Bleacher Report - Articles by PackSmack

It's Not So Bad: Bright Spots of the Green Bay Packers Season

PackSmack — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 00:31:00 -0500

(AP Photo/Jim Prisching)

There are few joys more delicious than beating the hated Chicago Bears...except maybe beating them at home and crushing their playoff hopes.

The Green Bay Packers were an outstretched arm from accomplishing this feat. Having played some good football with magnificent interceptions and great catches, the Packers hopes of ruining the Bears season and sweeping their 2008 series against each other was blocked by the Chicago field goal defense on an apparent chip-shot for Packers kicker Mason Crosby.

Dazed by two second-half interceptions by Charles Woodson and Nick Collins, the Packers appeared to be in the drivers seat late in the game. But then the Bears running game found some of the blatant holes in the Packers defense that everyone else has found late in the game this year. They exploited it to tie the game.

Then Green Bay got a big break with a stupid Bears horse-collaring penalty on the kick return and drove down to the Bears 38-yard line where once again the Packers ended coming up short—this time by getting Crosby's field goal blocked.

So close, but yet so far away has turned out to be the theme of this season. This has manifested itself in many ways, but the inability to score late in the fourth quarter while at the same time being unable to stop the opponent in that time frame summarizes a hopeful and disappointing season. The only way it could get worse would be to lose to the win-less and hapless Detroit Lions next weekend.

It is one thing to have a terrible team and a 5-10 record; it is another thing to have a thrilling offense, loads of talent and more promise than payoff.

However, despite the record, this year's team leaves Packer fans with an arm-load of hope instead of the empty futility from teams from the 1980's; this team is different. Disappointed? Yes. Bitter? Unbelievably, no.

This year's team put out an exciting product. Aaron Rodgers stayed healthy and proved himself to be a worthy successor to Brett Favre, Ryan Grant put out some gresat efforts, the Packers receivers showed that they are the best revceiving corps in the NFL, and Charles Woodson played about as well as a defensive back can play and might have had as fine of a season as any DB has had—ever.

And though this author has slammed general manager Ted Thompson repeatedly this season, the likelihood of his departure from his role with the Packers is small. And if he concentrates his resources on getting a solid defensive line, the Packers have every reason to expect to be fierce contenders next year.

So though this season did not go where the Cheesehead nation thought it would, the Packers are only a few short steps away from being a great team. Only this time we won't have to wait 29 years, but only about six meaningless months.

Jaguars-Packers: Jacksonville Smacks Down GB; Ted Thompson's Pudding Is Cooked

PackSmack — Sun, 14 Dec 2008 20:39:00 -0500

The proof is in the pudding. And the pudding that Packers General Manager Ted Thompson has concocted with his own, personal choices of ingredients is fully cooked and ready to taste.

The only problem is that it tastes so bad everybody keeps spitting it out of their mouth, leaving only one question: Is Thompson's devastation, castration, and dismantling of this team finished yet or do we all get to sink even lower, perhaps back to 1980s status?

The Packers showed signs of having a potent scoring attack against the Jaguars, but several critical Aaron Rodgers overthrows put the fork in the offense's ability to extend their second-half lead.

So, instead of applying the death-blow to an average Jacksonville team, the Packers once again let them hang around long enough for the Green Bay defense to fall apart on two late, quick Jacksonville scoring drives.

Has this not been the story all season long? Aside from a few one-sided affairs, the Packers could have won another five or six games. But nothing ever got fixed so that they could compete at a playoff-team level.

Instead they are struggling to end the season as a mediocre team. Perhaps if Thompson had given coach Mike McCarthy enough tools to compete in the NFL some things could have been fixed, but McCarty really has a bad defense to work with, aside from a few bright spots.

As it is now, this team is a few moves from obscurity, but also a few moves from contention with a lot of talent on offense. Ted Thompson has had his time in the kitchen and what he has produced is lousy by any standard. It is bland, disappointing and forgettable.

Unless Packer management wants to return to the tasteless 1980s-form, they had better push Thompson down the road before he can do any more damage to what could be a good team. His own decisions have sealed his own fate and his future cannot include the Green Bay Packers.

New Lambeau Mistique...How Can Packers Win at Home?

PackSmack — Sun, 07 Dec 2008 19:09:00 -0500

(AP Photo/Morry Gash)

Aaron Rodgers is exciting; Donald Driver is exhilarating; Greg Jennings is fantastic; Charles Woodson is nearly immortal; Green Bay plays thrilling games and the fans have fun. It's all good...except they can't win.

With many successful displays of certain aspects of the game and an incredible turnover-forcing ratio, what the Packers lack, besides a pass rush, or the ability to stop the run, is consistency. Indeed, they have the ability to make the big play and made many of them against the visiting Houston Texans, but you can't establish dominance against another mediocre team if you can't convert on third down, which the Packers struggled to do all day.

With a decent running game, lethal receivers and episodes of brilliance by Aaron Rodgers, the problem has to come down to game plan and/or execution, which could be a reflection on Rodgers' own inconsistency. What else could it be?

I mean, the Packers have played good football at times, which was, once again, almost good enough to win. But in what is becoming a habit for the green and gold, they cannot find a way to put an opponent away. And in the process, the new Lambeau Mistique for them is how the Green Bay Packers can win at home; or anywhere else.

This season is now a wash; Green Bay will not be playing post-season football. They will likely put up decent numbers in the remaining games, but somebody will need to start coming up with some answers. In fact, Coach Mike McCarthy's very job could be in question, for, at best, the Packers could finish an unacceptable 8-8. Not so long ago a Packers coach was fired for that posting that very record.

It looks like the wisdom of Ted Thompson and McCarthy's gamble to deal away a prodigal Brett Favre is becoming painfully apparent, but even with Favre, the defensive line incompetencies are not answered. So maybe a fuller examination of Thompson and McCarthy's overall competence as leaders finally needs to be evaluated. Something has to give, because the Green Bay Packers can't even beat a mediocre, warm-weather team on a 6 degree day at Lambeau Field.

The old Lambeau Mistique is gone.

Ted Thompson Is the Most Hated Man in Wisconsin

PackSmack — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 07:56:50 -0400

Jeffrey Dahmer was a beast. Ed Gein was a monster.

And if Green Bay Packers general manager Ted Thompson does not pull his head out of the frozen sand and keep Brett Favre from getting dished to another team, he, too, is going to be on the state's very short "Infamous List".

Ask Dan Devine about what life is like on that list. Or ask his dog.

There simply are no excuses, reasons, or justifications that would have Brett Favre wearing a jersey other than a Packers jersey. None.

I am not sure where Ted Turner (or Thompson, or whatever his name is) comes from, but for him to let Brett Favre go to another team is like lifting his leg on the entire Cheesehead Nation and taking a whizz.

And that is not acceptable in Wisconsin. Not when a player like Favre gave everything he had for 16 years in Green Bay and is the very embodiment of the Packers.

If Thompson deals Brett Favre to another NFL team, he is going to earn the top spot as "The Most Hated Man in Wisconsin," hands down. No Chicago Bear will even have to run for election.

It would be the biggest stab in the back to every citizen of the state since Lew Alcindor changed his name to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and went to the Los Angeles Lakers.

Or maybe since President Clinton's Secretary of Defense, Wisconsin's own Les Aspin, refused to authorize the use of tanks in support of a mission in Somalia because we "might alienate the United Nations." Of course, the result was that he got 18 soldiers killed in Mogadishu in the "Black Hawk Down" incident.

Perhaps Ted Thompson could take a few lessons from the inglorious pasts of other shameful Wisconsonites. Remember the "Mogadishu Mile," that unprotected one-mile-long run that U.S. soldiers had to take down the streets of the hostile city while being shot at from every direction continuously the whole way?

Well, suppose we offer Thompson the "Green Bay Gauntlet" instead?

Sure, he could start running at Lambeau field and then try to make it to any state line where he can cross into freedom. Of course, Cheeseheads unhappy with Thompson's treachery in dealing Favre would be free to practice their marksmanship in this event.

Perhaps Thompson could do as nice of a job dodging bullets as the U.S. soldiers, who were put in a terrible position by fearLESs ASPIN, did. And if he gets running along and begins to think the heat is getting too much, the bullets too close, he can always choose to go "another direction;" he seems to think that is a good idea nowadays.

What if Aaron Rodgers—Ted's brainchild, whom Thompson hopes will prove him to be a genius—gets hurt? Then what?

Then we switch the channel and watch Brett Favre play for the Buccaneers or something? NEGATIVE, Mr. Thompson. FAVRE IS A PACKER. Forever. Unlike you.

Don't make them find your head in Jeffrey Dahmer's freezer or your skin around Ed Gein's lamp. Do the right thing. Or get your running shoes on, and grab a bottle of water...

The Day I Launched Brett Favre's Career

PackSmack — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 10:02:07 -0400

A pivotal Green Bay Packers game is on the NFL Network right now. It is the game against the Cincinnati Bengals on Sept. 20, 1992. It is the game where Green Bay Packers quarterback Don Majkowski got hurt and Brett Favre came in to relieve him...and won it, of course.

What is significant about this game is that I realized something that I never knew...I had a significant role in launching Brett Favre's football career.

You see, there was this kid that we played against in high-school football named Tim Krumrie from Mondovi, Wisconsin. He was a sophomore when we were juniors. Mondovi came to my high school that year to take on our mighty Chieftains.

Of course, we beat the crap out of them and they went on to make the playoffs, while we went undefeated and we did not make the playoffs. Plus, they were in a higher division that we were...go figure.

Well, I remember Tim Krumrie. I was the backup kicker that year for kickoffs. Terry Kindschy was the first-string kicker. (Of course, Mark Rogness kicked extra-points and field goals.)

Anyway, Kindschy got banged up during the game at one point and was out for a while. We scored and then were going to kickoff. Coach Duane Matye ('The Duke') came and found me comfortably asleep, probably, on the bench, under the bleachers, or maybe chatting with the opposing team's cheerleaders....who knows.

I know that I had not expected to play unless quarterback Jeff Olson was going to get himself hurt, which was unlikely, or the guy who kicked off got hurt which also was unlikely, but now was a reality.

So Duke tells me to get in there and do the kickoff. Alright, I will. What he failed to mention, however, and which should have been included in the interests of fair disclosure, and out of respect for humanity, was that on Mondovi's kickoff-return team, the responsibility of blocking the kicker fell on one large beast of a human being named Tim Krumrie, who out-weighed me by an easy 60, well, more like 100 lbs.

So I get out there on the field and set the ball up, just like I had countless times on Saturday mornings after football games while I was growing up. During those times, however, it had always played out much differently. I would imagine the crowds, the intensity of the game, and all that was at stake; all, of course, just in the mind of a fourth-grade boy, or whatever.

I never saw it playing out like it actually did. So where was I?

Oh, yes, the kickoff against Mondovi (you will understand why my memory lapse in a moment...) I get out there, hear the ref's whistle and get ready for my first kickoff in a varsity game. I take off toward the ball, sync up my steps and plant my foot into the ball. It was a decent enough kick; less than a Mark Rogness or Greg Laufenberg might have done, but a respectable high-school kickoff, nonetheless.

So I figured my job was about done. Surely Hugh Leasum, Brian Matye, or someone else would chase down the ball carrier and my role was almost done. So I hustle down the field, a few steps behind everybody else.

It never crossed my mind that there would be one person who was designated to take out the kicker. I never thought about that. But then it began to dawn on me, as I slowly started to realize that there was a person in front of me who seemed to be adjusting his body position and movement to track exactly where I was headed.

I began to get a hint that he was targeting me. Oh, alright, someone is trying to get a bead on me. No problem, I'll just angle away from him a little and let him try to pick someone else up. My plans did not work. The more I adjusted, the more the blocker adjusted. And then before you know it, I was getting very close to this person.

The final seconds are a bit of a blur...or, a better description would be nightmare.

By the time I realized that there was going to be a collision, it was too late to do anything about it. The last thing I remember there was this hulk of a mountain positioned there in a textbook, squared-up blocking position.

I can still see Tim Krumrie's head, intense eyes, mouth and mouth-guard behind that birdcage facemask as his forearms, with clenched fists drew in and up, and his body came forward towards me.

What happened next can only be described as pure violence. There was crushing physical contact. I felt like I had ran headlong into an oncoming car. I am sure that my feet left the earth.

Forearms and elbows and shoulders met my facemask and began to push it back into my face. Of course once it all made contact with my face in a twisting, backward movement, my two-bar facemask and rotating helmet then came in contact with my nice black athletic glasses. The frames on those glasses, though durable, are not nearly as soft and rubbery as they might have been hailed to be back in the day.

No. In fact, they were very, very hard. I did not know at the time that they were digging into my eyebrow, or that the blood would be starting to flow from the measure of flesh that Tim Krumrie was extracting from my body for violating his personal space by attempting to pass through it.

You can understand my surprise, though. Because for all those years when I had been a kid and had gone to the hallowed high-school football field on crisp, fall Saturday mornings after the glorious gladiator matches the night before (you see, I lived right across the street from said field) and set up kickoffs in imaginary football games, I had mistakenly believed that this field was mine; ours, the mighty Chieftains'.

But no, this part of the field actually belonged to the human wall, Tim Krumrie from Mondovi. Who'd have thought that? Who could have known? So where was I again...? Oh, yes, I was in mid-air, my head and body having been violently launched due west when I was supposed to be going east.

When I landed on my back, a considerable distance behind the place where Krumrie had initiated his assault on the kicker, I do not remember if I was actually looking out the ear-hole of my helmet or not.

It was probable, because my glasses were twisted somewhere up between the top of my head and the upper-inside of my helmet and blood was running into my eyes and I could not see a thing.

I also don't remember if I called for my mommy, but that is likely as well.

What I do remember is that Tim Krumrie's wrath had not been yet appeased and I caught a tiny glimpse of him as he stood there above me, waiting for me to get back up; he was probably foaming at the mouth and uttering guttural, in-human noises.

Neither do I remember if his fangs were protruding through his mouth guard, but I am pretty sure that they were. At the moment, though, I was not particularly interested in getting back up. No, my only interest was in simply staying alive. It never crossed my mind to stand back up and go make a tackle. Tim Krumrie had removed that, and most everything else, from my consciousness.

Well, I don't know who made the tackle on that play, all I remember was who had made one particular block on one particular kicker. After the play was over, I somehow found my way over to the sideline, though it was not by sight.

Eventually I retrieved my safety glasses from inside my helmet and got a towel on my bleeding cut. Nobody knew what happened because I was just an insignificant back-up kicker and backup quarterback in an intense battle where I played no role. Tim Krumrie has no idea what happened to me except that his man had not made the tackle.

But I am certain that that play solidified in Krumrie's mind just exactly what it took to execute the perfect football collision. I am certain that that play was for Tim Krumrie the defining moment when all the pieces came together. That play brought to him the pure clarity of what it took physically and mentally to achieve perfection on the football field.

I had been the instrument that was used for him to understand and realize football perfection. Of course, we beat the Mondovi Buffaloes and went undefeated that year.

As far as the playoffs went, though, as mentioned, they made the playoffs and we did not. It would take us another undefeated season to actually make the playoffs and win the Wisconsin State Football Championship in our division, where I did not have to play an insignificant role. And I did not have to teach Tim Krumrie any more about football perfection.

As for Krumrie, who went on to play for the Wisconsin Badgers and the Cincinnati Bengals, he had two more significant plays to make. The first was when he snapped his own leg on national television against the 49ers in the Super Bowl.

And the second, which I just became aware of today, was when he snapped the Green Bay Packer's Don Majkowski's ankle in a game in Green Bay on Sept. 20, 1992, which brought Brett Favre into the game in relief and ushered in the Brett Favre era.

I won't take all the credit for launching the career of Brett Favre by helping to perfect the football abilities of the defender who injured the one thing standing in Favre's way, Don Majkowski. No, that would be unrealistic.

But imagine how things might have turned out had I kicked the ball and then laid the lumber on Tim Krumrie on that fall day in 1976; laid him out, laid him up, destroyed his confidence, ruined his career, and kept him out of the fateful game at Lambeau which allowed Favre to come in and begin his heroics.

Instead of landing in the Hall of Fame, Favre's greatest claim to glory might have been squeezing out the best under-arm fart of anybody on the sidelines.

No, it is clearly my humility, my nice-guy attitude, and my love for the Green Bay Packers that carried the day. Yeah, I could have laid the lumber onto Krumrie...uh-huh, I sure could have...and the scar still visible on my eyebrow bears witness to the fact that I didn't.

Yup, I took one for my team, the Osseo-Fairchild Chieftains, for my Green Bay Packers, and for Brett "Flavious" Favre. Yes sir, that was the day that I got launched by Tim Krumrie, which helped launch Brett Favre's football career.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Sacrifice: Brett Favre's Last Ball Given to Army Amputee

PackSmack — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 08:47:58 -0500

Giving of yourself for higher goals and purposes is always the high road. Brett Favre proved that for 270-some straight games for the Green Bay Packers. Playing through pain, broken bones, cracked things, sprained things, coughing up blood, he put himself out there for a higher purpose, for the benefit of his team, not himself.

Granted, football is not the ultimate purpose in life, but the character one develops during the process can certainly be related to the disciplines, attitudes, commitment, desire, and teamwork that one experiences while practicing, preparing for and playing the game. And solid character is one of the purposes of life.

Favre continually sacrificed his body to relentless defensive assaults, and did whatever else he could, to help his team win. We understand that type of commitment and probably all share the same kind of admiration, appreciation and respect for him for such faithfulness.

Lt. Col. Greg Gadson also knows what sacrifice is. The U. S. Army officer lost both legs to a roadside bomb in Iraq last May. He put himself out there for his country, and it cost him more than most NFL players or any of us ever have to pay.

Gadson, who went to West Point, played football there with New York Giants' receivers coach Mike Sullivan. Sullivan and head coach Tom Coughlin brought the courageous Army officer in to address the team before the Washington Redskins game. Having already lost their first two games, both coaches were hoping that Gadson would be able to give the struggling Giants some needed perspective and inspiration. It worked. New York went out and beat the Redskins and turned their season around.

So what did the Lt. Col say to them to spark such a turn around? He told them to: 1) concentrate on the mission, 2) never give up, and 3) always believe in each other. We cannot know what it was like to be in the Giants' locker room that morning, looking upon a soldier who's own sacrifice makes anything one can do on a football field seem insignificant, but we can see what such perspective and inspiration does for a group of men who have had that experience.

The night before the Super Bowl, Lt. Col. Gadson once again addressed the team. This time he spoke of, "pride, poise, team and belief in each other." Of course we now know that the Giants listened once again, and went out and won it all.

So things like mission, never giving up, belief in one another, team, pride, poise not only work for a war-zone Army unit, but they work for the guys in a huddle as well. Is it any surprise that Vince Lombardi himself learned much of his football coaching philosophy while coaching at West Point? These traits make you indomitable.

And once committed to these common noble values, the sacrifice of your own things, or yourself, for the benefit of the team is part of the personal price you pay for success in a mutual effort. Favre proved that. Gadson proved it more.

And now the New York Giants' Corey Webster has proven it once again. Webster, who intercepted now-retired Favre's final pass in the NFC Championship game, which then led to a Giants win, has demonstrated sacrifice like Favre and like Gadson.

In a moving display of respect, honor and appreciation for what Gadson gave for all of us Americans, Webster has given that iconic ball, legendary quarterback Brett Favre's very last, to double-amputee, Lt. Col. Greg Gadson.

Sacrifice is not only impressive, honorable and heroic—it's contagious.

Archie Manning: King of the NFL

PackSmack — Sat, 01 Mar 2008 04:10:58 -0500

He didn't look like a king. He was usually scrambling for his life from salivating, hungry defensive linemen who always knew it was feast day. Though they tried hard, his offensive linemen were always outmatched, like boys playing against men. They couldn't help him, they couldn't keep his safe.

All the land he really asked for was a three-foot square chunk of turf in the pocket to pass from, but he rarely found it; and never could he stay there for long. He was sacked more times than Carthage.

When he came out of college, he was the Matt Leinart or Vince Young of his day. He was The Franchise. Trouble was, he played on a franchise team just a few years out of the gate in the NFL and the learning curve for a new team was steep. Impossibly steep.

Instead of shining like the star everyone knew he was, on a weekly basis he was battered and beat up like he lived in a cage with Mike Tyson. Hardly able to put his team in the playoffs alone, it took everything he had to put his feet on the floor on Monday mornings.

It was troubling to watch. Here was this hero with so much potential but week after miserable week he was always at the bottom of an avalanche. It was sad. Many people said, "Poor fella. What a waste."

And such was his career. No opportunities to showcase his real talent because his teams could never contend. Every year ended with disappointment; certainly discouragement and disillusion also must have raised their voices. Though the man plodded on, there never was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; in fact, there was never even a rainbow, just a hurricane every Sunday for many torturous years. And then the man limped away.

Sometimes life offers you surprises in ways you didn't expect them. You put your efforts and energies into a purpose but the by-product of your work ends up being more rewarding. I mean, when you are digging a hole, aren't you also building a hill?

Well, the king was building a hill, though he did not know it. He knew his three skinny boys liked to play in the dirt, but he didn't recognize it as a hill that his efforts had created. Those boys, the princes, loved the things their dad loved. They emulated him. They looked up to him. Though he was everybody else's punching bag, and nobody knew he was a king, he was always a hero to the princes. He patiently taught them his craft. He worked with them, encouraged them.

When they got knocked down, he told them to get back up; after all, wasn't that really his own true specialty? Perhaps no one had been knocked down more.

And up they got. And up, and up. It wasn't long and the king was starting to forget about some of the disappointment of the NFL, the success of his boys was easing some pain. As the boys got older and the game got more intense, the king realized that it was not about him any more, it was about them; his heart was renewed.

All three princes were spectacular. They had the king's genes. He lived through them at their games in other ways as well. The victories were sweeter than ones he could remember from when he played high school and college ball, they were somehow more fulfilling.

Of course, any father can tell you that the success of his son is a richer drink than success himself. Perhaps that is because the success of the son says that not only was the son successful, but the son was able to be successful because the father was successful at enabling the son. So, it's doubled; or something.

But in the king's case, it was doubled, and doubled again, and doubled a third time. The boys were great, just like their dad. Then one went down with an injury, he would not play again. But the trend was already established, he, too was a chip off the old block.

The second prince carried on and would eventually be named the greatest player in the greatest game. That game was vindication for the king. It was sweeter than all the bitterness from all the years of his own career. It washed away every collision, every bruise, every loss, every failure. He was clean again, rejuvenated, and he finally realized that he had totally misinterpreted his life's purpose. He wasn't meant to find success in the NFL, he was meant to find success as a dad.

So this past month, the New York Giants fans were happy for their team, and rightly so, for the Giants played with lion-hearts. But for the king, this was deja-vu all over again; it was abundant, bountiful joy; doubled, and then doubled once more.

In fact, not only did his third son follow the second to the greatest of heights, but it was the king's coronation as well. It revealed and announced that indeed he was a king because his boys were the princes. The hill of dirt had become a mountain and they were all standing on its top, three boys and a king.

Giants fans were proud that day.

But nobody, nobody on this planet was more proud or more deserving than the King of the NFL, Archie Manning.

NFL Withdrawal: Golf is NOT a Sport!

PackSmack — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 19:36:44 -0500

It tries to sneak up on you in the offseason, not paying attention. You are deep into the February blues, trying to find a reason to go on after your NFL team failed to win the Super Bowl...again.

Nothing much matters; the weather is lousy. You know it will be a long six months until a new football season. You wonder if you can hang on that long. Your defenses are down and though you don't know it, you are vulnerable.

The first strike comes when you are scrolling through the channels on Sunday afternoon during what is, by all rights, football game time. But, of course, the season is over. Even the Pro Bowl is in the books, though for the life of you, you can't remember who won.

There are no football games on, but as you cruise to one of your familiar football channels, out of habit mostly, you realize that there appears to be some excitement happening. You stop for a moment to see what it is—your first mistake.

You see the green, green inviting grass of Pebble Beach or some lush golf course in Arizona or Hawaii. People seem to be having a good time and they are acting like there is some drama going on. Perhaps this is something that is significant and that matters. Your curiosity is piqued and then come the Rubicon of temptations: You are tempted to actually care about golf.

I am here to save you from the cruel fate that awaits you should you render your heart to the green seductions and false promises. If you can just get the clarity of mind to quickly move on to the next channel immediately, you will have spared yourself from shame and humiliation.

If you stay, if you give in, if you let your heart be lulled into the sweet delusion that golf is actually a sport, you will be lost. And when you are lost, it will take you to places and you will do things that even your friends didn't think you would sink to doing.

You will only begin to recover when training camp starts again in July, and your awakening will only come through the embarrassing admission that you stooped so far as to enjoy something that was not real. Your friends will turn their backs to you and go talk to their real football friends instead, leaving you standing there alone, in shame.

For you have violated sacred sports territory, you have called a sport that which is not a sport. You have betrayed true sports fans everywhere. And you have forgotten the obvious truths about golf that reveal that it is not a sport at all.

Golf's Disqualifiers

If you have already crossed that subtle, tempting, Rubicon line, let me review for you why golf is not a sport:

1. First of all, you know those fans that you see on tv? The ones who look like they are having a good time and care about golf? Fake. They're all fake fans. They are all paid actors and actresses. All of them.

Why do you think they have some of the golf tournaments in the winter out in California? Duh! It's where all the actors are! The PGA, Nike, Buick and the like all pitch in to fit the bill to bring in these actors and tell them to look like they're having a good time.

Of course, they're not, you know. In fact it is so boring to them that they can hardly keep the corners turned on their smiles for more than a few moments. Directors learned this long ago, which is why a broadcast will move from green 12 to green 15 to green seven to a tee-off on three, all withing a few moments.

It's because the actors are having such a rotten time that they can only hide it for a camera shot every once in awhile. Yup.

2. Still not convinced? Well, let me ask you this: Have you ever seen someone hit a golf ball? You have? Good. Now have you ever seen a professional hit a golf ball? You have? OK. Now, exactly how fast was that ball moving when he hit it? What's that, it wasn't moving at all? Which is exactly my point! How can golf be a sport when the ball they are trying to hit is sitting still on a tee?!

Does Barry Bonds get to hit a baseball from a tee? Heavens no, he has to try to hit one that is traveling 100 mph, and moving up, down, left or right as well! So where is the challenge in hitting a STILL ball? Oooh, pretty challenging!

3. And then there's this, "Shhh, quiet now, he's about to putt for a birdie." Everybody is supposed to BE QUIET as this fellow is trying to sink a putt and beat the guys he is golfing with. What the heck is up with that? Is that how things are in the real world? Absolutely not!

When the Green Bay Packers' Brett Favre is calling signals in Chicago do Bears fans say, "Shhh, quiet now, he's starting to call signals?" You got to be kidding me, right? No way does that ever happen. Not in anything that is actually a sport.

Do you remember back in the day when Larry Bird went up to the free-throw line one time in some other city? When he brought the ball up and looked at the basket the entire fan section behind it pulled out full-length posters of some model in a swimsuit. There were hundreds of them all waving around trying to distract Larry Bird. He even laughed.

I don't remember if he made the shot or not, he probably did because he always stabbed you in the heart when you challenged him. But the point is that prohibiting spectators from expressing themselves is, well, it's just un-American.

In fact, the best part of the first Jackass movie was when the guys took a blow-horn to the golf course, hid in the nearby bushes, and shrieked it every time some golf monkey was trying to tee off! It was hilarious! One hero even went to far as to hit a golf ball at the hecklers. Over a little bit of noise. Imagine if real professional athletes responded that way in real sports!

4. Besides the ridiculousness of hitting a stopped ball, the other side of the golf shot is this: NOBODY'S trying to STOP them! They don't have a defender or pitcher trying to take their head off. They are standing there at their leisure, waiting for who knows what to take their shot whenever they dang well feel like it. No pressure, no defense, no inhibitors.

So where's the sport? It can't be called a sport, it's just simple narcissism.

5. The names are just wrong! You have a guy named Tiger, don't you expect him to line up right next to Urlacher on defense? Or maybe he could slash his way down the ice and hammer defensemen on his way to scoring a goal? Perhaps he's a boxer going the full-15 with Lennox Lewis?

Sorry, wrong dimension. This Tiger is skinny and he hits a little white ball further down the grass. No claws, no teeth, no blood-curling roar. Just 'plink.' That's all.

And the Shark? Nope, no bite, just a nice hat.

Suggested (Mandatory) Changes

Although the list could go on and on, rather than make it exhaustive, perhaps we could suggest some changes to this pastime that, if applied, would then make it a real, actual sport.

1. Institute Tackle Golf. Yes, that is right. You heard it here first. Can't you just see it: "Bobcat Forrest is about to tee off. He looks down range, pulls back, ooohh, he's smeared from the blindside by the foursome coming up from hole five! That's gotta hurt 'ol Bobcat. Looks like he'll need the stretcher to take him away again today."

Don't tell me that you wouldn't like that. Guys from other holes sneaking back to wipe you out, guys from your own foursome turning on you. Heck, you could have some roaming marauders sent out by the clubhouse striking from the bushes or hiding in trees. Maybe as long as you're off your golf cart you are open game.

I'll bet hitting that ball wouldn't be so easy then would it? And if you need to pad up, that's alright. You might even have the other guys in your party block for you while you are trying to hit it.

2. Bumping Up. Here's an idea that is long overdue. How about instead of waiting around forever for the party in front of you to mosey down the course before you hit the ball, you hit your ball and try to hit them?

If you hit a guy in the party in front of you, you get to bump up and go ahead of that party! It's the perfect idea. That way Mr. StupidPants won't just be taking his dear, sweet old time while he's playing the course, he'll be hurrying and watching over his shoulder as well. With enough good shots, you can be out in front of everybody.

A corollary to this rule is that golf course maintenance workers, mowers, and the like are objects that you get rewarded for hitting. Hit the tractor, get a free drink. Hit the guy driving the tractor, take a stroke off your score on that hole.

3. Mulligan-Mulligan-Oh, Crap. How many strikes do you get in baseball? Three. How many downs do you get in football? Four. So let's apply that to golf and go a conservative three balls from every lay. Hit the original ball. Don't like it? Hit another. Still don't like it? Hit one more. Seems only fair. Then you gotta decide there and then which one you are going to play.

But there is, a catch. Any other player can hit your mulligans. Like the guy coming the opposite way down another fairway, he can step over and smack your mulligan anywhere he wants to and you still have to play it. We'll use yellow, green, or orange balls for mulligans, so that other golfers know which balls are fair game.

4. Here is a picture of my nephews. They are in a pasture called Pebble Beach Golf Course. Both nephews are from Wisconsin, one from the western part of the state and one from Green Bay (Wrightstown, actually.) These fellas, like all Cheeseheads, were raised to know that you can find three things in a pasture:; cows, cowpies, and occasionally, deer.

What you don't see in this particular picture of the pasture, er, golf course, is that there are often more deer on this course than people. Lots of them. Herds. And nobody bothers them at all.

Now there are some things about California that Cheeseheads can tolerate...well some things. But letting deer roam freely and leisurely around a golf course is not one of them. Most certainly not!

While taking this picture my nephews had half a mind to busting out their rifles right there and then. It would be worth the trip to jail to spot a deer in that far wood line, take him down with an .06, walk over and drag him into the fairway, and gut him out right there on Pebble Beach Golf Course. (People take themselves farrr to seriously at Pebble Beach.)

So here's the final new golf rule: Hunting on golf courses is mandatory. You must carry firearms in your golf cart and you must at least chase deer down the fairway with high-caliber bullets.

If the golf world would be willing to accept these rule suggestions, it could then possibly attain the status of actually being a sport. But do not be deceived, it is still remains only something that sashays by until football gets here again!!!

(Is it the end July yet?)

New England Patriots Win One Title: "Most Hated"

PackSmack — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 12:29:46 -0500

The New England Patriots have been declared 2007-2008's Most Hated Team in Football by a majority of voters in PackSmack's first annual inscrutable scientific poll.

Gathering 54 percent of the hate vote, the ill-will about the cheating organization seems convincingly wide-spread.

A deeper look into the vote reveals even more when the Patriots' competition is considered.

In order to win the title of The Most Hated Team in Football, New England had to actually be hated more than the despicable Dallas Cowboys and the low-life Chicago Bears. That is some pretty stiff competition. But New England was up for the task.

The Cowboys were only able to garner 19 percent of the vote, which is disproportionate to the level of scorn their annual arrogance actually arouses in fans from other teams. So once again, the Cowboys are disappointing.

And though the Chicago Bears mustered a mere 25 percent of the overall hate votes, this in no way should be indicative that their place at the very bottom of the universal food chain has changed. It has not. In terms of class and order, plankton is still echelons above them. Perhaps, rather, it was a case of mercy and a testimony to the personal character of the voters in that they did not want to kick the poor Bears when they were down. What's the point, right? (Besides obligation, natural order, compulsion and the communication of true cheesehead family values to future generations, and all.)

Or perhaps it was more like the Bears played so badly this year that many people forgot that they were in the NFL. Kind of like they were so insignificant as to have lost their place in the minds of football fans. It seems from the voting that that fans welcome the thought of there not being a Chicago; it is a pleasant thought indeed.

We think, though, that even though the Bears did not win the Most Hated Team in Football this year, that they could wear the title, Most Hated Team in Football, Runner-Up. That would give them something to make hats and t-shirts out of since things like NFC North Division Champions and the like are already taken. Or perhaps they could consolidate this past year's accomplishments with the voting results and make a motto something like, 'Humiliated, Hated and Worthless,' or 'Delivering Another Year of Futility and Ire,' or 'Wasting Everybody's Time Once Again.' We think such slogans are worthy and appropriate and encourage the Bears to adopt the one that fits.

But as for the Patriots, they are the hands-down winner this year. They are The Most Hated Team in Football. Such a title does not happen by accident. It is earned. And it is in sharp contrast to the titles that New England fans were themselves giving to their team such as, 'The Greatest Team Ever,' and other laughable nonsense. Hard not to chuckle now, isn't it? Go ahead, laugh out loud, loud enough for the big-mouths in New England to hear you. Of course that wouldn't have to be that loud because it is pretty quiet up there these days. Why just the other day a pin dropped and they could hear it all the way down to the Meadowlands.

In fact the only other sounds being made up in that region are the repeated noises of Ted Kennedy incessantly kissing Barak Obama's back side. Yeah, Kennedy must figure that this is his last and only shot at becoming Vice-President, and is working pretty hard to suck up to the Democratic front-runner. When you think about it, it is kind of appropriate, isn't it? Kennedy from Massachusetts = New England Patriot fan and Obama from Illinois = Chicago Bears fan. That would make it a Patriot-Bears ticket.

And we already know from our PackSmack poll how people feel about these teams.

My money's on McCain; by a landslide.

Super Bowl XLII: Karma Denies Bill Belichick

PackSmack — Mon, 04 Feb 2008 14:46:09 -0500

You can't fool karma.

You can sneak behind your authority's back, you can scam your friends, you can take advantage of your brothers, you can lead by deception, you can hide in the shadows and fool everybody else, but you aren't going to fool karma.

Some men will abandon all principles and ethics to craft their way into utopia. The problem is, utopia isn't seized by con-artists and hucksters.

Rather, it is granted to those who best exemplify its values. Such values are: toughness, discipline, effort, execution of the fundamentals, teamwork, focus, tenacity, courage, responsibility, bravery, determination and complete commitment.

Such Utopian values are also the type of values characteristic of Green Bay Packer coach Vince Lombardi, after whom the NFL Super Bowl trophy is named.

Therefore, with such a name and legacy attached to the trophy, it seems entirely appropriate and fitting that it should be handed to a team that exemplifies the values Lombardi stood for.

This year, the New York Giants earned that Lombardi trophy because they did things the right way.

Apparently, New England coach Bill Belichick must have run out of illegally-obtained video tape on the New York Giants defense because he had no answer for the vicious pass rush with which the Giants assaulted Patriot quarterback Tender Tom Brady.

When Brady wasn't getting his face planted into the University of Phoenix Stadium turf, he was throwing at people's feet or to places where there was no receiver at all. Yes, he felt the pressure.

Perhaps video tape alone cannot stop a pass rush.

Who ever heard of a helmet catch? What kind of a play was that where Eli Mannning escaped from the grasp of several Patriot pass-rushers, and then tossed the ball down field so his receiver could catch it on his helmet?

Is that normal? Well, not according to the receiver, David Tyree, who said the following about the play, "This was all supernatural."

It wasn't just a talented catch after a fortunate escape, though certainly those things were there. It was karma getting involved so that blatant, under-handed cheating Belichick would not receive the reward of being welcomed into utopia.

So at the end of the day, it is the New York Giants, winning by the honest type of values that Lombardi stood for, who are admitted into utopia, while convicted cheater Bill Belichick is denied.

Belichick's party is not over, however, as the NFL Commissioner has been asked to meet with members of Congress over Belichick's cheating antics.

Though karma would not give Belichick what he could not earn, perhaps Belichick, who should have been banned from the NFL, will find that karma will instead give him what he has earned.

Smack!

Packers Fallout: Football Is a Wicked Mistress

PackSmack — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 00:04:18 -0500

She's heartless and cruel. She's cold. But you will do anything to have her glance your way.

Men will pay high prices to be able to dance with her. They will give every ounce of their effort, they will train, run, strain, sweat, battle, spend, sacrifice; they will forsake all. Some will cheat. They want just to be in that dance.

Men will surround their lives around her beauty. They will talk about her, they will write about her, they will stand up for her, they will stop at nothing, they will defend her honor.

But she will not defend theirs—no, she will ruthlessly use theirs up, and when they are fallen on the battlefield, she will cast it aside, then stoically move on to another.

Though you see that she has done such a thing in the past, yet with every new year, you get your hopes up again, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.

You think that you are not a fool. You see great reasons for hope. You are charmed by this ray of light, by that glimmer of sunshine and stare willingly into it until you have blinded yourself and have conveniently forgotten the shattering pain from last year.

And then you start convincing yourself all over again, as you watch her move, that this is the year, this is the season that it will all come true. You see things about her that justify your belief. You are surprised and delighted when things go well, for they confirm what you now know to be true about her, that she loves you and that this time, she will be faithful to you.

You start to see the stars lining up, things are falling in place, yes, she loves you indeed and you will dance together a dance that will be written up for the ages. You are smitten.

This certainly is the year; you know it. You begin investing your heart into her. You hand her your emotions and she rewards you with a wink. You tell her how you believe in her and she takes a step your way. You show her your loyalty, your faithfulness, your fealty and she lets you stand in her shadow.

You share with others how it is real and true, and then she lets you see her smile. Indeed it is the most beautiful of smiles; there are none others that compare. You know that she is smiling at you, that she will reward your loyalty and admiration.

And then she promises you the dance. Or did she? Perhaps she did not speak it, perhaps it was only inside your head. Perhaps you only thought it, but it must have passed from her lips; you are not sure. But however it occurred, you somehow knew that you would be that most fortunate one, that of all the other guys, you alone would be the one that she would be dancing with forever.

You walk on the clouds over toward her, closer to her promising, out-stretched hand. You are beaming with pride, knowing that you are the envy of all the rest, some who have fallen, others who have been eliminated and still others who have all but given up.

You reach for her hand and it is then in your grasp, at last! It is softer than you had imagined, lighter than you had dreamed. You are thrilled like never before. You have believed, you have been faithful and it is all about to happen, this beautiful mistress will finally be yours and yours alone!

The music begins to play, you reach to draw her closer, to draw her to yourself, to begin the dance. But she doesn't budge, she doesn't let herself be pulled into toward you. It is only then that you see that she also has, in her other hand, the hand of another pursuer! You are in disbelief! You cannot understand how she could give in to your wooings and yet be attached to another.

With the next beat of the music, and painful beat of your heart, she rips her hand out of yours, spins away and begins dancing with the other suitor.

You see her out there with him, fully engaged, throwing her head back in laughter, thrilled to be in his arms but she never even glances back your way.

You are crushed, again. How could you be such a fool? you ask yourself. It is terrible, you are in agony. You are sick to your stomach, much worse than last year.

As for him, you don't even give him a look; he's nobody, he doesn't matter. It was her you were after, it was she you believed in, it was you both together that you wanted and it would have happened, if only....

Yes, football is a wicked mistress. She's heartless, and cruel. She's so very, very cold.

The Voice of Fate: Packers Fall in NFC Championship Game

PackSmack — Mon, 21 Jan 2008 17:36:20 -0500

Well, that stinks.

The only people at Lambeau Field who didn't know that the Packers were supposed to win the NFC Championship and go to the Super Bowl were the New York Giants.

The frozen chosen who attended the game knew it. The greater Cheesehead nation knew it. The media knew it.

Why, Fate herself also seemingly knew it—for what always happens in NFC Championship games at Lambeau?

It was a dream season, a done deal.

But when the Giants tried to tell us something different, nobody was listening. They mentioned it when Plaxico Burress started making cornerback Al Harris look like Charlie Brown. Of course, Burress was getting all the right help from Peyton Manning—or was that actually Eli?

The Giants also gives us hints when they announced that the Packer running game would be closed for the season. That was early on. Their defensive line sealed it up, closed it off, and put up detour signs.

We weren't reading much, either.

The Giants were happy to let us know by pointing at the hailstorm of yellow penalty flags that Green Bay foolery caused to rain upon the field in critical times. (Note to team—all times are critical times in the NFC Championship.)

But instead, we believed something else when we saw Donald Driver racing 90 yards down the sideline. And again, when we saw two Giants' field goals sail wide. An interception? No problem, we'll just strip the ball and have Mark Tauscher fall on it. Surely, we thought, this all was fate's smile on a Cinderella season, a Cinderella capstone on an advancing career.

Why, it was the NFC Championship. At home. In bitterly-cold January. Vince Lombardi himself had likely orchestrated the whole thing and was was probably somewhere nearby pulling stings.

All the pieces were in place, all the traditions had lined up. We all knew it.

So it was in disbelief that we watched a different fumble slip through our fingers.

We were confused when we saw that our second-half offensive strategy was to dabble for three plays and then go sit back down by the sideline heaters.

We were horrified when more penalty flags landed on the frozen turf. Yet, we refused to listen.

But then New York's kicker stepped up to the microphone. He cleared his throat; then with one swift movement, and with the voice of fate he spoke loud and clear.

We finally heard.

And do you know what he said?

He said, "Green Bay isn't Cinderella; the New York Giants are."

And so it is. As sad and difficult as it is to hear, it will be the Giants going to the Tom Brady ball this year, and not the Green Bay Packers.

So after a tremendous season, one filled with hope, but not expectation (unlike in Dallas where they are whining like babies now, pointing fingers and and barbecuing Tony Romo), where every win was a surprise and a delight, where magic happened and lightening struck repeatedly, there is some consolation in finding out we're not Cinderella, but just her ugly step-sister...

And that is this: at least we're not the Bears!

Thank you, Coach McCarthy and the Green Bay Packers.

It's been a great ride.

New York Giants, Welcome to Lambeau!

PackSmack — Mon, 14 Jan 2008 22:31:17 -0500

Congratulations to the New York Giants! After playing gutsy football against the Patriots, dominating in Tampa, and then going into Dallas and making T.O. cry, you Giants are red hot and for real; and Manning the Younger has found his genetics.

The greater Cheesehead nation was all pulling for you, for a day, in Dallas. We kind of think our overall support might have been what tipped the balance in favor of the Giants, but that is just speculation; albeit highly dependable. And now our arms are open and we heartily welcome you to the frozen tundra. By the way, did anybody mention to you it was January here?

So in the spirit of hospitality and full-disclosure, we thought it might be a good idea to tell you what to expect up here in this foreboding climate, how to prepare, and share with you what things all the NY Giants players and coaches will need to bring with them to be able to survive.

First of all, let's talk about Lambeau Field in January. You've heard all the terrible stories about how cold and nasty it is; well, unfortunately, they're true. All of them. Did you know that it is actually warmer in Siberia? Be warned, in last weekend's snow-storm game against the Seahawks, there was an unconfirmed report that a polar bear was actually over by Seattle's sideline heater trying to warm himself up. Another witness claims that it was just a grumpy, snow-covered Mike Holmgren, but either way this place is not fit for man nor beast. You might want to pick up some bear repellent.

As a matter of fact, there are still about eighty-five Packer fans who are still at Lambeau from that game who accidentally spilled beers on their laps and are frozen solid to their seats. Several hundred have already been freed as rescue workers are working around the clock. (We have our crisis' here too.)

Now as far as the things that you will need to go get to be able to endure here, you can easily fill this shopping list out at any Shopko or Farm & Fleet, if you happen to have any there in downtown New York.

1. The first thing you will have to get is a parka, some nice warm hunting clothes, or even a snowmobile-suit. If you get a parka, make sure it is large enough to fit over your shoulder pads; a 4XL ought to do it. Also, check to see to it that the lined hood is big enough for your helmets to fit into. Don't worry about your jersey numbers, we'll paint those on the outside of the jacket so that you don't have to take it off when you go onto the playing field.

If you go for the hunting clothes, unfortunately, you cannot just wear the cammo by itself; you must also display blaze orange (state law) on 50% of your body. We can't have you disappearing back there in the secondary; that would be cheating (and we know that the cheaters live north of you, not in New York). We will go ahead and paint your number right on top of that blaze-orange.

Now the snowmobile-suit might be your best option. After all, you can move around in it pretty well (until you have to go to the bathroom) and you will likely be needing one anyway to get from the airport to Lambeau field since you will all be taking snowmobiles. You see, the roads are too slippery for buses, so a fleet of Polaris's will be shuttling you from right outside the baggage claim directly to the Lambeau parking lot. Unfortunately, you cannot drive snowmobiles into motel parking lots, so you will all be staying in RV's outside the stadium for the night; eight men to an RV. Then in the morning, the snowmobiles will be shuttling you from the RV's right up to the entrance of Lambeau. Again, we can paint your numbers on the snowmobile-suit so you can wear it the whole game and try to stay warm.

2. Boots are not an option, they are simply essential. The big, thick insulated ones are the only way to go. Try the Sorel's first and see how they feel. Your linemen will love 'em. Though you might lose a tiny bit of speed out there on the field in them, you could make up for that with added traction if you can get your equipment guy to attach cleats to the bottoms of those boots. Also, get a package or two of some chemically-activated foot-warmers. Heck get a few dozen; during the game you might need them. If you get out there and can't figure out how to activate them, the referees will probably be glad to help you between plays.

3. Gloves and mittens will also be required if you want to go home with all your fingers. The best way to get 'er done is to wear a pair of knit gloves and then over the top of those you put on some heavy insulated over-sized mittens. If you want, you can get the kind with those little rubber-grippy things on the outside of the finger and the thumb areas for added ball control. Some of the insulated mittens even have little trigger-finger slits used for hunting. You could poke one of your gloved fingers out and use it to chip away your iced-up nostril holes so that you can breathe again. Rumor has it that that is the only reason that Green Bay Packer Jerry Kramer was able to push Dallas' Jethro Pugh out of the way - allowing Bart Starr to get in for the winning score - in the Ice Bowl. Pugh had not chipped the ice out of his nose in a play or two and was only breathing through his mouth. Might have made all the difference. So get a pair with the trigger-finger slit.

And if it gets really, really cold, you might need some hand warmers too. They work like the feet warmers. Might be a little bulky for your receivers under those gloves and mittens, but if they practice with them before the game a little, they should get used to it by game time.

4. Don't forget the stocking cap and scarf. Oh, you probably don't know what stocking cap means; so how about this - get a beanie and a scarf. But not just a skull-cap, get the whole full-blown, bank-robber face mask. With wind-chills expected to be way, waaay below zero, here's a good reminder: only cover those parts of your face you want to keep.

5. Long-johns. You may know these as thermals. Get a pair or two. Wear both pairs under your uniform. They will save your life. And maybe your career and reputation as well. Jethro Pugh wasn't wearing two pairs of long-johns that day, either.

6. Hot-Seats. These are insulated seat-cushion-type gizmos that you sit on and they react to your own body heat and warm up real nice. Feels real good unless you're out there on the cold, cold field. Your offense might get the most use out of these, as they will be sitting idly, doing nothing, except rapidly losing precious body heat, while Brett Favre is leading the Green Bay Packers downfield long scoring drives.

7. As an optional purchase, you could pick up some ice-fishing gear. This way, while Favre and crew are on offense, your offensive guys can sneak out to one of the local ponds and get a little ice-fishing in to pass some time. Fortunately for you, most of the citizens of Green Bay will be inside the stadium cheering, so there should be plenty of room on the ice. Your kicker gets the best deal of all; after his opening kickoff, you guys probably won't need him the rest of the day, so he has time to catch a bunch of fish. Just make sure he keeps his worms warm so they don't freeze. Best way to do that is to keep them in your mouth.

And, finally, we all know that the guys who wear yellow hats in New York are the FDNY fellas. We appreciate all they have done and all, and respect them as we do you, but for the record, such guys won't be allowed to wear their fireman's hats in Lambeau. The only yellow hats allowed on the frozen tundra are Cheeseheads. You may want to bring them along, however, so they can be helping with the resuscitation of your players when some of your players' bodies start going into shock because of the weather. We will only have about a dozen EMT's here and they might be a little busy.

So good luck Giants!

And don't think about the bitter, frigid cold. Just put all that out of your minds.

smack.

Packers-Seahawks: Packer Kids Play Well in the Snow

PackSmack — Sat, 12 Jan 2008 19:44:09 -0500

Nobody is having more fun than those who are on this wild ride here in Lambeau Field during a blizzard in Green Bay. Never has it been louder here, never has it been rowdier. This is the wildest place in the country on the NFL's Divisional Playoff weekend. It's snowing like crazy and nobody cares, it's all about what Brett Favre and all the other kids on his team are doing down there. I wonder if so much fun has ever been had in this stadium.

It is nearly the fourth quarter and our punter hasn't even taken off his warm-up jacket yet. Running back Ryan Grant has redeemed himself from two critical fumbles early in the game by pounding out massive yards and then scoring yet another touchdown. And the Packers are playing good, old-fashioned playground football in the snow.

The white stuff just keeps falling. I am wiping my computer screen and keyboard every few seconds; and I'll tell you right now, there is no easy way to type with gloves on. The guy next to me has a cheesehead on and there is a good two inches of snow on top of it. There are snowballs flying around and this crowd is lit up. The guy in front of me, his half-time beer froze solid, so now he's licking it like a Popsicle. Everywhere people are basking in this incredible experience.

Dang, Brett Favre just threw a snowball at another player. How great is that in the middle of a playoff game?

Those who doubted the Packers because of their youth, forgot to consider that with some early successes by Favre and the team and then the snow, this whole thing turned into a kid's game. And who better to play in the snow than a bunch of kids?

Of course Seattle coach Mike Holmgren doesn't look like he's having a lot of fun over on the sideline. He's old; not a kid. He's probably kicking himself for ever leaving Green Bay. But aside from him and all the guys in the Seahawk uniforms, there's not another old person in this place; everybody's having fun, everybody's a kid tonight.

Gbaja-Biamila and Jenkins just sacked Matt Hassleback. Fun for them; not so fun for Hassleback. Matt's team's got the ball, but I doubt that they're going to score. He's probably thinking he would rather still be sitting on the bench on the Packer's sideline waiting for Brett Favre to get hurt than on his back in the snow under Cullen Jenkins and about a thousand points behind.

Things are starting to wind down. The Packers will be going to the NFC Championship game next Sunday! This place is just going crazy. I doubt these cheeseheads will be going home any time soon, they'll probably have to turn the lights out to get any of us out of here.

And why would anyone want to leave? We just experienced what we all love and dream about. A great playoff game; in the snow; in January; in Lambeau. It has been a blast. It has been everything we all had hoped it would be; and a bunch of touchdowns more. Favre pulled some stumbling magic, Grant hurdled tacklers, Jennings caught big passers, Driver eluded the defense for some big yards...this place is going nuts.

No matter where you were today, you didn't have as much fun as Packer fans did.

And nope, I don't think anyone will be going home for quite awhile.

Go Giants!

13-3: Not-So-Frozen Tundra for the Green Bay Packers

PackSmack — Fri, 04 Jan 2008 14:28:50 -0500

Four and twelve: There goes the coach.

Eight and eight: OK, we broke even, but we've got to make some changes.

Ten and six: Wow, we have a shot at making the playoffs, depending on who beats whom.

Such statements are January expressions from years-past, heard throughout the frozen tundra of the Green Bay Packer nation.

We could drop some names and go back a little further. We could mention players associated with extremely painful times, like David Whitehurst, Randy Wright, Eddie Lee Ivory, Rich Campbell—and how about this one: Tony Mandrich!

Such memories almost bring to life the haunting chills of what post-season Januarys once were to cheeseheads—their team as cold, lifeless and dormant as a frozen Hayward resort.

You know what things are like outside in the dead of winter. Everything is still, there is no visible evidence of life, and you are left just to endure the conditions at hand, with little or no hope that anything will change any time soon.

The deep freeze is a howling mockery of memories of sunshine and glory, and in the shortened winter days, you know that such times are gone. You know that rather than to hope for good things to happen, all you can do is settle for how things are.

Maybe you'll go punch a hole in the lake and go ice-fishing, for you've got no choice but to adapt. Yes, a lifeless team is like the dead of winter in the frozen tundra: bitter, cold, unrelenting, and hopeless.

But did someone say thirteen and three? For real? The Green Bay Packers are thirteen and three? Well, the mercury just rose throughout the land of cheese—a lot. In fact, it is almost a heat-wave, regardless of the hard-working snow-plows that pass by your house.

And names like Driver, Jennings, Jones, Grant, and Robinson create unusual images for a domain normally locked in an Arctic chill. They are almost like palm trees growing on the Lambeau turf in the heart of January—a most un-ordinary spectacle. Not only do they bite back at the chill, but they are inspiring reminders that something green and thriving not only grows now, but will continue to grow in just a few short months ahead.

And for the first time in a decade—perhaps only the second or third time in a generation—Green Bay Packer fans can actually be comfortably optimistic about the current status of the team, as well as its position for the future—with or without Brett Favre.

Thirteen and three means that the frozen tundra will not be so frozen this year. The winter will not be as long. Regardless of how the Packers fare in the upcoming playoffs, it has been a great year, and the consensus in Wisconsin is that things are good. Very good.

And rather than shuffling through the snow out onto a frozen lake to help get through a cold, dreary weekend, there will probably be quite a few cheeseheads who might be found out in their backyards on some Sunday afternoons this January, grilling brats instead—albeit, while wearing mittens.

Packer Punter Penance Will Appease Cheese

PackSmack — Fri, 28 Dec 2007 14:26:27 -0500

After nearly a week of agony, turmoil, and deliberation, the greater Green Bay Packer nation has arrived at conditions and terms for punter Jon Ryan's due penance.

Partly to pay for his participation in last Sunday's da-Bear da-bacle in Chicago, and partly to prepare for future encounters with extreme weather conditions at Lambeau, the following description outlines the steps necessary for Mr. Ryan to get off the Cheeseheads' dip-list.

(Please note: no part of this may be altered or substituted; and full completion of all requirements of the penance is mandatory.)

Mr. Ryan will arrive at the Don Hutson training field across the street from Lambeau at o-dark-thirty. He may not be late. Mr. Ryan will be allowed to wear shorts and a t-shirt—regardless of how many degrees below zero it happens to be—socks, and his football cleats.

Ryan will be forced to bear the ultimate symbol of shame—a Chicago Bear helmet, since he played for the Bears last Sunday.

He will walk out onto the practice field in the snow. If the field has been plowed, he must get a snow shovel and cover the field with snow again.

He will then engage the power of the sixteen ultra-high-velocity wind machines delivered from NASA's wind tunnel to the field; one for each point he gave the Bears, one for the mis-handled punt, and one for the pooch-kick off his shin. The wind machines will be set on high and aimed directly at him. He may not turn his back to them at any time.

Situated in a line, multiple lines, or a mob behind Ryan will be 70,000 Green Bay Packer fans, who may, at each one's discretion, hurl snowballs at Ryan to simulate the possibility of playing in a driving snowstorm.

Beers may also be hurled at the punter, as they were hurled at Terrell Owens when he tried to do an unauthorized Lambeau Leap at Lambeau Field a few years ago, so that Ryan understands the social category that his play has landed him in.

To simulate flying objects in the wind and to underscore the importance of Ryan concentrating on the vital single objective of the football, Packer fans will also be allowed to chuck cheeseheads at the punter at any time.

Mr. Ryan will then receive snaps from the Packers long-snapper and punt the ball. But there's a kicker...actually, there's thousands of them.

When the ball is snapped to Ryan and he catches it, he must then pause in a slouched position, so that Cheesehead #1, who will be situated behind him, can apply a robust kick to Ryan's rear. Once Ryan has absorbed the kick, he will then execute his steps and actually punt the ball.

If Ryan drops the snap—that is, if the ball falls out of his hands—he will walk over and bend down to pick up the football, where he will say one 'Hail Vince', but will remain in that position until Cheesehead #1 walks over and gives Ryan a bonus robust kick in the rear.

When punter Ryan has sufficiently finished this task with Cheesehead #1, he then can move on to Cheesehead #2. He will continue to repeat this process with all the Packer fans in line until Cheesehead #70,000 has applied sufficient boot-leather to Mr. Ryan's behind.

Furthermore, Packer coach Mike McCarthy will supply sideline heaters for Packer fans, warm drinks, and his nice, fluffy, down-filled green Packer jacket if anyone needs it.

All other team members of the Green Bay Packers must stay outside in the frigid weather for the duration of this act of penance, so that they get used to adverse weather again—and eventually reclaim such an environment as their own domain, instead of reeling in shock in such climates.

When Mr. Ryan has received his due diligence, he must then apologize to Canada, his home country, where he was groomed to be a bad-weather punter. He may then throw the Bears helmet in the trash, where it belongs.

When this penance is fully completed, Jon Ryan may resume his duties as the punter for the Green Bay Packers. The wrath of the Cheese will have been appeased.

SMACK!