The League, once veiled in the quiet corners of tradition, has begun to stretch its legs beyond the warm glow of its original gatherings. Red jackets now flutter across time zones. The whispers of ritual and revelry echo from rooftops, backyards, and bars where passports get stamped in bourbon and salt.

As the circle expands, so too does its spirit—literally and figuratively. New members have joined. Men of character and curiosity, each bringing something rare to the table: a story, a spirit, a skill. With every initiation, the League becomes more seasoned, more diverse, and somehow, more unstoppable.

One night in a backyard in Georgia, the League’s flame flared bright. It was the 3rd Annual Ultimate Chicken Wing Showdown. Beneath glowing string lights and the smoky breath of a well-loved grill, twelve sauces were crafted with precision, pain, and passion. Thirteen impartial judges stood ready. What ensued was a clash of flavors, fire, and fearless appetites.

It was there that Archie Glass, the League’s new wing contest champion and a former athlete of some renown, seized glory. His bold, fiery wing recipe broke taste buds and records alike. But the win was only part of the story. It was the camaraderie—the cheers, the roars, the raised glasses- that reminded everyone why the red jackets exist at all.

And as the heat of the wings cooled, and the night settled into spirited laughter, the League looked forward. Plans for 2026 began to take shape, passed from glass to glass like sacred prophecy. They will drink atop the rooftops of Barcelona, their toasts rising with the city’s rhythm and coastal breeze. Beneath the ancient stones of Kraków, they will descend into cellars older than the countries they came from, tasting the history one pour at a time. And then, under the moonlit sway of Rio de Janeiro’s beaches, a bonfire will glow as music wraps around the jackets and tequila dances between grains of sand. Where they go after that, only the jackets know.

The League has never been a place for the ordinary. Each man wears the jacket not just for tradition, but because he brings something essential to the firelight, a spirit, a strength, a spark.

Michael McFarland, the Founder – the man who first summoned the idea with a simple pour and a question that deserved a better answer. His was the original red jacket.

Tony Glass, the Sergeant-at-Arms – the enforcer of vibes, keeper of the peace, and master of the timely pour.

Steven Slotwinski, the Consigliere – the League’s compass on global expansion and cultural diplomacy. International growth? That's his lane.

Alex Johnson, Distribution Lead – a globe-trotting collector of bottles, toasts, and tales.

Todd Salter, the King of Irish Goodbyes (and hellos) – arrives when least expected, leaves when no one’s watching, and somehow makes every moment count.

Kevin O'Leary, Baseball Sage – high school home run record holder, drinks like a champion, analyzes like a scholar.

Brian "Tabletop" O’Hern, a fusion of Irish fire and Tennessee tenacity – if he's at the table, stories are being written.

Liam Glass, the League’s Youngest – balances youthful energy with a palate sharp enough to earn respect from the elders.

Mimmo, the Chef and Tequila Maestro – known by one name only, his flavors linger far beyond the glass.

Lewis Curtwright, Original Member– high-performance cars, high-performance pours, and a passion that revs with every clink.

Archie Glass, Wing Champion and Athlete – his sauce shook the foundation of the League. His spirit keeps it burning.

The Dean Machine Lane, Legendar Snorkeler, and unrelenting UGA Bulldog – loyalty runs deep, whether it's beneath the waves or between the hedges.

The Unknown, a phantom among mortals – some say he’s a myth. All agree: if you’ve seen him pour, you’ll never forget.

Long after the bottles are emptied, and the stories are tucked back into their shadows, the League endures, not in public posts or polished speeches, but in the quiet certainty that something sacred still breathes beneath the surface of ordinary days.

Some say the jackets are a myth, stitched together by whispers and poured over with nostalgia. Others claim they’ve seen the red glint under airport lights, or heard toasts in bars that vanished the next day. But those who’ve felt the air change, who’ve seen the glow behind the porch light, they know.

The League is real. It is movement without sound, ritual without pretense, and fire that refuses to flicker out. Plans will shift. Members will come and go. But somewhere, always, there will be a gathering—a glass raised, a chair pulled out, a flame passed on.

And when the time is right, on a day only known to them, the red jackets will return.

Slencairp Forever!!