Last Call for Tackle Football and Canada is Buying.

Jesse Maddox is the Head Coach and GM of Team Canada

Canada keeps paying the cover charge so international tackle football can stay in the bar after last call.

Not because Canada is rich. Not because Canada is naïve. Because Canada is stubborn, and because somebody has to be the grown-up who says, “If we’re serious about this, we’re doing it. Even if it costs.”

That’s the Gridiron Nations Championship in a nutshell: no sugar daddy, no magic TV windfall, no “wait until the next quadrennial and hope the IOC sprinkles fairy dust.” It’s self-funded. It’s federation-led. It’s the opposite of the modern sports trick where everyone poses beside the trophy and then sends the invoice to someone else.

And here’s the awkward part nobody likes to say out loud: If Canada didn’t keep underwriting the idea of elite intercontinental tackle football, the idea would already be on the side of a milk carton.

Everyone loves the concept of a “World Championship.” The phrase itself has a nice ring. It’s got fireworks built in. It’s got Instagram baked into the syllables.

But the older question — the one that actually matters — is simpler:

Does anyone want to play in one?

Not talk about it. Not attend the Zoom. Not join the working group. Not post the graphic.

Play.

Book the flights. Budget the trip. Face the possibility that the other guy might be better. Step onto the field when the scoreboard has no mercy clause for your pride.

That’s where the room gets quiet.

Because in Europe right now, too many programs are either insular or broke... and sometimes both. They’ll play each other because it’s close, familiar, controllable. Everybody knows everybody. Everybody knows what the bus costs. Everybody knows which rival is “good this cycle” and which rival is “rebuilding,” which is another word for “please don’t make us fly.”

The Americas? That’s different. That’s a long way. That’s an expense line with real numbers attached to it. That’s also a talent gap you don’t close with a pep talk.

So the default posture becomes: we’ll play you… if there’s a possible chance for us to win.

It’s not cowardice, exactly. It’s survival mixed with cautious accounting. But it’s also the fastest way to keep the sport small. If the only time you agree to compete is when you’re pretty sure you won’t be embarrassed, what you’re really protecting isn’t development, it’s the illusion.

And illusions don’t travel well.

Italy, to their credit, was the most enthusiastic for a while. You could feel it: the itch of a football nation that wanted to be taken seriously, that wanted a seat at a bigger table. They wanted the game. They wanted the moment. They wanted the future to arrive early.

Then a couple of losses scratched their itch.

Nothing wrong with ambition cooling into realism. Happens in every sport. What’s revealing is what comes next: the raft of built-in excuses, pre-packaged like airline peanuts.

You know the list. You can recite it before the coin toss:

• “We didn’t have our full roster.”

• “The league teams didn't release their players.”

• “We’re building.”

• “It wasn’t our priority window.”

• “We’re more focused on the next thing.”

Yes. And?

Canada went to Sardinia in April and hung a 56-0 mercy-time skunk on Italy. That’s not a “bad break.” That’s a gap you can drive a team bus through. If your first reaction to a result like that is to reach for excuses, you’ve missed the real gift the scoreboard is handing you: the truth.

The truth isn’t comfortable, but it’s useful. It tells you where you are. It tells you what the sport is asking of you. And it tells you what you can become if you’re willing to accept the insult and keep showing up anyway.

Because that’s how sports grow. Not by collecting sympathetic press releases. By collecting hard lessons, and then turning them into muscle.

Germany had their own version of this story, except Germany’s came with a headline.

“Germany Is Back.”

That’s a nice line. It sells. It feels like a sequel. Everyone loves a comeback.

And then they weren’t.

Fourth in the European Final Four, a 25–10 home loss to Canada, last in the GNC. When it came time to commit to the next cycle, the answer wasn’t yes or no.

It was: Germany will get back to you…

International tackle football is a blue-collar sport pretending it can be built on white-collar wishful thinking. It can’t. It’s too physical to be fictional for very long.

So the GNC comes along and says, fine. Let’s stop talking about the dream and start paying for the work. Let’s give the top nations a reason to play annually. Let’s stop treating international football like a rare eclipse... something you see once a decade, if the sky is clear and the paperwork gets filed.

Canada even makes it easy for the opposition. They don’t ask teams to come crack open their wallets and cross an ocean on a prayer. Canada goes to them. All their games are on the road, which is a funny way to run a “national” program, but that’s the deal when you’re trying to keep the international calendar alive with duct tape and determination.

Not because it’s fair. Because it’s possible.

And the money? It doesn’t come from some shining central fund that drops from the ceiling when you say “high performance” three times. Football Canada doesn’t fund tackle anymore, so the cheque doesn’t show up. The program shows up.

It comes the hard way: golf tournaments, wine tastings, T-shirts, sponsor asks, and the quiet, unglamorous part where players and staff reach into pockets and, sometimes, credit lines to make sure the plane tickets get bought. In other words, the Canadian men’s team doesn’t just play the games; they build the games, pay for the games, and then go play them anyway.

And if you’re sitting there waiting for IFAF to lead traditional tackle football - the game the organization was built on - out of the wilderness, you’d better send a search party to Switzerland.

Because IFAF isn’t hiking the mountain with a compass and a canteen. They’re at the IOC’s poker table, shoving all their NFL-subsidized chips into flag football and the Olympics, praying the next card turns their whole sport into a permanent Olympic sport and a funding model. Maybe that’s smart politics. Maybe it’s the only play that gets you into the room with the suits and the television lights.

But it also means tackle football - the old game, the hard game, the game that actually built the federation - is being treated like a cousin you mention at Christmas and never invite for dinner.

So if you’re waiting for IFAF to rescue tackle, don’t hold your breath. The rescue boats are tied up at the flag dock.

Which brings you back to the uncomfortable reality: the people who still want international tackle football to exist in anything resembling a meaningful way are the ones doing what Canada’s doing now... booking the flights, paying the bills, and playing the games.

Even when the other side would rather negotiate the odds than accept the challenge.

Canada understands, maybe better than anyone, that if you want a world championship, you need a world that actually competes.

That means somebody has to go first. Somebody has to make it possible for the other side to show up without bankrupting themselves. Somebody has to accept that their reward for doing the right thing might be: a blowout, a quiet stadium, and a postgame explanation of why the other team “wasn’t at full strength.”

Canada is doing it anyway.

That’s not arrogance. It’s a responsibility. The kind that doesn’t get applause because it looks suspiciously like writing cheques and boarding flights.

And yes, it’s frustrating.

It’s frustrating to watch teams talk about global titles like they’re ordering from the drive-thru menu. It’s frustrating to watch programs treat the Americas as a “maybe” and Europe as a comfort blanket. It’s frustrating to hear “we want to grow the game” followed by “but not if it’s expensive, inconvenient, or comes with a bruised ego.”

Growth costs. Always has. Always will.

Ask any kid paying league fees. Ask any parent buying gear. Ask any coach volunteering hours. Ask any federation trying to stage a game that doesn’t end in a donation drive and a headache.

The difference is this: Canada is paying at the top of the pyramid so the base doesn’t collapse.

So here’s the challenge the GNC quietly puts in front of everyone who loves to say “world championship” with a straight face:

Don’t tell me you want to play in one. Show me.

Because if Canada ever gets tired, if Canada ever decides the receipts aren’t worth the romance, then everyone else is going to discover the same thing at the same time:

It’s easy to want a world championship.

It’s harder to want the world.