National Hockey League

Let’s talk about echoes and Connor Hellebuyck putting the Jets between a rock, a hard place, and a wrecking ball…rose-tinted goggles…Bobby Clarke’s tooth…Goldeyes and City Hall still fussing and fighting…who is that paper boy?…Drab Slab letting female athletes down…and other things on my mind…

Are you hearing echoes?

I am.

It was something that Connor Hellebuyck said during his season-closing natter with news snoops, scant hours after the Winnipeg Jets had been found wanting in another National Hockey League crusade gone wrong.

“I’m starting to run out of time and I can feel it,” Hellebuyck acknowledged. “Wheels (Blake Wheeler) talks about this all the time. It flashes by, and I’m starting to understand. You gotta make the most of your years. I’m gonna make the most of whatever my situation is and give my all and give everything I can to this spot or the team that I have.”

That, my friends, is a haunting echo from March 2017, only then it was a 29-year-old and healthy Bryan Little confirming he had begun to hear whispers from Father Time.

“It’s another year of your career that you can’t get back,” he said in the wake of the Jets failed bid to qualify for the Stanley Cup tournament. “Some of the best players in this room are the youngest. There’s definitely a bright future, but some guys are older and want to do something right now.”

One of the “youngest” in that 2017 Jets changing room was Hellebuyck, a fresh-scrubbed 23. Alas, there were 30 candles on his birthday cake two weeks ago, marking him among the most long-in-tooth lads in a greying group (eight guys 30 or older).

So what is Winnipeg HC to do with their tall drink of water in the blue paint?

Well, if we are to take Hellebuyck at his word (and why wouldn’t we?), his main aspiration is to have his name engraved on the Stanley Cup. That doesn’t make the Jets goaltender unique among the NHL’s 700-plus players, but it does make charting course an iffy bit of business for both himself and the club.

Hellebuyck and the Jets have arrived where the road forks, and what they do will tell us everything we need to know about the direction Puck Pontiff Mark Chipman and general manager Kevin Cheveldayoff plan to take their oft-dysfunctional outfit.

In the simplest of terms, they either keep their ‘keeper, or they move him out. No muss, no fuss.

Except there’s always a dab of muss and a smidgen of fuss when dealing with a Vezina Trophy-winning goaltender who’s eligible for free agency 13 months hence and beginning to feel the urgency of time.

Keep Hellebuyck and the sticker price will be dear. What number will it take to make him happy and convince him to stay for the long haul? $9 million? $10 million? What term? Five years? Six years? Do that and they’re tying the team’s wagon to a 30something, just as they did with Blake Wheeler in September 2018, and we all know how well that’s worked out.

The Puck Pontiff and Chevy will have to ask themselves what their Hellebuyck-backed Jets have accomplished in the past two crusades to warrant a hefty increase in salary. And here’s their answer: Missed the playoffs and surrendered rather meekly in the first round of this spring’s Stanley Cup runoff, after crawling in as the last seed (and that was with Vezina-calibre puck-stopping).

Why, then, would the Jets entertain the notion of jacking up Hellebuyck’s annual $6.166 million pay to put him beside, or directly behind, Andrei Vasilevskiy and Sergei Bobrovsky at the pay window? The former has his name engraved on the Stanley Cup (twice) and Conn Smythe Trophy, the latter is in this spring’s final and a leading candidate to win the Smythe. Does a bit more of the Puck Pontiff’s spare change in Hellebuyk’s fat-cat wallet move the Jets closer to a championship parade?

Doubtful.

Go ahead and argue that without Hellebuyck in goal the Jets, as presently constructed, would be a draft lottery outfit. No argument. On this team, he’s the scoop of ice cream in the cone. But padding fat-cat wallets doesn’t stop pucks, and the Jets won’t make a deeper dive into spring simply because they roll the Brinks truck up to the goaltender’s front door.

Hellebuyck has wedged the Puck Pontiff and Chevy between a rock, a hard place and a wrecking ball. He’s informed them he wants to win the Stanley Cup. Surely they know he can’t do it with the current supporting cast. And he’s “not interested” in a rebuild.

In short: Can’t win with him, can’t win without him, can’t surround him with neophytes.

It’s going to take the wisdom of Solomon for the Jets to sort this out, and we know they can’t cut the goaltender in half, even though half a Hellebuyck isn’t such a bad bet.

The echoes of 2017 remind them time’s a-wasting. Again.

Here’s another echo, this one from Hellebuyck in July 2018: “The tools are in this locker room to be a championship team. I love it here and I want to be here and I really believe this team has what it takes.” It doesn’t sound like he’s still feeling the love.

Here’s another echo, this one a tweet from old friend Joe Pascucci in April 2019: “Another concern, of many, I have about the Jets and the changes sure to come this off-season is that they’ll become a team that is 2 years away from being 2 years away.” Yup.

Here’s one final echo, this one from my own self in October 2020: “It seems to me that Winnipeg HC has retreated to the wait-and-hope part of the ‘process’. The Puck Pontiff and Chevy are waiting and hoping on Sami Niku. They’re waiting and hoping on Dylan Samberg. They’re waiting and hoping on Ville Heinola. They’re waiting and hoping on David Gustafsson. Hell, they’re still waiting and hoping on Jack Roslovic, and they drafted him in 2015. And, apparently, they’ll wait and hope on Logan Stanley forever.” Samberg appears to be the only keeper in the bunch. Otherwise, it reminds me of the 1960s Kinks song Tired of Waiting for You: “So tired, tired of waiting, tired of waiting for you…”

This tickled my funny bone: The Toronto Maple Leafs, when measured against the Jets, were a superior side in 2022-23. The evidence…
Leafs: 111 points, 2nd in division, 4th in conference, 4th in NHL, won playoff round.
Jets: 95 points, 4th in division, 8th in conference, 14th in NHL, lost in first playoff round.
Here’s the knee-slapper part: It’s the Jets faithful wearing rose-tinted goggles when they view their hockey heroes. We know this because of surveys conducted on the Jets by The Athletic and the Leafs by the Toronto Star. Consider:
61.1% of Leafs fans say the season was a failure.
78.4% of Jets fans say the season was a success.
Either Leafs loyalists have become completely jaded, or the rabble in Good Ol’ Hometown are easier to please than kids at a carnival.

If what we hear about the Maple Leafs is accurate, president Brendan Shanahan makes all the important hockey decisions. So why hire Brad Treliving as GM?

For a guy who just two weeks ago said he had no intention to pull up stakes and leave the Republic of Tranna, defrocked Leafs GM Kyle Dubas must have set a land-speed record for dashing from The ROT to Pittsburgh, where he’s now president of hockey ops for the Penguins. Cripes, man, the door didn’t even have time to hit him on the ass. I swear, we haven’t seen anyone get out of Dodge that fast since Butch and Sundance saw the posse coming.

Mike Babcock to coach the Columbus Blue Jackets? Oh dear. Thoughts and prayers to Johnny Gaudreau. Ditto Patrick Laine.

An unidentified man recently returned a book to St. Helena Public Library in California’s Napa Valley. Nothing unusual about that, except this particular book—A History of the United States, by Benson Lossing—had been checked out in 1927! Making it scandalously overdue. You know, kind of like NHL commish Gary Bettman is overdue to finally get it right with the Arizona Coyotes.

A woman was strolling on Rio Del Mar State Beach on the California coast recently when she found a tooth which, according to Wayne Thompson of the Santa Cruz Museum of Natural History, came from a Pacific mastodon, an extinct, elephant-like creature that dates back to the Ice Age. Well, duh. Of course it’s from the Ice Age, and Philly Flyers legendary captain Bobby Clarke wants his tooth back.

Just wondering: Will the Winnipeg Goldeyes-City Hall spat ever end? Seriously, it seems like they’ve been hissing at each other since Sammy Katz and his Local Nine set up shop at the beautiful Ball Yard By The Forks, (aka Buck A Year Ball Park) in 1999. The Harry-Meghan split from King Chucky and the Royal Family hasn’t been this messy. The club’s original lease is set to expire on July 28, but glitches over grant money, parking stalls and end time for a new lease have popped up like a .200 hitter with runners in scoring position. Come on, people, let’s get along. I’ve never been a Sammy Katz fan, but I know spending an afternoon/evening watching the Local Nine is a delightful experience, and the American Association club adds value to Good Ol’ Hometown. Get ‘er done.

So, the Winnipeg Blue Bombers have punted Marc Liegghio, including the embattled kicker among their final roster cuts in advance of the 2023 Canadian Football League season. Talk about a day late and a dollar short. That decision came one convert/one field goal attempt too late, and it cost them a third successive Grey Cup title.

Longtime followers of the Bombers might get a giggle out of the pic you see here, which landed in my inbox thanks to good friend Robert Temmerman. Winnipeg Tribune paper boy Chris Walby didn’t make the cut as an electrical engineer or receiver (and who knew 12-year-old Chris was into stamp collecting?), but he was more than passable as an O-lineman in a hall-of-fame football career.

Receiving that newspaper clipping from Robert gave me pause for ponder on the passage of time, and I came to realize I’ve never watched a game in The Little Hockey House On The Prairie or at The Football Field In Fort Garry. When I put Good Ol’ Hometown in the rear view mirror, Winnipeg Arena and Winnipeg Stadium were still standing, Jennifer Jones had never won a Scotties, Valour FC didn’t exist, the Winnipeg Sea Bears (dumb name) didn’t exist, the Jets didn’t exist, the Winnipeg Ice didn’t exist, Glen Murray was mayor, Gary Filmon was premier, and I could order a delicious turkey clubhouse for lunch at the Wagon Wheel restaurant.

Things that make me go hmmm, Vol. 2,156: Season tickets to watch the Toronto Blue Jays from a seat in the Home Plate Club at Rogers Centre next year will set you back $39,500 to $68,500. But, hey, you aren’t just buying baseball. You’re getting “unique entertainment features plus private members’ entrance and in-seat dining.” Hmmm. For $68,500, I’d expect Adele to entertain me with a few tunes and dinner with Dolly Parton and Emmylou Harris.

This batting tip from broadcaster Keith Hernandez during Friday’s New York Mets-Jays game: “You want to always be erect when you make contact. Like a telephone pole!” There are no words.

So let me see if I’ve got this straight: Naomi Osaka declined a natter with news snoops at the 2021 French Open, citing “mental health” issues as the reason. For that, she was fined $15,000 and tournament officials bullied the young player, with menacing threats of scorching the earth around her if she didn’t talk. So Osaka quit. Meanwhile, last week at the French Open, Aryna Sabalenka declined a chin-wag with news snoops for “my own mental health and well-bring.” Her punishment? Nada. Threats? Bullying? Nada. There was zero talk of dire consequences, like banishment from all four tennis Grand Slam events, and she plays on. More to the point, officials gave Aryna the okie-dokie to duck out of the usual post-match gab. So what changed? Is Sabalenka’s mental health of greater value than Osaka’s, or did the French finally realize that they’re dealing with human beings, not robots with great top-spin?

The lowest. That’s where the Drab Slab sports section went with its local female coverage during May. Of its 31 editions, just four (4 of 31!) included articles/briefs exclusive to local female athletes/teams, and there was a 16-day stretch with zero (0!) content other than one pic/cutlines on high school futbol. Pathetic. Shameful. Not even close to being good enough.
These are the numbers through the first five months of the year:

And, finally, it’s Pride month. Let an LGBT(etc.) person know you’re on their side.

What are athletes like Anthony Bass afraid of and how does anti-gay speech impact LGBT(etc.) youth?

Every time I hear an athlete, coach, manager, owner, broadcaster or sports scribe spew anti-LGBT(etc.) bile, or post it on social media, I ask myself the same questions.

To wit:

“Really? They still don’t get it?”

“Why do they care who gay people date?”

“Would they say these things if they discovered one of their children was gay?”

“What are they afraid of?”

Then a wave of weariness washes over me, because hearing the vitriol has become tiresome.

I imagine it’s much the same feeling Blacks or Jews or Indigenous, or any marginalized peoples, experience when they’re the targets of hate speech and/or actions. But I don’t know that with certainty. I can only speak for myself.

And I just cannot understand why being gay/bi/transgender(etc.) is so damn damnable.

Why does it matter to Toronto Blue Jays pitcher Anthony Bass that Target has put LGBT(etc.) merchandise on its shelves? Don’t like it? Then spend your money at Walmart. Why does he care that Anheuser-Busch used a transgender person to peddle Bud Light? Don’t like it? Then pop a top on a Coors Light.

But no.

Rather than make those simple choices (as so many have), Bass felt obliged to traffic in hate and cruelty by sharing a post advocating boycotts of Target and Bud Light for “evil” and “demonic” marketing campaigns.

Evil and demonic. Sigh.

I wonder how many LGBT(etc.) youth saw, or heard about, the Bass post and retreated into themselves to wrestle with the worst kind of thoughts. Like suicide. And, no, that’s not being alarmist. It’s reality according to findings from The Trevor Project’s most recent studies (2021/22):

LGBTQ youth are more than four times as likely to attempt suicide than their peers.
45% of LGBTQ youth seriously considered attempting suicide in the past year, including more than half of transgender and nonbinary youth.
The Trevor Project estimates that more than 1.8 million LGBTQ youth (13-24) seriously consider suicide each year in the U.S.—and at least one attempts suicide every 45 seconds.

“LGBTQ youth are not inherently prone to suicide risk because of their sexual orientation or gender identity but rather placed at higher risk because of how they are mistreated and stigmatized in society,” reads the intro to one of the studies.

“We must recognize that LGBTQ young people face stressors simply for being who they are that their peers never have to worry about,” writes Amit Paley, CEO/executive director of The Trevor Project. “The fact that very simple things—like support from family and friends, seeing LGBTQ representation in media, and having your gender expression and pronouns respected—can have such a positive impact on the mental health of an LGBTQ young person is inspiring, and it should command more attention in conversations around suicide prevention and public debates around LGBTQ inclusion.”

Support from a professional athlete (a role model, if you will) seems like a simple thing, too, but here we have Bass, a marginal pitcher demonizing a marginalized community. And his employers, who have a Pride Weekend planned for June 9-10, permit him to play on.

The Blue Jays chucker, it should be pointed out, delivered a mea culpa on Tuesday, but it was noteworthy more for its brevity than its content.

“I’ll make this quick,” is how he began his 31 seconds of “my bad,” which was sincere like a Louisville Slugger is a toothpick.

But, hey, he managed to squeeze in a token mention of his “friends and close family members” who are part of the LGBT(etc.) community, so if he has gay friends and family he can’t possibly be anti-gay. As if.

This is part of the reason anti-LGBT(etc.) language has become so tiresome and weighty, like trying to push an ATM up a steep hill. If the apologists aren’t propping up their gay friends and family as unimpeachable proof of their accepting ways, they’re telling us that the dreadful thing they said “isn’t really who I am,” as if we don’t know prime rib from a Happy Meal. Their words and actions tell us exactly who they are.

I don’t know how many innings I have left, but I’d like to think Bass and those of his ilk are a vanishing breed, and they might even be gone by the time I sack my bats. I won’t make book on it, though.

This week it’s Bass. Before him it was University of West Virginia hoops coach Bob Huggins calling Catholics a bunch of “f–s.” Before him it was Cam Thomas of the Brooklyn Nets. Before him it was seven National Hockey League players balking on Pride night initiatives. Before them it was Anthony Edwards of the Minnesota Timberwolves. Before him it was football hall-of-fame coach Tony Dungy. Before him it was Jon Gruden. Tomorrow it will be (fill in the blank).

They’re seemingly everywhere and they’ve worn me out, to the point where some days I hesitate to step out of doors. I’ve heard every slight and slur imaginable, and I really don’t care to hear it anymore.

Which takes me back to one of the questions I posed at the top of this essay: What are they afraid of? I’d really like to know the answer so I can pass it on to our LGBT(etc.) youth.

Let’s talk about Opposite Chevy and the George Costanza method of managing…Jets on the move…Is Coach PoMo a better bench puppeteer?…the price of used clothing…a team to be named later…LIV Golf and the WHA…and other things on my mind…

Twin sisters Dr. Patti van Puck and Dr. Patti van Pigskin are internationally renowned sports psychologists who specialize in what makes athletes/coaches/managers/owners/sports scribes/broadcasters tick. Jocks the world over flock to their clinic, the River City Shrink Wrap, and Drs. Patti and Patti have a waiting list longer than a politician’s nose at election time. They don’t always have the right answer, but if loving the Winnipeg Jets and Blue Bombers is wrong, they don’t want to be right.

Dr. Patti van Puck is in today, and she has general manager Kevin Cheveldayoff of the Jets on the couch…

DR. PUCK: “Welcome Kevin. How can we help you this fine morning?”

CHEVY: “Well, you can start by calling me Chevy. Most of my friends do, although I’m a bit short on friends these days. Who wants to hang out with a loser, right?”

DR. PUCK: “Whoa! Where’s that Gloomy Gus talk coming from, Chevy.”

CHEVY: “Let me count the ways, Doc: I have a coach who trash talks his players in public, and I have players who trash talk their coach and each other in public. I have players who want out of Winnipeg like John and Paul wanted out of The Beatles. I have an owner who won’t let me take a pee without his okie-dokie. And I have to deal with a media that thinks I’m all hat and no cattle. Add it all up: I’m Gloomy Gus!”

DR. PUCK: “Come on, Chevy. You’re GM of a National Hockey League franchise in Canada. You know that headaches come with the gig. So why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here?”

CHEVY: “Well, I’ve been bitten by the green-eyed monster, Doc.”

DR. PUCK: “Oh? Please share.”

CHEVY: “I’m jealous of the Winnipeg Blue Bombers. I look at the Bombers and I see them trot out the same core of key players year after year. And what does that same core of players do? They win. They have championship parades. I trot out the same core of key players year after year and what do I get? A pant load.”

DR. PUCK: “Why do you think that is, Chevy?”

CHEVY (snivelling): “Because life isn’t fair, Doc! Is it fair that the Bombers have people who love playing in Winnipeg? Is it fair that they wouldn’t want to play anywhere else? Is it fair that some of them take less coin to be a Blue Bomber? Is it fair that some of them leave for greener grass, then realize the grass isn’t so green on the other side, so they return to the Bombers roost? Again, is it fair that I’ve got players who want out of Dodge the way O.J. wanted out of jail? It started with Evander Kane, then turned into Escape from Alcatraz…Jacob Trouba and Patty Laine and Jack Roslovic and Kristian Vesalainen and Andrew Copp and Big Buff, and now it’s Pierre-Luc Dubois and Logan Stanley. Is that fair? Why, why, why? It’s the same damn city for hockey players as it is for football players! Isn’t it?”

DR. PUCK: “I hear you, Chevy. A pothole is a pothole is a pothole, and 30-below is 30-below is 30-below, and lousy WiFi is lousy WiFi is lousy WiFi.”

CHEVY (pleading): “So what can I do about it? You’re the shrink, Doc. Tell me how I make my players love Winnipeg the way the Bombers love Winnipeg, so Winnipeg can love me.”

DR. PUCK: “What I’m hearing from you, Chevy, is a desperate need to be hugged.”

CHEVY: “Hug shmug! What I really need, Doc, is some of that Blue Bombers Kool-Aid. I’m entering the most critical month in my 13 years as Mark Chipman’s errand boy, and I have to sweet talk some of our key core pieces into staying. Mark Scheifele, Connor Hellebuyck and Pierre-Luc Dubois—they’re all due to become free agents next summer, so I need to convince them that this is shinny Shangri-la. I can’t have a Johnny Gaudreau situation on my hands, where they swan off and I’m left with a bucketful of nothing. Again, it was easy to sway guys like Scheif and Bucky when they were fresh-scrubbed and naive, but now that they’ve been around the barn and back they won’t be so quick to swill the Jets Kool-Aid. And that’s not to forget Blake Wheeler. It’s costing me $8 million-plus to keep the old warhorse in harness. That’s money better spent. But letting Wheels go would be like putting down Ol’ Yeller.

DR. PUCK: “I thought your core players were the problem.”

CHEVY: “They are. All they do is bitch and moan, but they’re my bitch-and-moaners and I believe in them. I’d like to give these same guys the chance to bitch and moan again.”

DR. PUCK: “Have you ever considered parroting George Costanza?”

CHEVY: “What do you mean, Doc? George Costanza was a basket case. He was the most neurotic character in the history of TV. A total loser. He did nothing but cough up hair balls.”

DR. PUCK: “Except when he didn’t. To quote Jerry from Seinfeld, if every instinct you have is wrong, then the opposite would have to be right.”

CHEVY: “Giddyup, Doc! I remember that Seinfeld episode when George did the opposite of everything he’d ever done, and he became a success. Chicks loved Opposite George. That’s the ticket! I will do the opposite of everything I’ve ever done with the Jets! Oh, that’s gold, Doc! Gold!”

DR. PUCK: “Well, Chevy, our time is up. Good luck to you in your ‘most critical’ month, and remember to ask yourself this when there’s a big decision to be made: What would the Bombers do?”

CHEVY: “Forget the Bombers! I’ll do what George Costanza wouldn’t do. I’m Opposite Chevy! Stanley Cup, here I come! Thanks Doc.”

Florida Panthers might be the worst thing to happen to the Jets since Big Buff took his fishing pole and went home. How so? Well, Chevy and Puck Pontiff Mark Chipman could be buoyed by the notion of an eighth-seed advancing to the Stanley Cup final. It’s possible they’re thinking, “If the Panthers can crawl into the playoffs and reach the final, we can do it, too.” Thus, no need for a makeover.

The most traded members of the Jets this off-season are goaltender Hellebuyck and fleet forward Twig Ehlers. So far, either one or both have gone to the Republic of Tranna, Buffalo, Ottawa, Pittsburgh, Philly, Los Angeles, Edmonton, Detroit, New Jersey and maybe even one or two locales in Russia. My guess? Hellebuyck and Ehlers are in Good Ol’ Hometown when the Jets assemble for training exercises in September.

For all his flash and dash (the guy truly is electric), Ehlers might be a risky bit of business for any team to take on. The guy appears to be snake bit. He was available for just 107 of 164 regular-season games the past two campaigns, and the Jets haven’t gotten a full body of work out of him since the Covid-shortened crusade (71 games) of 2019-20. That’s not bang for 6 million bucks.

Do I think Paul Maurice is a better bench puppeteer today than when he walked away from Good Ol’ Hometown in December 2021? No. But I will suggest Coach PoMo has more coachable players in Florida than he had in the Jets changing room.

Interesting piece in the Drab Slab from Mad Mike McIntyre on old friend Joe Daley, the one-time holy goalie with the Jets. Seems Joe’s equipment from days of yore has vanished and he’d like it back, especially his mask.

Astronomers have gazed to the sky and tell us there are 151 planet-killing asteroids in our neighborhood, but us earthlings should fear not. “It’s good news,” says study leader Oscar Fuentes-Muñoz, a University of Colorado Boulder researcher. “As far as we know, there’s no impact in the next 1,000 years.” That should give O.J. plenty of time to find the real killers.

I’m no star/planet-watcher, but if an asteroid were to strike our blue orb a thousand years from now, I doubt there will be anyone left to feel it. Except Keith Richards, of course.

NBA legend Karl (The Mailman) Malone auctioned off some used clothing last week, so let’s do some comparison shopping:
Michael Jordan 1992 U.S. Olympic Dream Team jersey: $3.03 million.
Larry Bird 1992 U.S. Olympic Dream Team jersey: $360,000.
Magic Johnson 1992 U.S. Olympic Dream Team jersey: $336,000.
Charles Barkley 1992 U.S. Olympic Dream Team jersey: $230,400.
Those aren’t exactly thrift store prices and the auction fetched $5 million for a guy whose net worth is estimated at $55 million. Proving once again that one man’s junk is another man’s chump change.

The Malone collection also included some sneakers: Jordan, $450,000; Bird, $91,000; Barkley, $79,200. Frankly, I’m surprised the Barkley sneakers went for so little. I mean, I can’t say for certain, but I think they’re the same pair Sir Charles wears every time he puts his foot in his mouth on TV.

The promotion of Craig Conroy to GM of the Calgary Flames was worth a two-minute bit on Sportsnet Central and three minutes on TSN SportsCentre, and it wasn’t top of the news on either (15 minutes into the show on Sportsnet, 18 minutes on TSN). Now, how do you suppose our two national sports networks will react when a puff of white smoke goes up at Scotiabank Arena in the Republic of Tranna, signalling the arrival of a new GM for the Toronto Maple Leafs? Try this: Lead story, sound bites featuring everyone from Justin Bieber to Doug Ford to King Chuckie and Her Royal Missus, analysis from Jeff O’Dog, Marty Biron, Noodles, Gino Reda, Bob McKenzie, James Duthie, Pierre LeBrun, Dregs, Elliotte Friedman, Frankie Corrado, Frank Seravalli, Ray Ferraro, Tessa Bonhomme, Craig Button, Mike Johnson, Jennifer Botterill, Kelly Hrudey, Kevin Bieksa, David Amber, Ron MacLean and Anthony Stewart, to be followed by a five-day, five-part documentary on the life and times of the new guy. Why, it’ll be such a grand production that Cheryl Pounder might even drag a brush through her hair.

Apparently Brad Treliving is the front runner for the GM job in The ROT. Little wonder. I mean, look what he’s done for Matthew Tkachuk’s career.

The Saskatchewan Roughriders have a big extravaganza planned for their home opener on the Flattest of Lands, June 16 vs. Winnipeg. They’re billing it as Dad’s Night Out and it will feature all sorts of dad things, like the inaugural Roughrider Cornhole tournament and a halftime sing-song with Kim Mitchell, who’s actually older than the Canadian Football League. I’d suggest Kim’s a bit too wrinkled to be rockin’ and rollin’, but he’s two years younger than me so I won’t go there.

Looks like the Washington Commanders are about to become a team to be named later due to a patent/trademark snag for the NFL franchise. Seems there are already claims on Commanders. So how about the Washington Swamp? I mean, it doesn’t get much more reptilian than the creatures who inhabit the American House and Senate, does it?

What does Brooks Koepka’s success in the PGA Championship tell us about LIV Golf? Nothing we didn’t already know. We knew there were elite players among the renegades who took the money and ran from the PGA Tour, so it was inevitable that one would win a golf major. It will happen again, and no one should be surprised.

The PGA-LIV golf duality is no different than the NHL and World Hockey Association in days of yore. The NHL housed the majority of the elite players and many among the rabble pooh-poohed the WHA product. Except the upstarts had considerable star power (Bobby Hull, Gordie Howe, Wayne Gretzky, Dave Keon, Bernie Parent, Gerry Cheevers, Mark Howe, Teddy Green, J.C. Tremblay, Andre Lacroix, Marc Tardif, Ulf Nilsson, Anders Hedberg, Vaclav Nedomansky, etc.) and, according to Curtis Walker’s WHA Hall of Fame website, the WHA had a winning record in friendlies vs. the NHL: 35-30-8.

Club professional Michael Block on what it was like being paired with Rory McIlroy in the final round of the PGA Championship last Sunday. “He’s a lot longer than I am. What I would shoot from where Rory hits would be stupid. I think I’d be one of the best players in the world. Hands down. If I had that stupid length, all day. My iron game, wedge game, around the greens, and my putting is world-class.” Ya, and if I could hit the high notes like Aretha Franklin I’d be on a world tour. But I do my singing in the shower, and Block gives golf lessons to put bread on his table.

And, finally, the women in my family have it all over the men when it comes to birthday candles. My Gran made it to age 100 before leaving for the great misty beyond, and my mom turned 95 on Friday. She’s in a care home and I doubt she realized it was her 95th, but it’s quite a milestone. Happy birthday, mom.

Let’s talk about Commish Gary and the team formerly known as Jets 1.0…Arrrr! Ron MacLean talking about a scurvy dog…a six-pee OT…fantasy GMs…survey says!…Aaron Judge’s sideways glance…take me out to the ball game and bring the defibrillator…and other things on my mind…

Top o’ the morning to you, Gary Bettman.

Well, looks like there’s not much fight left in your desert dogs, although I’m sure there’s still some fight left in you.

If we know anything about you, Gary, it’s that you’ve got a stubborn streak as wide as the Grand Canyon and as long as the Gila River, and you won’t give up on the Arizona Coyotes until there’s no more cacti in the Sonoran Desert.

But the good people of Tempe have given up on the Yotes, turning thumbs down to a proposal for a fancy schmancy entertainment district that would have featured a swanky, new barn for everyone’s favorite National Hockey League punch line.

So what’s your next move, Gary? You’re the NHL commissioner. Are you prepared to let Coyotes ownership cry uncle and flee the desert, or do you want to throw another dart at a map of Arizona and find another loser home for your skating vagabonds? You’ve already tried Phoenix and Glendale and Tempe. I swear, you’ve covered more ground in Arizona than Geronimo. So how about Yuma? Casa Grande? Flagstaff? Tombstone?

Hey, maybe that’s the ticket, Commish Gary. You can have them set up shop in Tombstone, next door to the OK Corral. You can track down one of Wyatt Earp’s ancestors and have him drive the Zamboni. You can reenact the shootout between the Earp brothers/Doc Holliday and the Clantin and McLaury boys during intermission. That was 30 seconds of bullets flying but mostly missing the target, kind of like the Winnipeg Jets offence.

Now that I’ve mentioned the Jets, Gary, I probably don’t have to remind you that you still wear the black hat in Good Ol’ Hometown.

Oh, yes, many among the rabble remain properly PO’d because you allowed their beloved hockey team to skip town and pitch tent in Arizona in 1996. Since then they’ve watched you grant the Coyotes more second chances than a Catholic in a confessional, and they don’t understand why you failed to show the same heels-dug-in zeal for Winnipeg. Not even the arrival of Jets 2.0 in 2011 soothed all souls. You’re the bad guy. Forever.

I don’t share their anger, Gary. At least not totally.

I remember what it was like back in the day when little, old ladies were signing their pension cheques over to Save the Jets funds and, at the same time, school urchins were busting up piggy banks and donating their nickels and dimes in the hope of keeping Keith Tkachuk and Teppo Numminen in town.

I also remember that the Ol’ Barn On Maroons Road was as shabby as a playoff beard, the Canadian dollar was worth about 15 cents US, and Barry Shenkarow couldn’t find any local business tycoons willing to pony up and take a lost cause off his hands.

What choice did you have, Gary, except to help orchestrate a sale to outside interests who believed there was more appetite for hockey in the Arizona desert than hockey on Our Frozen Tundra? I understood, but was it necessary to cackle like a nincompoop while the moving vans rolled out of River City. That was harsh, man. Bad optics. And it’s the reason you’re a pariah in Pegtown.

Anyway, here’s what I’m thinking now, Commish: You can do the right thing and end the buffoonery, but you won’t. You’ll continue to permit the Coyotes to frolic in rinky-dink Mulletthead Arena, a college rink that accommodates fewer than 5,000 customers, and you’ll turn over every desert stone in search of a new Arizona home before you tap out.

In the final reckoning, though, you’ll cry uncle. You’ll convince team bankroll Alex Meruelo that there are more suitable locales for your vagabonds.

All the usual suspects have been mentioned, Gary—Houston, Kansas City, Salt Lake City, Atlanta (seriously?), Southern Ontario and, of course, Quebec City, which has the kind of rink you were looking for in Tempe. But I think we all know you aren’t interested in a Ville de Quebec redo and we know the reason why—too close to the North Pole.

You know, once upon a time a return of the Yotes to Good Ol’ Hometown was a romantic notion, and we’re told it almost came to be before Puck Pontiff Mark Chipman and Jets co-bankroll David Thomson settled on Door No. 2 in 2011, the Atlanta Thrashers. It would have been poetic.

Alas, it’s all part of the “what if?” lore of the Jets-Coyotes franchise, and we’re left to wonder where the lineage goes from here.

I just hope you find a proper zip/postal code for the Coyotes, Gary.

Oh, there’s one more thing: For gawd’s sake, get them a rink that isn’t named after a bad haircut.

I lowered my eyelids long before Matthew Tkachuk’s 4OT goal in Game 1 of the Florida Panthers-Carolina Hurricanes Stanley Cup skirmish the other night, but I understand Ron MacLean spent part of one intermission talking about Blackbeard and pirates. Sigh. Apparently his history lesson tonight will be Circus Clowns: Weary Willie’s Influence On Don Cherry’s Wardrobe.

When I was a kid, I thought OT games sucked because I wasn’t allowed to stay up late and watch. Now I think OT games are boffo because I’m in bed long before Ron MacLean starts talking about pirates.

How long was the Game 1 Florida-Carolina overtime? Well, by the time Tkachuk scored the winning goal, I’d woken up six times to take a pee.

You know we’re fully into the silly season when news snoops are playing pretend GM and proposing trades that are about as likely as finding Wayne Gretzky’s rookie card in a Crackerjack box.

Take Kevin McGran of the Toronto Star, as an e.g. He figures it would be a swell idea for the Jets to ship Connor Hellebuyck, Pierre-Luc Dubois and Twig Ehlers to The Republic of Tranna for Mitch Marner and Ilya Samsonov.

“Hellebuyck is a Vezina-worthy goalie who could teach Joseph Woll a lot, while Dubois—a restricted free agent with arbitration right —is the closest player to Matthew Tkachuk on the trade market,” he fanticizes. “The risk for the Leafs is extensive. Hellebuyck ($6.166 million) has one year left on his deal and Dubois is an RFA hoping for a trade to the Montreal Canadiens. If not, he’ll sign there as an unrestricted free agent in 2024-25. So they’d be loading up for one year only, although Ehlers—drafted one spot behind Nylander—is the long-term play. The Jets are looking not so much to rebuild but to recalibrate. Samsonov is a restricted free agent who can be a No. 1 goalie. Getting him to sign an extension with the Jets would be the only way this works. The Jets might also look for one or two NHL-quality young players who are far from unrestricted free agency. Think Timothy Liljegren or Pontus Holmberg.”

Hey, I get it. Speculation can be a fun part of the jock journo gig. It gets tongues flapping. But it would help if it involved at least a teaspoon of logic rather than a bucket full of fairy dust and unicorns. I mean, why would the Jets want Marner? They already have enough guys who don’t score in the playoffs.

Some interesting stuff from Murat Ates in his two–part survey of the Jets faithful for The Athletic. For example, 78.4 per cent of nearly 1,000 respondents are convinced Winnipeg’s latest crusade was “a success.” Say what? Crawling into the Stanley Cup tournament as the eighth seed and surrendering meekly to the Vegas Golden Knights warrants an “atta boy” from the faithful? Meantime, 81.4 per cent gave them a passing grade of either B or C. Apparently those fans nodded off in class, because they missed the part about the Jets being a .579 outfit on the season. According to the Manitoba provincial report card, that’s a D+ grade, meaning, “limited understanding and application of concepts and skills.” That sounds about right to me, so I give the Jets faithful an F for their Bs and Cs.

Also of note in Murat’s findings: 77 per cent want Rink Rat Scheifele on the next stage coach out of Dodge, 68 per cent want a new postal/zip code for Blake Wheeler, and 60 per cent want to see the back of Dubois’ head. Tough crowd.

A 55-year-old professor at the University of South Florida, Joseph Dituri, has established a world record for living under water, passing the old mark of 73 consecutive days, and he plans to stay submerged at the bottom of a lagoon in the Florida Keys until Day 100 on June 9. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. I mean, the Maple Leafs have been treading water for 56 years.

Kidding aside, Dr. Deep Sea’s mission is a serious bit of business. Every breath he takes, every step he takes and every move he makes under water is being monitored and put under a microscope. You know, kind of like being GM of the Maple Leafs.

Things that make me go hmmm, Vol. 2,155: Cops have collared the cad who allegedly stole two of the ruby red slippers worn by Judy Garland in the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz. The shoes were pilfered in 2005 and recovered in a 2018 FBI sting operation, but no culprits were identified until last week. When swiped, the slippers were insured for $1 million, but today they’re valued at about $3.5 million. Hmmm. A pair of stinky sneakers worn by NBA star Michael Jordan in the 1998 NBA final sold at auction for a record $2.2 million last month. Does that make him the Wizard of Odour Eaters?

Rafa Nadal won’t play Paris later this month, and that saddens me. Rarely have we seen dominance in any sport greater than Nadal on the red clay of Roland Garros. He won 14 French Open titles and the only men to better tennis’ King of Clay in 115 matches were Novak Djokovic, twice, and Robin Soderling. That’s right, Rafa was 112-3. The only comparable I can think of is Secretariat’s gallop in the 1973 Belmont Stakes, which was a beast of another kind.

So, I turned on the Toronto Blue Jays-New York Yankees skirmish the other night just as the Go Yard Yankee, Aaron Judge, gave a sideways glance toward his first base coach, or the dugout, during an at-bat against Jay Jackson. To my shock, that prompted Blue Jays natterbugs Buck Martinez and Dan Shulman to suggest something fishing was going on—i.e. cheating. “You don’t wanna go throwing allegations around without knowing, but…” said Shulman. But nothing. Shulman and Martinez implied that Judge, who now has 13 dingers on the season, was cheating, even though no evidence existed to support such a claim against Major League Baseball’s reigning home run king. The commentary was as shoddy as Jackson’s next pitch, which Judge whacked 431 feet for another stroll around the bases.

Take me out to the ball game! Yes, the Winnipeg Goldeyes are back doing their thing at the beautiful Ball Yard By The Forks, and 5,736 ball fans were there Friday night to see the Local Nine whup Lake Country DockHounds 10-4 in the home opener. But it wasn’t just winning baseball on the menu—apparently there’s also something called a Grand Slamwich at Goldie’s Grill, and it’s Code Blue waiting to happen. Not to be confused with Denny’s Grand Slamwich (scrambled eggs, crumbled sausage, bacon, shaved ham and Canadian cheese on potato bread grilled with a maple spice spread and served with hash browns for $16.29), the Goldie’s Slam consists of four meat patties, four slabs of cheese, four chicken fingers, four strips of bacon, two butterflied hot dogs, nacho cheese, crispy onions, spicy ketchup, all served on garlic bread for $60. Defibrillator paddles and paramedics with a working stomach pump are extra.

It’s about fans booing Bryson DeChambeau and Brooks Koepka at the PGA championship yesterday: What’s the big deal? Athletes hear catcalls in every sport, so why should golfers be exempt?

There are numerous reports that James Harden wants out of Philly to play hoops for an NBA team with “a competitive roster and the basketball freedom for the star to be himself.” Translation: “My ego is too big to share the floor with MVP Joel Embiid, so I’m going to stomp my feet and take my ball and beard back to Houston.”

So, they packed ’em in at Wembley Stadium for the Manchester United-Chelsea women’s FA Cup final, with a head count of 77,390. That’s a world futbol record for a female domestic club match. Meantime, in The Republic of Tranna, 19,923 folks crammed into Scotiabank Arena for a WNBA friendly between Chicago Sky and Minnesota Lynx. Makes me wonder what the Premier Hockey Federation and the Professional Women’s Hockey Players Association are doing wrong, since their games attract only friends and family. Oh wait. I remember now. They’re too busy fighting each other to do what’s right for Ponytail Puck.

And, finally, Reba McEntire will replace Blake Shelton as a coach on The Voice next season. And I can’t believe I mentioned those two in the same sentence. One is a legendary country singer, the other has fooled a whole lot of people.

Slightly Bent

Slightly Bent

Let’s talk about the mess Puck Pontiff Mark Chipman and the Winnipeg Jets are in…a serving of ruffled feathers…Becky and the Jurassics…Hot dog! Joey Chestnut was in the Blue Jays house…golf and hives…and other things on my mind…

Top o’ the morning to you, Mark Chipman.

Are you feeling a burning sensation in your buttocks these days? Well, it isn’t hemorrhoids, Mark. It’s the bonfire your head coach Rick Bowness lit last Thursday night, whereby he informed news snoops that he’d had it up to his chin whiskers with the Sad Sack manner in which your Winnipeg Jets go about their business.

“The same crap” is how Bones described their play in a 4-1 loss to Vegas Golden Knights, a surrender that ushered them out of the Stanley Cup tournament and ushered in another premature summer vacation.

It was a withering, scornful volley aimed mostly at your National Hockey League team’s elite and, naturally, local jock journos haven’t been shy about stoking those flames. Especially now that the workers have begun to bark back.

Oh yes, Mark, the poor dear millionaires with the eggshell-thin egos are crapping on the coach who had the (apparent) bad manners to crap on them.

I’d say it’s a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.

I don’t know if you read newspapers or pay attention to the talking heads online and on flatscreens, Mark, but scribes and natterbugs recognize that your Jets have issues that run deeper than your billionaire co-bankroll David Thomson’s pockets. Thus they’ve had the local shinny side rotating on the spit since its tail-between-the-legs ouster from the post-season party in Glitter Gulch, where they made like Rover and played dead on the Golden Knights’ command.

Here’s a sampling of what the boys on the beat are scribbling/squawking about…

Paul Friesen, Winnipeg Sun: “Whether Cheveldayoff stays or goes is obviously Chipman’s call. I’d be surprised if he makes the move. Hiring a savvy team president/advisor to help fill in for Cheveldayoff’s weaknesses makes some sense. From the core players to the front office, the Jets have milked what they can from this bunch.”

Scott Billeck, Sun: “This team desperately needed a new voice behind the bench. Now it badly needs a new vision behind the GM’s desk.”

Mike McIntyre, Drab Slab: “A no-holds-barred approach from veteran coach Rick Bowness in the immediate aftermath of Thursday’s embarrassing, playoff-ending defeat in Las Vegas should only accelerate—at Mach speed—what has become so obvious around here. The status quo has got to go. No doubt many, just like Bowness, are feeling ‘disappointed and disgusted.’ So now the question is what ownership is going to do about it. Trying to apply yet another shiny coat of paint when it’s clear the foundation is so deeply flawed would be a massive mistake. There must be tangible changes, along with full transparency about both the short and long-term vision from the organization so fans don’t feel like they’re being strung along. Memo to Mark Chipman, David Thomson and company: blow it up.”

Murat Ates, The Athletic: “Fans deserve better than platitudes that border on insults about fantasy hockey. They deserve the honesty Bowness gave them after Winnipeg’s loss to Vegas in Game 5. The Jets’ window to win before Connor Hellebuyck, Wheeler, Scheifele, Niederreiter, Dillon, DeMelo and most likely Dubois hit free agency is slamming shut. Winnipeg needs to move on from the players who contribute to the problem Bowness is picking at, to get returns which help the team stay competitive and to commit to a direction that fans can believe in. If the goal is to squeak into the playoffs and claw at gate revenue, name it. If the goal is to win the Stanley Cup, then name it and make it clear what the plan is to get there. The Jets are out of runway now. That 2024 free agency class is a ticking clock.”

Ken Wiebe, Sportsnet: “Make no mistake there are some solid pieces in the Jets’ organization, but the time has come to change the mix. And change it significantly. Shuffling the deck chairs isn’t going to be enough. That’s never been clearer than it is today. Don’t just take my word for it, invest the time in watching the way Bowness delivered the mic drop message that might just prove to be the impetus for a major renovation project.”

Harsh. Also to the point.

The thing is, Mark, it was your head coach who described your team’s performance in the finale vs. Vegas on Thursday as “the same crap,” so why would news snoops be inclined to disagree with Bones’ truth bomb?

They’re convinced something has to give, and they’re curious about your plans. Do you back up the truck and load on the deadwood (read: players)? Do you let GM Kevin Cheveldayoff keep his hands on the wheel? Do you really believe the rabble will buy into your ill-conceived and insulting “purchase season tickets or else” campaign after another crusade gone wrong?

As Friesen posits, it’s totally your call, Mark.

You’re the Puck Pontiff and we all know you’re a hands-on kind of guy (I prefer to describe you as a buttinski). I mean, if forensic scientists paid a visit to your workplace, they’d find your fingerprints and DNA on everything from the beer cups to the backup goaltender. Hell, they might even discover evidence that you change the oil on the Zamboni. It’s always struck me as control freakish, but, hey, the Jets are your toy and you’re free to do what you will with it.

Here’s the deal, though: You’re one of two constants in this play, Mark. The other is Chevy. You’ve had 12 seasons together to get it right and you’ve been found wanting for 12 seasons. Never failed to fail: That isn’t something one puts on a business card.

But why should you care what the nabobs of negativism think? You didn’t build your downtown fiefdom by listening to the serfs in Good Ol’ Hometown, no matter how legit their gripes might be.

You keep doing it your way, Puck Pontiff. Never mind that hitching your wagon to Blake Wheeler was a colossal miscalculation and only a fool would take his contract off your hands today. You, and only you, know what’s best for your Jets, right?

So why change, Mark? Unless, of course, it’s to do the right thing for a change.

Was that the sound of ruffling feathers we heard yesterday? Yup, sure was. Turns out that Captain Cranky Pants (without the ‘C’) Wheeler and a handful of accomplices figure Bowness got it all wrong when he administered a public flogging to the players scant seconds after they’d tapped out vs. Vegas, so he returned fire and it wasn’t friendly. “We could have had those discussions behind closed doors,” he said on Jets garbage bag day. “I didn’t agree with how he handled himself after that game. Regardless of what the message was, that could have been done more appropriately. He’s a person, too, so we don’t expect him to be perfect all the time. People make mistakes. We can all be upset and pissed off at each other, but let’s do it face-to-face. You guys (media) don’t need to be involved in that.” Interesting. They wouldn’t push back against Vegas, but they’ll push back against their coach’s sound bites.

Garbage bag day was also true confession time for the Jets, and assistant captain Adam Lowry delivered this interesting nugget: “We all still look at Wheels as the captain. He’s kinda the leader in the room. He knows what to say, when to say it. He’s knows how to approach things, he’s seen a lot of things.”
If anyone finds it surprising that Wheeler continues to hold sway in the changing room, I’ll remind you of something I scribbled last September, not long after Bowness had ripped the ‘C’ off his uni:
“Wheeler is now ‘C’-less, but he’s still in the dressing room and has no desire to fade into the background like an old piece of furniture destined for a yard sale. Anyone who thinks otherwise is “sorely mistaken,” he told news snoops, adding “I don’t envision changing my role at all” and “I’m still gonna be doing the things I would have done with the ‘C’ on my jersey.” It sounded more like a threat than a promise.”
And so it has come to pass. Wheeler remains the leader of the alpha dog pack and they’re still bitching at the end of another lost crusade. Somewhere on the East Coast, Paul Maurice is nodding knowingly.

Still trying to wrap my head around the reality that the Winnipeg Sun didn’t have boots on the ground in Sin City when the Jets performed their predictable pratfall. That’s just wrong.

Oh my. The Toronto Maple Leafs have advanced to the second round of the Stanley Cup spring runoff for the first time in 19 years. Just wondering: Did they mention it on SportsCentre and Sportsnet Central last night?

Now here’s a notion I’d be quick to get behind: Becky Hammon being anointed head coach the Toronto Jurassics. If we can believe various reports—and why wouldn’t we?—the decision-makers with the NBA outfit plan a sit-down natter with Becky to discuss her bona fides for the job, and if she gets the gig to replace the defrocked Nick Nurse it’ll be ceiling shattering. First, Becky is female and, second, she’s gay. Hiring a gay female as head coach in a land of alpha male giants would be such a 21st century thing. If it happens, the Jurassics will gain at least one more fan.

Things that make me go hmmm, Vol. 2,151: Four of the Canadian Football League’s nine outfits have been caught cheating, and the Winnipeg Blue Bombers were the main offenders, soaring $64,499 over the salary cap in 2022. Toronto Argos were next in line on the scofflaw list, spending $49,735 more than they were allowed to spend. Hmmm. Those two teams met in the Grey Cup skirmish last November on the Flattest of Lands. I guess what they say is true: If you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying.

The Lords of Rouge Football have hopped into bed with the CBS Sports Network in United States, signing a partnership that’s reportedly worth $1 million. They’ll broadcast 34 games this year. Question is: Does anyone actually watch CBSSN? I have a hunch viewership will be similar to pickleball or frisbee golf.

It was Loonie Dogs Night last Tuesday at Rogers Centre in the Republic of Tranna, and public pig-out champion Joey Chestnut was in the house along with 28,917 other souls. While the Toronto Blue Jays and Chicago White Sox played nine innings of rounders, the gathering went to work on 51,629 Schneiders one-dollar hot dogs, a local record for gluttony. No word on how many of the 51,629 tube steaks that Chestnut scarfed down, but medics on site confirm they performed an emergency wienerectomy on a lumpy man with ketchup and mustard stains on his shirt.

Did you know there’s something called a Paternity List in Major League Baseball? It’s true. Players are permitted to skip out on 1-3 games for the birth of a child. Good thing they didn’t have that in boxing back in the day, otherwise George Foreman would have missed his entire career.

Just so you know, Foreman has 12 kids, including five boys, each of them named George but known as Junior, Monk, Big Wheel, Red and Little Joe when they’re sitting around the dinner table.

If you’re keeping score at home, this is what our Pebble People did in the three main global curling competitions this year: World women’s, bronze medal; world men’s, silver medal; world mixed doubles, nada. A cause for alarm? Only if this was the 20th century.

Interesting exchange between Eric Nehm of The Athletic and Giannis Antetokounmpo after Milwaukee Bucks had been drummed out of the NBA championship tournament:

Nehm: “Do you view this season as a failure?”

Antetokounmpo: “You asked me the same question last year, I think. Do you get a promotion every year? No, right? So, every year you work is a failure? Yes or no? No. Every year you work, you work toward something—to a goal—which is to get a promotion, to be able to take care of your family, to be able to provide a house for them or take care of your parents. You work toward a goal. It’s not a failure. It’s steps to success. Michael Jordan played 15 years. Won six championships. The other nine years was a failure? Exactly, so why you ask me that question. It’s the wrong question.

“There’s no failure in sports. There’s good days, bad days, some days you are able to be successful, some days you are not, some days it is your turn, some days it’s not. That’s what sports is about. You don’t always win. Some other group is gonna win and this year someone else is gonna win. Simple as that. We’re gonna come back next year and try to be better, try to build good habits, try to play better.

“So, 50 years from 1971 to 2021 we didn’t win a championship, it was 50 years of failure? No it was not. There were steps to it. And we were able to win one and hopefully we can win another one.”

Many among the rabble have saluted Antetokounmpo for his thoughtful perspective. Others have panned Nehm for his question, suggesting it was purposely inflammatory. Nonsense. It was a fair question and Antetokounmpo was both right and wrong with his answer.

Turning to another sport and another natter, it’s a good thing Emma Raducanu isn’t paid by the word. In a to-and-fro with news snoops prior to the Madrid Open, Britain’s No. 1 female tennis player used 58 words to answer 16 questions, which works out to 3.625 words per answer. That isn’t a press conference. It’s an audition for a gig as a street mime.

I don’t know if we’ll see our Genie Bouchard win another tennis tournament, but the quest to get there is keeping her from becoming a layabout. “I could just chill, I guess, for the rest of my life,” she tells The Telegraph. “I could sit on my couch and watch Netflix. And that sounds appealing, for sure. But after two days, I would go crazy. I want to be top 100 as soon as possible because then you start really feeling like a player on tour.” Genie’s right about chilling. Between tournament earnings ($6,785,645), product endorsements and taking most of her clothes off for Sports Illustrated, she’s amassed a small fortune and could live on Easy Street.

A swarm of bees disrupted play at the Mexico Open last week in Puerto Vallarta. All the golfers got hives.

Looking for a good read? Check out George Williams’ piece in the Drab Slab about two women who escaped Ukraine and found a home at Assiniboia Downs. As my first sports editor, Jack Matheson, would say, it’s “damn good” stuff.

Now that Aaron Rodgers is a member of the New York Jets, can we all get back to regularly scheduled living? Personally, it means that I can root, root, root for the Green Bay Packers again.

When I think of Packers quarterbacks, it’s Bart Starr, Brett Favre and Rodgers. Anybody else of note either played before my time or got lost on a darkness retreat.

It’s about all the glut of gambling ads in print, online and on our flatscreens these days: Pete Rose demands a recount.

Steve Simmons of Postmedia Tranna writes this: “Under the department of dumb: Edmonton fans booing Drew Doughty, who was brilliant for Canada at the 2010 and 2014 Olympic Games. And he would have been on two more Olympic teams had NHL players been sent in 2018 and 2022.” Now that is truly “under the department of dumb.” I mean, last time I looked, it was an L.A. Kings logo on the front of Doughty’s jersey when he was in E-Town, not our Maple Leaf. So boo him to your hearts content, kids.

And, finally, my heart skipped a beat on Saturday when I saw the name Willie Nelson trending on Twitter. I feared the worst. Turns out it was people with glad tidings for Willie on the occasion of his 90th birthday. Gee, ain’t it Funny How Time Slips Away?

Let’s talk about Winnipeg Sun scribes trying to eat soup with chop sticks…WNBA news snoops are hooped…a cave dweller…men’s junk…the Gotham Rat Czar…and other things on my mind…

Question: Are we supposed to care that Winnipeg Sun news snoops have been confined to quarters by the penny-pinching suits at Postmedia?

Probably not.

Except it’s not right. In fact, it stinks like a wet dog.

Good Ol’ Hometown is the only true two-newspaper town west of the Manitoba-Ontario boundary, so it should feature fierce competition at all times, most notably when the local shinny side is involved in a Stanley Cup to-and-fro.

Alas, the Sun boys were MIA for the opening gambit of the Winnipeg Jets-Vegas Golden Knights series last week in Glitter Gulch, an absence that required them to do some fast and fancy footwork and poach their breathless quotes long distance via Zoom. Unless there’s a shifting of the minds among Postmedia puppeteers, they’ll also be MIA when the two sides return to Sin City for Game 5 of the best-of-seven throwdown.

It isn’t a good optic, not when their main competition, the Drab Slab, and various other media mooks from Good Ol’ Hometown—The Athletic, CJOB, TSN, Sportsnet—are on site for actual face time with players and coaches.

How are Paul Friesen, Ted Wyman and Scott Billeck supposed to compete when they’re 2,700 kilometres removed from the fray, not to mention all those one-armed bandits in Vegas?

The simple truth is they can’t. Not really. Oh, sure, they fight the good fight, but they can’t capture the vibe in the rink and around town. They can’t catch a quick, subtle aside from a player or coach. You know, a one-off quote that sets an article apart from what others deliver. They can’t cozy up to team medics to get the skinny on a player’s owie, even if the info is off the record. Basically, they’re trying to eat soup with chop sticks.

But, again, should any of us give a damn that they don’t have boots on the ground?

Well, I spent three decades in the rag trade, so I remember what it was like before hedge fund managers and bean counters made the final call on editorial deployment. When the puck was dropped for the World Hockey Association or National Hockey League playoffs, we were there with the Jets. Ditto when the Winnipeg Blue Bombers were grabbing post-season grass. The Winnipeg Tribune/Winnipeg Sun were on site (as was the Drab Slab), usually with two news snoops—a beat reporter and a columnist. Hell, we had three people in Glitter Gulch the night Donny Lalonde went dukes up and lights out in his tiff with Sugar Ray Leonard.

Ya, I know, that was a different century. A different world. Today the new-world way of jock journalism is to do it on the cheap.

It’s no secret that the rag trade is dying, with closures and layoffs in abundance, and some broadcasters in the five major men’s pro leagues are keeping their talking heads close to home rather than dispatching them to and fro to deliver in-person accounts.

None of this should be surprising. Covid-19 changed the way we do things and the way we dispense our nickels and dimes, and even hedge fund managers and bean counters can relate to price shock. (I’m sure they’ve all been in the checkout line at the grocery store. So why wouldn’t they cut back, just like the rest of us?)

That doesn’t make it right, though, and I’m totally PO’d that Postmedia has turned the Winnipeg Sun into the ugly stepchild in its chain of newspapers. Friesen, Wyman and Billeck deserve better. Readers (if there are any left) deserve better. And it all makes me wonder how long it will be before they put a padlock on the door.

In related news, the WNBA’s new media access policy makes changing rooms off limits to news snoops post-game. That’s an odd bit of business. I mean, women’s professional sports needs all the friends is can get, and yet the hoopsters are telling jock journos to keep their distance. Go figure.

“Open locker rooms are where reporters foster the relationships that allow them to do stories beyond game coverage,” Nancy Armour of USA Today writes on Twitter. “Players see you game in, game out, and by exchanging small talk and having conversations about families, outside interests, you learn who they are as people. That leads to better, more in-depth coverage. It’s also where stories about the issues and causes players care about come from.”

I agree with Nancy. To a point. But I actually believe locker room access is overrated. News snoops aren’t allowed in golf or tennis changing rooms, yet is there anything we don’t know about Tiger Woods or Serena Williams? No doubt there are things we can learn about Iga Swiatek or Jon Rahm, but it won’t be found in a changing room. I spent 30 years in the rag trade and recall just three occasions when I was invited into a curling boudoir for a natter. It was always post-match scrums and one-on-ones. Yet I managed to get the job done without locker room small talk. We all did, because Pebble People made certain we got what we needed.

Extreme athlete Beatriz Flamini crawled out of a 230-feet, southern Spanish underground cave on April 14, and it was the first time she’d seen daylight since Nov. 21, 2021. The woman, who was 48 years old when she descended below ground and 50 by the time she came up for air, spent 500 days in the dark and killed time by writing, knitting, drawing, exercising and reading 60 books. Spanish media were quick to trumpet Beatriz’ achievement as a world record, but a spokesperson with Guinness World Records rejected the claim, saying, “Not so fast! The Toronto Maple Leafs have been in the dark since 1967.”

I don’t care what anyone says. What Flamini did was impressive. I mean, Jesus only lasted three days in a cave.

Those of us who live in the colonies (and likely anyone with a postal code east of the Ontario-Quebec boundary) have known since the first highlights package on TSN that the ‘T’ stands for Toronto. And the deep thinkers in the Republic of Tranna aren’t shy about reminding us that all things ROT trump all things anywhere else. A case in point would be SportsCentre in the small hours of Friday/Sunday, not long after NHL playoff skirmishes featuring the Maple Leafs vs. Tampa Bay Lightning and Winnipeg Jets vs. Vegas Golden Knights.
TSN coverage:
Leafs-Lightning: 14 minutes/16 minutes…30 minutes total.
Jets-Golden Knights: 7 minutes/9 minutes…16 minutes total.
Sigh.

I don’t know about you, but it strikes me as a peculiar bit of business when I hear two women on national TV bantering about male athletes getting whacked in the knackers. It’s kind of like listening to two men debating the merits of Tampax Pearl vs. Tampax Radiant. Like, what the hell do they know? But there were anchors Kara Wagland and Sarah Davis the other night on SportsCentre, discussing which is worse, getting kicked or punched in the balls. Well, unless Kara and Sarah are hiding something we don’t know about under their frocks, they don’t have the balls to make that call. Thus they brought in hockey analyst Mike Johnson for a verdict, and he informed the women that the correct answer is “neither.” I think it was supposed to be a comedy routine. I groaned.

Speaking of yuks, the legendary Dame Edna Everage has left the building, and the world isn’t as funny a place as it was two days ago. For those of you who haven’t been introduced, Dame Edna was among the alter egos of Australian giggles meister Barry Humphries, who died at age 89 on Friday due to complications from hip surgery. I can’t count the number of times I slapped a knee because of something the irreverent, sharp-tongued and saucy Dame Edna said or did. She was as outrageous as her wardrobe and living, breathing evidence that performing drag is never a drag.

Call it The Nightmare on the 1st Tee: It seems golf great Jack Nicklaus had a hangup about teeing off, and it kept him awake at nights. “I haven’t had it recently, but I used to have a dream all the time that it was my time to get to the first tee and I could never get there,” the Golden Bear told guests at a Legends Luncheon in Columbus, Ohio, last week. “No matter what I did, somebody ran into me and kept me from getting to the first tee. I never quite got there, and I always woke up before it was my tee shot. I’d know the courses, usually, and know how to get to the first tee, but I’d…have to go to the bathroom; I don’t have a ball; I couldn’t find my caddie—just so many different distractions. Not getting to the first tee is a nightmare.” Nicklaus won 73 PGA tournaments and 18 majors. Other golfers can only wish they had nightmares about peeing on their way to the first tee.

In a move meant to protect Champagne-makers in northeastern France, Belgian customs officials recently destroyed 2,352 cans of Miller High Life to keep the so-called “Champagne of Beers” off the market. Imagine that. Crushing 2,352 cans of good beer. That’s exactly 2,352 short of Stone Cold Steve Austin’s Monday Night Raw record.

Things that make me go hmmm, Vol. 2,149: Did you know that the fun bunch writing the rules at Augusta National requires its Masters champions to sign off on a must-not-do list when wearing the ugly, yet coveted, Green Jacket in public. For example, being photographed while swilling booze is a major no-no. Hmmm. That might explain why John Daly only once finished top-10 on the leaderboard.

I note the NFL has suspended five players for gambling. Geez, with sports wagering in our faces 24/7, who saw that coming? Only everybody who’s stared at a TV screen or jock website in the past year. Only question now is which major men’s league will be next, the NHL, NBA, MLB or MLS?

If you’re wondering, NFL gambling policy prohibits players from wagering on games, the draft or other activities. Participating in any form of gambling while at league or team facilites or while in transit with the team is a strict no-no.

Things that make me go hmmm, Vol. 2,150: I wonder if Mike Post has another cops ‘n’ robbers TV show in the hopper. You know, something like Law & Order: You Dirty Rats. I say that because Eric Adams, the mayor of all the people in New York City, has called in Kathleen Corradi to contain the rat population in Gotham. “Rats and the conditions that help them thrive will no longer be tolerated,” the Rat Czar said in a statement. Hmmm. Does that mean Brad Marchand is no longer allowed to play in Madison Square Garden?

Ticket to Ride: That Beatles’ tune is my way of introducing you to Dr. Joasia Zakrzewski, an ultra-marathon runner participating in the recent 80-kilometre GB Ultras Manchester-to-Liverpool race. Seems Joasia had had enough of all that running nonsense halfway through her jog, so she hitched a ride with a friend, traveling 4 km by car to the next checkpoint. Her intention was to withdraw from the race with a gimpy leg, except she didn’t, and actually accepted trinkets for finishing third. Once found out and tsk-tsked by race officials, she conceded it was a “massive error” and blamed her hanky-panky on jet lag. Hey, I can relate. I mean, any time I try to run 10 or more km I always have a vehicle at the ready halfway along the route. Most people call it an ambulance.

I came across an ad for hockey tickets to Winnipeg Warriors games in 1958. Prices at the Ol’ Barn On Maroons Road: $1.50 reds, $1.25 blues, $1 greys. Here’s the interesting part, though: Tickets were available around and about town—at Howard’s Men’s Shop, Esquire Billiards, Times Soda Bar, Grain Exchange Bar, McCullough Drugs, Manitoba Drugs, Silver Heights Pharmacy, Silver Heights Shopping Centre. How did we ever get to hockey games without Ticketmaster?

And, finally, maybe give a kind thought to old friend Peter Young, whose lymphoma has reared its ugly head after eight years in remission. The ol’ broadcaster is a battler who beat the bugger once before and can do it again.

Let’s talk about the NHL’s “holy” hockey players and bogus ballyhoo…hey, what about Wick?…wagering $222,000 to win $2,000 on Tiger losing…digging the long ball…a gay man is the world curling champion skip…calling old West Kildonan North Stars…and other things on my mind…

What are we to make of the growing Rainbow Resistance Movement in the National Hockey League?

Well, in the grand scheme of things, a hockey jersey seems like a piffling talking point when there are more than 60 countries on our planet where it’s a crime to be gay or transgender (punishable by death in 11 locales), and a mind-numbing 400-plus anti-LGBT(etc.) bills have been introduced in statehouses across the U.S.A. this year.

So, ya, petite pommes de terre.

Except Pride nights in the NHL have become a talking point because it shouldn’t be a talking point.

That is to say, I always hold out hope that those of us in the LGBT(etc.) community are past being told we don’t belong. We are, after all, 23 years into the 21st century and I wouldn’t expect a prominent business that trumpets ‘Hockey Is For Everyone’ to tell us we aren’t welcome.

Yet, when Ilya Samsonov refuses to put a Pride decal on the back of his goalie mask; when James Reimer, Eric and Marc Staal, Ivan Provorov, Ilya Lyubushkin, Andrei Kuzmenko and Denis Gurianov decline to don rainbow-themed apparel and/or stick tape for 15 minutes; when the New York Rangers, St. Louis Blues, Chicago Blackhawks and Minnesota Wild keep their Pride sweaters in storage—that’s what many in the LGBT(etc.) collective hear. We aren’t welcome.

Some naysayers suggest that’s selective hearing rooted in our own insecurities, but I suggest those people have never been required to justify their very existence while looking for lodgings, service, employment, a marriage licence, the opportunity to adopt children, etc. You know, basic human rights.

So I posit that it’s more accurate to say what some in the LGBT(etc.) collective are feeling is the fallout from many lifetimes of indignities.

A number of years ago, for example, I was shopping in a funky clothing boutique, searching for a gift. An employee approached and, in a harsh tone loud enough for others in the shop to hear, barked at me: “We don’t want your kind in here!”

Since that day, I’ve been harassed, maligned, ostracized, assaulted and bullied based strictly on sexuality and/or gender identity. It hurt like hell. And most, if not all, the people I know in the LGBT(etc.) community have experienced similar affronts meant to make them feel like lesser-thans or disenfranchised.

Thus, as much as a small group of hockey players/teams declining to support a marginalized community under increasing attack is a trivial matter to some, it serves as a haunting echo to myself and others. It saddens me and exposes the NHL’s broad-stroke claim of inclusiveness as bogus ballyhoo.

So let’s talk about “Hockey Is For Everyone.”

If it’s women’s shinny, yes, it appears to be for everyone.

Elite female hockey has featured Black players, Indigenous players, Asian players, gay players, bisexual players and transgender players, and we see it in the faces in the stands. If aliens were to touch down and inhabit our blue orb tomorrow—and some of them could skate and shoot a puck like Marie-Philip Poulin—I’m sure there would be room for the extraterrestrials in Ponytail Puck.

If, on the other hand, it’s the NHL we’re talking about…well, gays are the extraterrestrials.

The NHL trotted out its Trademark Big Lie about “Hockey Is For Everyone” in February 2017, at which time there had never been an openly gay player. Ever. That box still hasn’t been checked off. Not even by someone who’s come out in retirement. Which is astoundingly illogical, since that takes in approximately 8,000 men and 106 years. Nary a gay man? Right. And there are no Catholics in Rome.

It is, however, one thing for elite gay male hockey players to remain closeted, but it’s another matter to tell the LGBT(etc.) community that there’s no room at the inn.

Two reasons have been advanced for this: Russia and Bible scripture.

We’re told there’s a fear, real or imagined, among Russian players that wearing Pride gear is in conflict with Vlad Putin’s anti-gay propaganda law, and the wrath of the dictator’s henchmen shall descend upon them or their families back home should they play along with Pride initiatives.

Well, I can’t speak to that fear because, thankfully, I don’t live in Russia, nor have I ever visited. I just know it to be an untrustworthy nation, a feeling that took root for me in the late 1950s/early 1960s when it was the Soviet Union and Nikita Khruschev was threatening to lob his nuclear weapons at us and blow us all the hell up. The Cuban Missile Crisis and air raid drills, those were the fears I knew, and I can’t say anything’s different today. I still don’t trust the comrades.

Religion, meanwhile, is a different head of lettuce. I have an acquaintance with the church.

I was baptized and raised Roman Catholic.

I had confirmation and received my first Holy Communion at age 7.

I spent time in the confessional, often feeling obliged to ‘fess up to sins I actually hadn’t committed.

(True story: I’d whisper through the screen window between myself and the parish priest to inform him that there was a black blotch on my soul because I had stolen a candy bar from the corner store, which was a lie. So I’d then confess to lying, which was the truth. My penance was usually five Hail Marys, and I always walked out of the confessional feeling cleansed and not at all bummed out about lying.)

I attended mass every Sunday and on the first Friday of every month, which was mandatory for students at my Catholic schools.

I was taught by nuns through Grade 8, always wary of their 12-inch, wooden knuckle-rappers (you probably called it a “ruler”), and time was devoted each day to Catechism, which is when us sprigs learned of the miracle man Jesus and his 12 hangers-on.

And, my oh my, such stories we were told: Raising the dead, stilling storms, walking on H2O, hocus pocus involving fish and bread, turning water into wine, selling out a dear friend with a kiss, healing the lame, the sick, the deaf and the blind with the touch of a hand, wandering the wilderness for 40 days and nights without so much as a snack. That stuff was better than anything on TV. It left me gobsmacked.

The nuns with the 12-inch, wooden knuckle-rappers would regale us with these, and other, biblical tales that seemed more fable than fact, and we were expected to accept them as the gospel truth, no matter how far they stretched the boundary of reason.

We were a captive audience, awash in naiveté and prepared to believe anything those nuns, or the parish priests, told us. If they informed us Jesus fed thousands with no more food than what we had in our school lunch boxes, then it was true. If they told us Catholics are the only people who qualify for entry into Heaven (they did) or that we’d literally burn in a place called Hell if we committed a mortal sin (they did), we bought it, lock, stock and Bible scripture.

Odd thing, though: My strength of recall (which, admittedly, has ebbed) fails to recapture a single moment (not one) when the nuns/priests of my youth gave us the Bible’s, or Jesus’, take on the (apparent) evils of homosexuality.

But, based on “Sacred Scripture,” the Catechism of the Catholic Church tells us that gay sex acts are “of grave depravity” and “intrinsically disordered” and “under no circumstances can they be approved.” The inclination toward gay tendencies, meanwhile, is “objectively disordered.” Gay people have a “condition.”

So if I read it correctly, gay sex is a sin while gay people have something akin to dandruff, which can be treated and remedied.

I suppose this is what the NHL players believe when they tell us they love LGBT(etc.) people yet their religion doesn’t allow them to use a rainbow-themed jersey for a welcome mat.

I hesitate to question the depth and sincerity of anyone’s faith, but those outriders leave themselves open to accusations of hypocrisy. They cannot support the LGBT(etc.) community because gay sex is a sin? Fine. Yet how many among them have lusted after a woman who isn’t their wife?

The Sermon on the Mount Carl Bloch, 1890

In the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-7), Jesus told the people: “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”

It’s the seventh commandment: Thou shalt not commit adultery. It’s considered such a grave sin that it’s mentioned 52 times in the Bible.

I know male hockey players. Trust me, they lust after women, and many of them act on that lust. According to Jesus, that’s a sin long before clothes begin to come off. Yet I’ve never read or heard of a player, or talked to a player, who denied or turned away a teammate based on adulterous behavior.

In other words, the sinners condemn the sinners (gay people) but not the sinners (adulterers).

Sounds positively unChristian to me.

So, again, from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount: “Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.”

Faith can be a beautiful thing. To this day, I carry a rosary with me, I wear a medallion of the Virgin Mary and a cross of Jesus, I believe in angels and anticipate the day they come and carry me to the other side of the river.

But I don’t pick and choose scripture to serve an agenda that disenfranchises a beleaguered and oppressed people. It appears to me that’s what the “holy” hockey players are doing.

Matthew 23:28: “Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.”

Amen.

Whenever an LGBT(etc.) issue in sports becomes a topic du jour, I look and listen for gay voices in mainstream jock journalism to bring perspective and personal insight to the discussion. Alas, other than Devin Heroux of the CBC, those voices don’t exist. Maybe there are LGBT(etc.) news snoops on Our Frozen Tundra that I don’t know about. If so, I wish they’d join the conversation. Allies are wonderful, but I’d rather read or listen to someone with skin in the game.

Interesting read on Ponytail Puck from Hailey Salvian in The Athletic. She took the pulse of women’s hockey by asking 30-plus elite players from Canada and the U.S. their views on the game, and she included this question: What is the biggest issue facing women’s hockey? One answer: “We need to get back to having a league with a real season where we can play hockey.” I don’t know if that’s arrogance or ignorance from a member of the Professional Women’s Hockey Players Association, but it’s definitely stupid. There is a league with a real season—the Premier Hockey Federation, which crowned the Toronto Six champion on March 26.

So who’s the best female player of all time? Gotta be Hayley Wickenheiser, no? No. According to Hailey’s poll, Marie-Philip Poulin is numero uno (62% of the vote), with Hilary Knight (21%) and Cammi Granato (9%) next in line. Jayna Hefford, Cassie Campbell-Pascall also received votes. And the great Wickenheiser? Nary a vote. Go figure.

No surprise that the TV talking heads continue to fawn over Tiger Woods, as if he’s still leaping tall buildings in a single bound. Apparently, his making the Masters cut is undeniable evidence that his Superman cape is not torn and tattered, and it doesn’t matter that 63-year-old Fred Couples qualified to play the weekend with a better score. Woods finished Saturday last on the leaderboard, but the squawk boxes couldn’t make it all about him today because he withdrew.

That was some kind of scary stuff during second-round play at the Masters golf tournament at Augusta National on Friday, when stormy weather and high winds brought down three giant trees. Fortunately, the area was clear of patrons, thus no injuries.

Actual BBC headline: “Trees fall at stormy Augusta.”

How TV announcers described it: “Boy, that was quick-thinking and fast-acting by Tiger Woods, who prevented a disaster by moving patrons away from 17 tee and out of harm’s way just seconds before those giant trees toppled to the ground. No one saw it coming except Tiger, and we can only imagine how many lives the great man saved today.”

Things that make me go hmmm, Vol. 2,147: Would you wager $222,000 on Woods to not win the Masters? Well, one bettor did that very thing at Circa Sportsbook before the boys teed off on Thursday at Augusta National. The payout when Tiger comes up short? Just $2,000. Hmmm. Sounds like my last grocery bill.

Things that make me go hmmm, Vol. 2,148: According to researchers at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire, there’s been a jump in dingers in Major League Baseball due to our shifting climate. In a paper published in the Bulletin of the American Meteorological Society, scientist and co-author Justin Mankin writes, “Global warming is juicing home runs.” Apparently, more than 500 HRs since 2010 are the fallout from “historical warming.” Hmmm. And here I thought it was due to syringes and butt cheeks.

To arrive at their conclusion, the Dartmouth climate nerds pored over data from 100,000 games and 200,000-plus balls swatted into play, as well as weather, facilities and other pertinent points. I don’t know if chicks still “dig the long ball,” but Greta Thunberg disapproves.

What’s that Yogi Berra line about attendance? Oh ya: “If the people don’t want to come out to the ballpark, nobody’s going to stop them.” And no one in Oakland is stopping the rabble from attending Athletics games. The head count at Oakland-Alameda County Colisum last Tuesday was 3,407. Twenty-four hours later, 4,930 took in the ol’ ballgame. Imagine that, less than 5,000 fans. Or, as the Arizona Coyotes call it, “a near sellout.”

Real nice read from young Taylor Allen in the Drab Slab last week. He tells us all about local volleyball player Averie Allard, who’s now playing pro in Italy. Good stuff.

Our women won a bronze medal at the world curling championship and our men collected silver Sunday in Bytown. So I ask: Do the alarmists still demand a major overhaul of our entire system, or have the flaws in the program been greatly exaggerated?

Chalk one up for the LGBT(etc.) community: Skip Bruce Mouat of the freshly minted world champion Scottish team, which whupped Brad Gushue and the boys 9-3 in the men’s final Sunday afternoon, is an openly gay man.

And, finally, the Stars are aligning for a big reunion bash on April 15 at Shooters Golf Course in Good Ol’ Hometown. I’m talking about my old outfit, the West Kildonan North Stars, and organizer Gord Homenick is looking for more former players to join in the fun. If you wore the colors, coached or worked with Westkay in the Manitoba Junior Hockey League, get in touch with Gord, at ghomenick@shaw.ca or 204-782-1884.

Let’s talk about the Gimli Gals and their shiny bronze medal…Fanatics and Lady Gaga’s meat dress…a standing O for Joe in the House…scripture and shinny…Jimmy G and a lifetime of freebes at the Chicken Ranch…Journalism 101…and other things on my mind…

Top o’ the morning to you, Kerri Einarson…

Well, at least you’re coming home from Sweden with a trinket, even if bronze isn’t the color of choice.

We all know that you, Val Sweeting, Shannon Birchard and Briane Harris would have preferred to leave Tre Kroner country with gold knickknacks, but the rest of the planet’s female Pebble People long ago stopped cringing at the mere sight of the Maple Leaf and the World Women’s Curling Championship is a tough gig.

Problem is, many among the rabble still don’t get it. They figure any Canadian curler worth her weight in Scotties tissues ought to be able to tumble out of bed, have a quick cup o’ java and a muffin, then give both Silvana Tirinzoni and Anna Hasselborg a wedgie later in the day. No muss, no fuss. Just collect a gold medal and disappear until the frost is on the pumpkin again.

Except we both know that isn’t how it works.

Briane Harris, Val Sweeting, Shannon Birchard and Kerri Einarson.

You and your gal pals from Gimli have had three kicks at the can, Kerri, and your plunder includes two bronze medals, the first earned a year ago and the second this very day with your 8-5 victory over Sweden’s Hasselborg.

I say that’s admirable, but others don’t see it that way. All they see is failure.

I don’t know how much time you spend on social media, Kerri, but you might want to steer clear of it for a few days because the carping began before today’s joust with Hasselborg and, predictably, much of it is negative with gusts up to mean-spirited and just plain idiotic.

Some have called your team “a joke” and “not even in the top five in Canada” and “a curling flop.” Others are calling you and your gal pals “club curlers” and suggest you and Val take up new hobbies. (Like I said, idiotic.) Blah, blah, blah and yadda, yadda, yadda.

Hey, critique is okay, Kerri, but I’ll never understand why the rabble has to get stupid about it.

Personally, I’m not in the habit of trashing athletes who wear the Maple Leaf on the global stage, not unless they go all Ben Johnson and heap disgrace on Our Frozen Tundra.

I also have a soft spot for curlers, Kerri. I know they’re the finest collection of people in jockdom— every-day earthlings with every-day jobs and a special skill—and anyone who’s spent time with them will say the same thing. Pebble People rock!

So try not to let the buzz-kills dim the day, Kerri.

Take comfort in the knowledge that you, Val, Shannon and Briane are the finest outfit in Canada and third best on the planet. Enjoy your summer, then come back for more once the frost is back on the pumpkin.

D’oh Boy commentary of the week comes from old friend and former Postmedia Edmonton columnist Terry Jones. After the Einarson team finished the round-robin portion of the tournament at 7-5, he took to Twitter to inform us that the Gimli gals “definitely don’t deserve to be involved” in the playoffs. What a remarkably dense remark, especially for a Canadian Curling Hall of Fame scribe. Since the global championship shifted to a six-teams playoff format, outfits with seven wins (or worse) have earned a spot in the playoff round every year.
2023: 7-5 (.583)
2022: 7-5 (.583)
2021: 7-6 (.538)
2019: 6-6 (.500)
2018: 6-6 (.500)
I’m not sure what part of those numbers Jonesey doesn’t understand, but I suppose we can cut him some slack since he’s an Alberta boy who’s been brainwashed into believing the inturn and outturn were first introduced on a frozen pond at the intersection of Jasper and 105th in downtown E-Town.

The National Hockey League has chosen Fanatics to replace adidas as its official jersey-maker beginning in 2024-25, and scores of noses are out of joint. Oh, yes, many among the rabble are outraged! Why, there hasn’t been this big a fashion foofaraw since Lady Gaga showed up at the 2010 MTV Music Video Awards adorned in a raw meat dress, a slab of raw meat on her head, and her feet wrapped in raw meat shoes that would have fit a prize hereford. And I don’t get it. I mean, do the seamstresses at Fanatics sew with their knees and elbows? Frankly, I’ve never understood why anyone would fork out $300 for a garment with another person’s name on it, so don’t ask me to explain fan outrage over laundry.

Lady Gaga’s meat gown, by the way, was approximately 50 pounds of Argentinian beef bought at a Los Angeles butcher shop. At, say, $20 a pound, that’s a $1,000 gown, far cheaper than anything she would have found on the Prada rack.

U.S. President Joe Biden received a standing O in the House of Commons the other day, simply for saying he likes Canada’s NHL teams but not the Toronto Maple Leafs. Can we get Joe’s name on the ballot for our next federal election?

Let me see if I’ve got this straight: Ivan Provorov, James Reimer and the Staal boys, Eric and Marc, refused to wear a rainbow-themed jersey on team Pride Nights because it runs contrary to their religious beliefs. Yet they gladly work for, and accept paycheques from, owners who openly support the LGBT(etc.) community. In other words, they won’t do the bidding for an LGBT(etc.) ally, but the the LGBT(etc.) ally’s money is good. Interesting how that works.

Eric Staal insists he has never—ever, ever, ever—worn a Pride warmup jersey, except there’s photographic and video evidence of him adorned in a Pride warmup jersey while with the Montreal Canadiens in 2021. He must have misplaced his Bible before that game.

Interesting results from the annual NHL Players Association poll of 626 members, but, given the climate of the day, I would have asked them questions about how deep their religious beliefs run. To wit:
a) If a group of fans with a Pride flag asked you to pose with them for a pic, would you oblige or tell them your Bible won’t allow it and stomp off?
b) If a member of your family came out as gay, would you openly support them, or would you disavow her or him?
c) Would you play on a team owned by a gay man or woman?
d) Do you “remember the seventh day and keep it holy” by not playing or practicing?
e) Would you accept a gay teammate and support him in every way?

Squawk boxes on the Left Flank of the Land are making a hard pitch for Quinn Hughes of the Vancouver Canucks to win the Norris Trophy as the NHL’s top rearguard. As if. There’s as much chance of that happening as O.J. leading the FBI to the real killers sometime today, so they can save their oxygen. Hey, Hughes is a fine, young player, but his misguided boosters seem to think the determining factor in Norris balloting should be his +18 rating, not Erik Karlsson’s 22 goals and 90 points.

Babe alert! Las Vegas Raiders quarterback Jimmy Garoppolo might have received an offer he can’t refuse—nookie for life. Yup, good-looking Jimmy G has caught the attention of workers at Nevada’s famed brothel, the Chicken Ranch, and they’re offering free samples. “I almost fainted when I heard Jimmy signed with the Raiders,” said Caitlin Bell. “He deserves free sex just for joining our team. But he gets free sex for life from us just because he’s such a legit babe!” Puts a new twist on the term “quarterback option,” don’t you think?.

Things that make me go hmmm, Vol. 2,146: Damien Cox of the Toronto Star figures the final dash to the Stanley Cup tournament is a giant yawn. “Another season in which the final 15 games of the NHL campaign are mostly just waiting for the playoffs, and seeing which team will have the best odds in the draft lottery. Playoff races? A thing of the past,” he tweets. Hmmm. Cox might want to have a word with the rabble in Pittsburgh, Sunshine, Fla., Calgary, Winnipeg, Nashville and on Long Island about “a thing of the past,” because last time I looked, which was this morning, their hockey heroes are still squabbling over final seeding in the present.

Hell freezes over, Vol. 1,288: Toronto Six were on the sports front of both the Toronto Star and Toronto Sun last Tuesday.

An ‘F’ in Journalism 101: How do you write an entire column on the Six and not mention the Premier Hockey Federation? Well, we’ll have to ask Steve Simmons about that. The Postmedia Tranna scribe, you see, waxed on in an ode to the Six and women’s hockey, yet he failed to mention what league they play in, nor did he mention the PHF’s competition, the Professional Women’s Hockey Players Association, when commenting on the overall state of Ponytail Puck. The best he could do was inform readers that there’s “one league and a partial second league of better talent.” The column wouldn’t have passed the sniff test in Journalism 101, but facts are a casualty when a guy parachutes in to scribble a know-it-all, one-off piece.

Simmons estimated the head count for the Six-Connecticut Whale semifinal skirmish at Mattamy Athletic Centre in the Republic of Tranna at 600, and suggested “the game deserved more. The players deserved better. This was a game in need of a full house, in need of atmosphere that came as much from the stands as it did from those on the ice.” Pot meet kettle. Simmons and the Toronto Sun have ignored the Six for almost the entirety of their three-year existence. Don’t the women “deserve” better press coverage?

The Isobel Cup, by the way, will be awarded this very night at Mullett Arena in Tempe, Ariz., where the Six and Minnesota Whitecaps squabble over PHF bragging rights.

Good grief, the Winnipeg Sun had a two-page sports section on Wednesday, with a grand total of three articles. As an alumnus who was there when the good times rolled, that’s painful to see.

And, finally, here’s what head coach Deion Sanders told his Colorado Buffaloes before they bolted for spring break: “Fellas, be careful on your break. Be careful on your comings and goings. Everyone ain’t for you, everyone ain’t with you, everybody don’t love you, everybody don’t appreciate you, everybody don’t want you to be that guy you plan on being, and your life is of value. Your life is of essence. You are somebody. You are important. So, be careful please. We don’t want to put on all black and go to a funeral. We want to put on all black and go out there and whoop somebody.” Kind of sad that Prime Time felt obliged to deliver that sermon.

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