Rudi Johnson’s CFL Comeback: A Global Parable of Late-Career Reinvention and Existential Hail Marys

Rudi Johnson and the Curious Case of the Universal Backup Plan
By Our Man in Transit Lounges Everywhere

PARIS—Somewhere between the croissant crumbs at CDG and the lukewarm espresso in Istanbul, I found myself staring at a headline that could only belong to our magnificently deranged century: “Rudi Johnson signs with the Montreal Alouettes.” It was the sort of wire-service burp that makes seasoned correspondents look up from their phones and mutter, “Wait, the running back from Cincinnati? The one who once stiff-armed Ray Lewis into a mid-life crisis? That Rudi Johnson?” Yes, Virginia, that Rudi Johnson—except he’s 44 now, hasn’t logged an NFL carry since the Lehman Brothers Christmas party, and is currently suiting up in a league whose championship trophy looks suspiciously like a prop from a low-budget Star Trek knockoff.

But let us not dwell on the merely athletic. The true marvel here is how Rudi’s late-stage career pivot has become a planetary Rorschach test. In Lagos, an Uber driver told me Johnson’s move proves “you can always reboot, even after America deletes you.” In Singapore, a fintech bro cited it during a pitch about “legacy-system reactivation,” which is MBA-speak for “let’s squeeze one more IPO out of grandpa’s server rack.” And in Kyiv—where people have actual problems—someone shrugged and said, “At least the man still has legs.” Dark, yes, but the Ukrainian shrug is the gold standard of global perspective.

Johnson’s existential plot twist lands at a moment when every institution, from the British monarchy to Silicon Valley Bank, is discovering that “unlimited growth” was just a marketing slogan written by interns on Adderall. His northward migration to Canadian football—a league that pays in loonies, poutine vouchers, and the faint hope of TSN highlight reels—feels less like a comeback than a refugee strategy. Think of it as the sporting equivalent of moving your money to Swiss francs, only with more ice packs and bilingual profanity.

Meanwhile, international audiences watch with the detached fascination usually reserved for American elections or Elon Musk tweets. The French, who consider anything beyond 90 minutes of continuous play a breach of human rights, are baffled that a man would volunteer for three-down football. The Chinese internet has already meme-ified Johnson into “Lǎo Hǔ,” the aging tiger who refuses to admit the jungle has moved on. And the Australians—ever eager to gamble—have opened novelty prop bets on whether he’ll last longer than the Canadian Prime Minister. (Current odds: even.)

What makes the Rudi Johnson saga globally resonant is its brutal honesty about second acts in a world that’s running out of curtain calls. Climate refugees, Afghan interpreters, British pensioners heating canned beans—everyone recognizes the choreography: pack what’s left of your dignity, learn a new anthem, and pretend the view from the cheap seats is just as good. The difference is that Johnson’s exile comes with shoulder pads and a dental plan, which is more than most displaced people get.

Of course, the CFL itself is a geopolitical oddity, subsidized by American TV deals that keep the lights on in Regina and Halifax the way EU agricultural subsidies keep Greek olive farmers from torching Brussels. Johnson is therefore not merely a player; he’s a walking NAFTA clause in cleats. Every handoff he takes quietly balances trade deficits, or at least distracts Canadian viewers from their own housing bubble. In that sense, he’s performing the same function as German LNG terminals—emergency infrastructure for a system that forgot to save the game.

So when the first goose-feather snowflakes swirl over Percival-Molson Stadium this autumn, take a moment to salute Number 32 barreling through a gap designed by a 23-year-old offensive coordinator who was in kindergarten when Johnson made his first Pro Bowl. It’s not nostalgia; it’s live-action globalization. And if he coughs up the football? Well, that’s just the universe reminding us that fumbles, like empires, are inevitable.

In the end, Rudi Johnson’s ledger will list modest yardage and a handful of loonies, but his true stat line is universal: one more proof that the only reliable retirement plan left on Earth is to stay in motion and hope the border guards like your highlight reel.