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.
Later, rifling through more albums, I see a photograph taken hours after that game. He is frozen in a champagne swig from the chalice: the Grey Cup. This is the highlight of his career, a blowout win.
But my dad’s feats of athleticism also exacted a tremendous toll. Beneath that supposed armour — the helmet — lies another secret: trauma.
The last time I saw him, I asked a question that I had wondered about after years of witnessing pained grimaces and frustration with his body. Shoulders that wouldn’t rotate properly and the loss of feeling in his hands.
Dad held his hand just above his knee, the gemstone in his 1977 Grey Cup ring blazing red.
“Dad, how much of what your body has gone through is a result of playing football, do you think?”
He looked directly at me.
“About 95 per cent.”
Maybe he had hoped to find proof of this figure when he became a participant in a study about the long-term effects of repeated concussions in professional athletes. Ten years ago, as part of its research, he donated his time to various cognitive assessments. And just a few months ago, he made good on a post-mortem promise: he donated his brain.
I didn’t fully appreciate the impact that football could have had on him until I learned that concussion can stem from a blow to any part of the body, if the force of the blow causes the brain to move around inside the skull. And repeated hits — the very language of football — can lead to fatal brain degeneration known as chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE).
New research suggests that for nearly half of patients, concussion symptoms can last six months, which is well beyond Health Canada’s recovery guidance of a month or less. The study is leading to questions about existing guidelines and support for concussion recovery.
A scan of a CTE-afflicted brain underscores its seriousness. Dark flecks – some delicate, others hefty – splatter the fragile surface. This accumulation of tau protein is deadly, destroying nerve cells.
The CFL has taken measures to mitigate the effects of concussion. It now permits the Guardian Cap, a soft shell placed over the hard helmet, designed to reduce impact. Even still, the Guardian Cap website tells me that no equipment can prevent concussion. One brain is all we have.
There is another image. One that I may never see: a scan of my dad’s brain. I imagine muddy flecks. The fossilized remnants of tackles, fumbles, collisions. In order to win, he endured repeated hits and learned to propel through walls of men. In doing so, he set himself up for loss.
I want to hate the sport that did this to my dad. Then I remember the animacy of his football stories and the buoyancy of his voice as he recounted moments he yearned to return to. I realize that this would be a betrayal.
So how do I remember him? My dad’s ring is forever imprinted in my memory. But so too is his sacrifice. His willingness to yield himself after death, with no promise of a chalice or a ring on the receiving end. This, without question, is my dad’s greatest triumph.
Do you have a compelling personal story that can bring understanding or help others? We want to hear from you. Here’s more info on how to pitch to us.
