Ridereligion

In Moose Jaw, there’s a thirty-five year old computer tech who has never caught or thrown a ball in his life. In Wynyard, there’s a sixty-three year old grandmother with a Danielle Steele collection laid out reverently in alphabetical order. In La Ronge there’s a thirty-four year old hippie who runs an organic farm that’s been without a television or phone in three years.           

The connection is that they’re all passionate Saskatchewan Roughrider fans.

That’s the Riders to those of us who bleed green.

To many of us, it’s not just about football, and to some it’s never been about the game at all. I would guess that nearly half the Rider nation can only name a half dozen players and sees maybe three games per year. Many consider the CFL a joke—it’s the league you leave when you get too good and come back to when you’re old. This doesn’t matter, because the snoozefest that is the NFL doesn’t come with a packaged sense of identity.

That gorgeous green t-shirt bearing the S that’s flanked by those subtle grey wheat drums is less a statement of squad support than it is a declaration of who we are. When someone purchases Rider swag, they’re not doing it just to back the team. Many of you shake your heads wondering why we’re as rabid to rally in losing seasons as winning. Rider merch is a proud assertion of who we are, as bold and recognizable as a kilt or a beret or Brazilian flip flops. It says everything without us having to say anything: “Go Riders,” yes, but more importantly, “I’m from Saskatchewan.”

There’s no ignoring that it’s our way of being David thumbing his nose at the Goliath of more populous cities and provinces; it’s our only professional sports team so many view it as quaint and a little pathetic how obsessive we get over it—but it’s blossomed into something so much greater than football. It unites all of us living there or away—much to the annoyance of our cousins when we converge on their homes in Calgary, Edmonton or Winnipeg, where cheering is respectable but hardly on the level of zealotry it is from the fans in green. It’s fun to attend a game in these cities and look at the frustrated locals who feel they’re at an away game.

Saskies are loud and proud and spread across this nation like some thick green peanut butter. Don’t like watermelon helmets, Pilsner flags and John Deere t-shirts? Well, just be thankful they never gave Newfoundland a team—can you imagine what those people would be like given a chance to fill McMahon Stadium with kissing cods and screech? We look pretty tame now.