It’s funny how the experiences of your childhood never leave you even at a later stage in life. I was born and raised in Wisconsin and lived and breathed the Green Bay Packers. There is an old saying in the Badger state that fall is the season for deer hunting and watching the Packers.
Well I am now here in the Bay State for nearly fifty years and root for the Boston teams, but I just can’t get those Wisconsin temas out of my head. Our daughter Laura is headed to Lambeau Field in Green Bay next weekend to cheer on the Patriots in front of 70,000 friendly but rabid Packer fans. She is a brave Patriots fan and I am sure will survive the catcalls of the home town folks as she yells for Brady and the Bunch.
She will be sitting with my godson who got the tickets and of course is one of those rabid Packer fans; he even has a piece of the frozen tundra from the famous Ice Bowl of the 1960s in his basement Packer shrine.
I certainly will be watchiang the game, which is likely to be a tune-up for the playoffs and perhaps the Super Bowl. But my problem is that nagging childhood support for the green and gold. In my head will be a little voice that cries out for the Packers, while in my heart will be a little throbbing in support for the Patriots. Which way to go is the question?
I kind of hope for a Patriot blow-out, which will for a time silence the Packer in me, but if the score is close or controversial than I know I will be torn apart inside as I try to take a side and justify my tortured fandom.
Of course, what happens on next Sunday in Green Bay, the little town that could, is only a game and shouldn’t be taken too seriously. But the issue is not so much the game but how I watch the game and how I think about the victors and the defeated. You just can’t get rid of childhood memories that easily. Here’s to the Patriots, or maybe the Packers.