They say you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone. For me, it was the opposite. I knew exactly what I had before it was gone, and forgot when it was gone. That is, until I brought my four-year-old son, Lev, to his very first Bombers game.
My dad and I had been Bombers’ season-ticket members since 1996. He was my best friend, my mentor, and my hero, and we shared a deep passion for the Canadian Football League. In 2017, after a 30-year battle with chronic kidney disease, he died. Given that he put forth a Herculean effort to live with his debilitating illness and should’ve died years prior, I knew his time was coming. Thus, I savoured every moment with him. I knew exactly what I had before it was gone.
When he died, I was thankful for the time we had, and for having someone who believed in me and loved me no matter what (we’re not all so lucky). Going to Bombers games after he passed felt sad. I missed dad mischievously munching on his secret bag of peanuts — he knew outside food and drink weren’t allowed, but he did it anyway. I missed him grumbling about every missed tackle, catch, and field goal. Still, I used his old ticket to bring a different buddy each time. It was fun. I thought I was okay, especially starting in 2016 when the Bombers were no longer the laughingstock of the league.
Then, on May 24, 2025, I brought my four-year-old son to his first Bombers game. The first thing I did was show him our season-ticket member brick, engraved with our name and the year we first purchased our season tickets. Our brick is just one of many on the path to Gate One of Princess Auto Stadium, the one featuring a massive image of Milt Stegall. Schnitzer 1996. Simple yet profound.
I watched Lev as he looked down at the brick. His eyes widened, and he exclaimed with disbelief, “Daddy, that’s our name!” Instantly, I felt a settling in my heart, as if it had been desperately treading water for years and finally collapsed onto a life preserver. My whole being sighed with relief. I knew what I had before it was gone but, until that moment, until it came back, I hadn’t appreciated fully what I’d been missing.
Though they never met, Lev is exactly the grandson my dad always dreamed of. He has a mischievous sense of humour coupled with the face of an angel, is extremely headstrong, whip-smart, and absolutely adores playing and watching sports. Seeing his sense of wonderment as I explained how my dad first bought season tickets 29 years ago closed the circle that was incomplete in my heart. It was surprising how everything felt right again.
There were further surprises. Though Lev was pumped about going to the pregame tailgate, given that there were hot dogs and children’s activities, as soon as he saw the players warming up on the field, he demanded to go straight to our seats and watch. He then peppered me with 45 minutes of football questions: “Who’s number 48? Why aren’t those guys wearing uniforms? Why are those guys dressed like birds (Bombers’ mascots Buzz and Boomer)? Who’s the guy kicking the ball? What if the ball he kicks hits someone in the head? Why are the players going into that tunnel? Is the game already over?”
The questions continued throughout the first half: “Dad, why are you high-fiving strangers? Why does the endzone have a bigger line? Why is a touchdown worth six goals? Why is Saskatchewan’s logo better than ours?” Wait, what?! I let this last question slide, as it was his first game, but trust me, it will be addressed.
Unlike my dad, I don’t illegally bring food from home to the game, so when Lev started to get hungry in the second quarter, I told him we’d have to leave our seats to get food. “You go. I’ll stay right here. I don’t want to miss the game,” he defiantly declared. I was both impressed and concerned. Do I leave my four-year-old son in a seat by himself while I go get food?! My wife would murder me.
Still, the beauty of being a fan in the CFL is that you know all the people in your section. They’re a family. The woman who sits behind me, Jen, witnessed Lev’s stubbornness and offered to watch him while I went to get food. Jen was a colleague of my late mother-in-law, also a season-ticket-member, and she’s a physician, so I knew Lev would be in good hands. I asked Lev if he was okay with the arrangement, and he responded impatiently, “Yes, go get food, I’m trying to watch the game.” I knew that my wife would be horrified by this decision so, of course, I did it anyway. Bombers game, dad’s rules. Some fries and chicken fingers later, I thought his appetite was satiated. I was wrong.
Small donuts covered in copious amounts of sugar, mini donuts are a very popular treat in Winnipeg. My buddy, Logan, a couple of rows up, bought a huge bag and offered two for me and Lev. My immediate thought was that this is a bad idea. So, of course, I took them. One minute, there was my sweet little boy; the next, a rabid wild animal with dilated pupils, feverishly devouring the tiny treat. “More,” he demanded. “Get me more mini donuts. Now!” Apparently, he too didn’t know what he had been missing. Yikes! I knew it was a bad idea to get him more, so of course, I did it anyway. After all, I dearly wanted his first Bombers game experience to be a positive one. I would give him whatever he wanted.
With fascination and amusement, I observed him quickly wolf down three-quarters of the donuts. At eight minutes left in the fourth quarter, Lev was tired and asked if we could leave. My dad’s voice echoed in my head: “You never leave a game early.” So, I did what any dad would do; I offered him the rest of the mini donuts if he agreed to stay until the end. Again, bad idea, but I did it anyway. After all, I didn’t want fans jeeringly jingling their car keys at me to shame us for leaving early (a longtime Bombers game tradition).
That night, for the first time in my life, I happily cleaned up vomit. Yes, unsurprisingly, Lev threw up all the mini donuts at bedtime. As he got back into bed after a bath, he sleepily murmured, “Daddy, can I have more mini donuts?” And as he was falling asleep, “Daddy, can we go to the Bombers game again tomorrow?” Does it get any better than that?
I didn’t know what I had lost until I showed my son our brick. Attending a Bombers game with my son didn’t make me yearn for my dad; I suddenly was my dad. I am my dad. And my son is me. Well, he’s much cuter and smarter, though he continues to prefer the Roughriders’ S to the Bombers’ W. I’m working on it.
The next Bombers game is at 7:30 p.m. on a school night, and he’s dying to attend. Seems like a bad idea, but it’ll happen anyway.
