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Editor’s Note: The following op-ed was submitted by the former manager of the ‘Alouettes,’ who was unanimously removed from the league after his 2017 championship victory following an incident league records refer to only as “the Thomas Crown Affair.” He has not been missed.
SoBu, VT – It has come to my attention, through fragmented and frankly bewildering secondhand reports, that the league I once called home has continued its descent into what can only be described as a carnival of the profane. I hear whispers of managers publicly brandishing their Penix, of grown men making Faustian bargains with Egyptian sun gods, and of championship disputes being settled not by quiet dignity but by the founding of pseudo-scientific basement think tanks.
I am writing to inform you all that I am fine. Better than fine, actually.
Since my departure from your little American pastime, I have found solace and profound intellectual stimulation in a far more sophisticated contest: a four-person Canadian Football League fantasy league. Yes, you read that correctly. Four. My real colleagues—Gord, Doug, and another man also named Doug—and I have found that this is the optimal number for a true test of managerial acumen. It is an intimate battle of wits, a strategic chess match, not the chaotic, 12-person lottery of brute force and vulgarity you seem to revel in.
Here, north of the border, we appreciate nuance. We understand the elegant complexity of the three-down system, a structure that rewards foresight and precision rather than the brutish, repetitive slog of American four-down football. Our field is wider, our end zones deeper, a physical representation of our more expansive and tolerant worldview. Have any of you ever truly contemplated the strategic majesty of the single point, the rouge? Of course you haven’t. You’re too busy giggling at a kicker named ‘Butt.’
Our team names reflect a certain dignity. My franchise, the ‘REDBLACKS,’ is named in tribute to the history of the lumberjack tradesmen of the Ottawa Valley. We don’t find it necessary to name our teams after popular sex maneuvers from the Jazz Age or, heaven forbid, a piece of cured meat in a state of oxidation. The symbolism is as crude as it is baffling. We revere our history, which is why, at various points, a full 22% of our professional franchises have shared the proud and virile name ‘Roughriders’ or 'Rough Riders.' It is a sign of tradition, not a lack of imagination.
The entire experience is simply more accessible, more wholesome. We don’t pay $750 Canadian dollars for some bloated streaming package to follow the games. Access to the ‘TSN Toque & Rouge Package’ is earned, as it should be, by purchasing a 20-pack of Timbits at Tim Hortons and successfully rolling up the rim to win. It is a meritocracy of pastry consumption.
There are no frantic appeals to ancient gods here. The only higher power we acknowledge is the Canadian Radio-television and Telecommunications Commission. Our victories are earned through a deep understanding of personnel and a quiet, stoic resolve—the same resolve that built this great nation. The winner receives $100 in Canadian Tire money and a signed Gordon Lightfoot album. The stakes are real, but they are civil.
So please, do not worry about me. While you argue over dongs and threaten each other with tariffs and whatnot, I will be enjoying a superior version of the game, a gentleman’s contest for a more civilized age. I have moved on. I am thriving. And I truly, honestly hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for in your loud, chaotic, and deeply troubled little league.
I am doing great.
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