The door opened wide and Maxine Bradley walked in with her mischievous but lovable laugh, waving two pompoms and a sash.

“Here I am,” she exclaimed. “I’m Mrs. Grey Cup.”

Maybe that’s the real secret of Grey Cup Sunday — not the score, not the stats, not even the halftime show with its choreography and confetti cannons — but the way it gathers us, year after year, into the soft gravity of familiar rooms, and reminds us that laughter, shared food, and the occasional airborne pompom can stitch people together more tightly than any sideline huddle ever could.

Because when Mrs. B — we knighted her as such — came through our door with that sash and those pompoms, she wasn’t just entering a house — she was entering a tradition she helped build, step by step, laugh by laugh, casserole by casser

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