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The e-mail came from a co-worker the week before the Grey Cup last November.

"What do you call 45 guys sitting at home watching the CFL playoffs? Edmonton Eskimos."

Never mind that my co-worker, I suspect, couldn't name a half dozen players on the Saskatchewan Roughriders' roster. The mere fact that I'm an Eskimos fan in the heart of Rider Nation made me an easy target for friends, co-workers and anyone else who caught wind of my allegiance.

The fact that the Eskimos, with their 13 Grey Cups, had missed the playoffs for the second consecutive year, while the Riders with their two Grey Cups were about to play in the title game, seemed only to add fuel to the fire. It was as if I became the repository for years of pent-up frustration among Rider fans. Call it a perfect storm of Rider Pride and schadenfreude.

The ribbing continued unabated this year. A few weeks ago, after the Eskimos lost to the Riders 55-9 — the second-worst loss in Eskimos' history — a friend offered up the following: "What's the difference between the Edmonton Eskimos and a compost pile? You don't have to buy a ticket to watch the compost pile stink."

My response, following last weekend's playoff games in which the Eskimos beat Winnipeg and the Riders lost to B.C., is that unlike both the compost pile and the Riders, the Eskimos are still in contention for this year's Grey Cup.

Even my wife, who comes from southern Ontario and has no football allegiance of her own (she's happy when the Eskimos win because I'm happy), asked me one day if perhaps we should allow our newborn daughter to grow up a Riders fan. She felt this would spare her the taunts I've faced since I came to Saskatchewan from Edmonton 14 years ago.

In a word: never. I have my reasons.

My father died of cancer a month before my seventh birthday. I have no recollection of him as a well man, and my memories of our time together are precious and few.

With the exception of rolling around and roughhousing in front of our house — to this day I could point to the exact spot on the front lawn — what strikes me about what I recall of our shared activities is their sedentary nature. Riding in a go-cart together at Disney World. Visiting him in his office at the bakery he owned. Sunday-night poker games with his buddies at our house, The Beachcombers playing on TV.

We shared no games of catch. No trips to the swimming pool. No skating. The first time I held a baseball bat was on the boulevard across the street from my house. My mother taught me to hit a ball because, I learned years later, my father was too sick.

In the last year or two of his life, I suspect he spent a great deal of time in bed and on the couch in our den. There was a television in both rooms. And so, on Nov. 23, 1975, I sat at his side and watched my first football game on television, the Grey Cup.

The Edmonton Eskimos beat the Montreal Alouettes 9-8. It was a bitterly cold day in Calgary, where the game was played. The game was decided in the final minute when the Montreal kicker missed a short field goal; the holder on the attempt had cold hands and mishandled the frozen ball on the snap.

I had never seen my father excited like that before, nor would I ever again. His team had snatched victory from what seemed sure defeat. And that was it, the beginning of my life in football, and my love for the Eskimos.

When I passed Grade 1 in June, 1976, my mother asked me what I wanted as a reward. We went to the sporting goods store after she picked me up on the last day of school, and she bought me a football and kicking tee. I spent all that afternoon outside kicking the ball back and forth.

My father died six weeks later.

My first Grey Cup turned out to be his last. I now see it as both a parting gift to him and a welcoming gift to me from the Eskimos, the team that would give us one of the few things we'll always share.

The Eskimos went on to win five Grey Cups in a row, between 1978 and 1982. I can tell you where each game was played, whom they beat and the final score for every one of those games. The players were my heroes, and the team's success kept something alive between my father and me.

I think he would have been disappointed at missing out on the Eskimos' dynasty by just a couple of years. For a long time, I remember thinking if I could have just 10 minutes with my dad, that would be the first thing I would tell him about.

Today, if I had just 10 minutes, I would introduce him to his granddaughter. She would be wearing her Eskimos hoodie. She looks great in green and gold.

Marc Sheckter lives in Saskatoon.