,821,626. If that’s window dressing, the window is the size of the Pacific Ocean.

I note that Donald Trump was back riding his hobby horse last week, hoo-rawing about National Football League players who take a knee or raise a fist during the national anthem. “Find another way to protest,” he tweeted. I say they should make a deal with the deal-maker: They’ll find another way to protest if he finds another way to pay for his wall.

Here’s the latest from Roberto Osuna, the Houston Astros relief pitcher who awaits his day in court on a charge of beating up a woman: “It’s easy to forget about the stuff that’s going on off the field.” That is such a wince-inducing, insensitive comment. He says it’s easy for him to forget “stuff” like roughing up a woman, but I doubt his victim has forgotten. I also doubt I’m alone when I say I hope karma bites the Astros in the butt during the Major League Baseball post-season. Their blind eye toward domestic violence and disrespect for women is appalling.

So, I’m reading Willie Nelson’s biography, My Life It’s a Long Story, and he mentions guys like Hank Williams and Lefty Frizzell among those who inspired him and belong on the Mount Rushmore of country music. That got me thinking about the jocks who grabbed my attention as a sprig in the 1950s and never let go; athletes who form the very bedrock of a lifetime watching sports and 48 years of writing about it. After about 30 seconds of deliberation, I got out the hammer and chisel and went to work on my personal Mount Jock—Sandy Koufax, Floyd Patterson, Wilma Rudolph and Arnold Palmer. If not for those four, I likely would have done something radical. Like pick up a guitar and write and sing hurtin’ songs that wouldn’t have been anywhere near as good as Willie’s.

Stan Mikita

And, finally, if I were to create my own Mount Rushmore of hockey, guaranteed Stan Mikita would be included. I was in my mid-to-late teens when Stosh was at his absolute best with the Chicago Blackhawks, and I marveled at the things he could do with the puck. I had a Stan Mikita helmet and, later, a Blackhawks jersey No. 21. The helmet and sweater are gone and, sadly, so is NHL legend Mikita, a victim of Lewy body dementia at age 78. I never met him, but often wished I had.

About Public Enemy No. 1 in Winnipeg…Trouba’s gone…the Summer of Chevy…Johnny Rotten and Crescent Street in Montreal…Tiger, Tiger burning bright…and other things on my mind

Two eggs overeasy, toast and some leftover thoughts for a Monday morning breakfast

Kurt Overhardt

Tough to tell who’s Public Enemy No. 1 in Good Ol’ Hometown today, Jacob Trouba or his paid mouthpiece, Kurt Overhardt.

I do believe, however, that Overhardt is ahead by a nose.

Here’s a small sampling of what the rabble has been saying since a National Hockey League arbitrator advised the Winnipeg Jets that they must compensate Trouba to the tune of $5.5 million in their next crusade, a pay bump of $2.5 million.

With a different agent Trouba could have had a much happier outcome.”

“Trouba has an overinflated sense of self worth.”

“Mistake by Trouba. He is back to arbitration in one year. He could have gotten a big signing bonus plus long-term contract. His agent may need to be replaced.”

“He could have taken a (Matt) Dumba-type contract. Seems like he feels like he is worth more than he is.”

“Are we sure his known douchebag agent isn’t the problem?”

“Overhardt is overpricing him and giving him more bad advice.”

“He’s a bald-faced liar, a poor teammate, and not that great a player. Oh, and did I mention fragile?”

“Trouba has been wrongly directed by his controversial agent Overcharge.”

“Trouba has a fool for an agent and should have fired this doofus a long time ago.”

“He is not a Peg kind of guy.”

I’m quite uncertain what a “Peg kind of guy” is, except to suggest he likely has a cottage, shops wholesale, sucks on Slurpees and caves to the whims and desires of his employer. Apparently that ain’t Trouba.

Thus, the horse opera between the 24-year-old defenceman and les Jets continues, with guys in black hats and guys in white hats and no end in sight.

No palm trees here.

I must confess that I missed my guess on the Trouba-Jets dance. I thought they’d agree to a six-year partnership, then he’d ship out as an unrestricted free agent still at the peak of his powers. But I stand by what I wrote in early November 2016: “There’s as much chance of Jacob Trouba finishing his career in Jets livery as there is of palm trees sprouting at Portage and Main in January. He’s gone. It’s just a matter of when.”

Consider this, then cringe: It’s quite possible that les Jets will enter their 2018-19 crusade with a third defence pairing (Tyler Myers/Dmitry Kulikov) that earns more coin ($9.83 million) than its top pairing of Trouba/Josh Morrissey. This is good management of money how?

Paul Stastny

The Summer of Chevy has been hit-and-miss. Jets general manager Kevin Cheveldayoff’s preference was to keep Paul Stastny in the fold, but he wasn’t willing to pay the veteran centre’s sticker price. He wanted to lock up Trouba long term, but he wasn’t willing to pay the sticker price. He did, however, manage to find the coin to keep goaltender Connor Hellebuyck, defenceman Tucker Poolman, press box squatter Marko Dano, and forwards Adam Lowry and Brandon Tanev happy. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have a happy Stastny and Trouba than Lowry and Poolman.

If you’re scoring at home, the Winnipeg Blue Bombers defensive dozen surrendered just four points in a 38-20 romp over the Argonauts on Saturday in the Republic of Tranna. A week earlier, it was 20 points, which will win you 97 per cent of Canadian Football League matches. So, do we still want to fire defensive coordinator Richie Hall?

Mix some things together and they don’t always end well: Gasoline and fire; drinking and driving; Johnny Manziel and Crescent Street in Montreal. Not predicting that the Alouettes newly minted quarterback will go bonkers in Ville-Marie, but there’s great temptation in them thar streets, especially for a frat boy.

Since the CFL insists on allowing the woman-beating Johnny Rotten to play the three-down game, the ideal landing spot for the former Heisman Trophy winner would have been the Republic of Tranna, where the Argonauts need fans as desperately as Donald Trump needs approval. Only 10,844 sets of eyes were in BMO Field on Saturday to watch the Bombers rout the Boatmen, prompting this tweet from Troy Westwood of TSN 1290 in Pegtown: “Bombers 14, Attendance 12.” That’s funny.

While most followers of three-down football are still wondering if Johnny Rotten has what it takes to make a go of it in the CFL, at least one pundit, Dan Barnes of Postmedia Edmonton, has already given him the seal of approval. “In Johnny Football, Montreal gets a legit quarterback,” he writes, “the crucial piece of the puzzle that it hadn’t been unable to unearth in the wake of Anthony Calvillo’s retirement four years ago.” There’s zero evidence to support Barnes’s belief, but whatever.

Manziel has yet to take his first official snap on Canadian soil and already his first CFL jersey is a collector’s item. Saw one on ebay this morning for $129.99—or best offer.

Here are this week’s CFL power rankings…

1. Calgary (5-0): The juggernaut continues to roll.
2. Winnipeg (3-3): That’s more like it.
3. Edmonton (3-2): Took the week off, no damage done.
4. Saskatchewan (3-2): Brandon Bridge looking better at QB.
5. Ottawa (3-2): Hard to get a good read on these guys.
6. Hamilton (2-3): Suddenly, oh woe are the Tabbies.
7. B.C. (2-3): Tough way to go out for Wally Buono.
8. Toronto (1-4): Nothing without Ricky Ray.
9. Montreal (1-4): Still awful in either official language.

Tiger Woods

Quick takeaways from the Open Championship at Carnoustie in Scotland: I honestly thought I would never again see the name Tiger Woods atop the leaderboard of a golf major, but there it was on Sunday morning. Then came the 11th and 12th holes and reality for the 14-time Grand Slam winner. Too bad. A Tiger win would have been a terrific story. Mind you, he likely would have been a bit of a dink about it and whinged about all the naysayers who’ve written him off…Clearly, the one thing that helped power Woods during his heyday—intimidation—no longer exists. Nobody cowered once he took the lead…The champion, Francesco Molinari of Italy, has the kind of golf game we all should have—steady, risk-free. But, geez, it’s bloody boring…The Carnoustie course looks like a cow pasture with green spots…Is it my imagination, or was there an unsually large number of commercials during the broadcast? It seemed like there was 10 minutes of ads for every five minutes of golf…I no longer golf, but I can relate to something NBC gab guy Johnny Miller said during the final round Sunday: “Golf seduces you into trying things you have no business trying.”

And, finally, it’s about those fans who stood and cheered at Miller Park in Milwaukee when Brewers relief pitcher Josh Hader took the mound: Seriously? A standing O for a guy exposed as a racist, a bigot, misogynist and homophobic just days earlier? I won’t get into the gory details because the things Hader tweeted six years ago are vile, but saluting him as some sort of conquering hero is every bit as disgusting. It’s a bad look, Milwaukee.