
Dad was a Grey Cup champion. I want to hate what the sport did to him but it's not that simple
CBC
This First Person article is the experience of Hayley Chown, who lives in Toronto and is the daughter of two-time Grey Cup champion, Gary Chown. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ .
One of my earliest memories is twiddling a large gold ring with mysterious inscriptions. My dad’s Grey Cup ring. He played for the Montreal Alouettes for four seasons in the 1970s.
The neighbourhood kids and I flaunted the signature Alouettes logo on the top of our hands where my dad had stamped us all, one by one, pressing down a few seconds to ensure a fine impression on our skin.
Aside from those “Alouettes stamps,” football left no imprint on me.
Dad ended up with a daughter who was equal parts horse girl, theatre kid and history nerd.
Football came to symbolize my aversions: brute force, aggressive masculinity, the disposability of bodies. So I kept it at a distance.
Instead of forcing football on me, he supported me in the things that I loved. Even though he was allergic to horses, he'd take an allergy pill and drive me to the barn three times a week, helping out at my horse shows by hauling tack boxes to the car and always making sure I was well-fed for competition.
When my dad’s health declined rapidly in 2024, I realized that I needed to return the favour, to support him in his greatest passion. So I approached the sport in the best way I knew how and through one of the passions that my dad nurtured: engaging with history. Once I realized that I didn't need to know about punts, yardlines and sacks in order to be close to him, but I could dive into newspapers and scrapbooks, I was in.
One evening, I peered over Dad’s shoulder as he sat at the kitchen table watching grainy football footage on his laptop. The 1977 Grey Cup game between Montreal and Edmonton.
“Where are you, Dad?”
“I’m Number 26,” he said.
I could see him. We were transported back in time.
He hurls himself headlong toward his opponent, waving his arm like a scythe. He cuts down enemy advancement. Tumbles. Skids against the artificial turf that would have burned icy hot through his meagre threads. The whistle sounds. He picks himself up with surprising ease for a 230-pound linebacker.
As we continue to watch together, I can tell from my dad's voice how much he longs for the younger self that jogs to the bottom of the frame, back to the sidelines. That man balls his hand into a fist and pumps it at his side, triumphant. Hands on his hips, fingers splayed, he surveys the frozen battlefield. The camera zooms in. A cloud of warm breath emerges from his helmet. Only his eyes are visible through the mask, but I can tell he is proud of his work.













