I know of perhaps a half-dozen sportswriters and ex-sportswriters who, like myself, are fans of the Green Bay Packers — who have tended to text me on any given Sunday about the virtues of Clay Matthews and Kenny Clark, and the misadventures of Marquez Valdes-Scantling and Ha Ha Clinton-Dix. (Not that it wasn’t a two-way street. My therapist tells me, for instance, that I’m making great progress in recovering from the Packers’ infamous come-from-way-ahead loss to Seattle in the 2014 NFC championship game.)
That Packers’ fandom is so common among my sportswriting brethren seems far from coincidental. It is, in fact, somewhat reminiscent of something Drew Magary, then of Deadspin, hilariously wrote seven years ago about sportswriters’ infatuation with Bruce Springsteen (of which I am also guilty):
When a sportswriter professes his devotion to Bruce Springsteen, he’s making a statement about himself (or herself!). He’s letting you know that he’s a good old-fashioned hard-working American fella with strong values, just like you, Mr. and Mrs. Kitchen Table! You can count on your Bruce fanboy columnist to write about the game the RIGHT WAY, with buttloads of class. And you can count on your local columnist to be the sort of insufferable dipshit who looks back longingly on his Golden American youth and then somehow links it to a double play from last night’s Reds game.
Certainly there are Springsteen-Packers parallels to be drawn. Both have gotten a ton of mileage out of depicting themselves as blue-collar overachievers from off-the-radar locales who have earned everything that’s come their way … as all good Americans should, dammit! The Boss is from Freehold, N.J., for goodness sake, and The Pack plays in the smallest city of any major American professional team. Yet this is a team that has won 13 NFL titles, more than any other franchise, including four Super Bowls. Certainly this must be because the Packers have not only employed three of the greatest quarterbacks in NFL history — we’ll get to the current one in a minute, promise — but because they stand for all that is right and good in American sport.
The reputation of the town and the team is partially correct, partially contrived. Green Bay is a welcoming place. Learned that for myself when I visited for the first time several years ago, to cover an Eagles-Packers game. It was, in truth, partially a pilgrimage; I was interested to see what this town, what this place, was all about. And I wanted to start out by finding Vince Lombardi’s desk, though I wasn’t completely sure where such a shrine might be housed.
So after deplaning at the tiny airport (having descended from 35,000 feet and landed in, like, 1967), I wandered into the gift shop.
“First time in Green Bay fer ya?” the woman behind the counter asked, sounding like an extra from the movie “Fargo.” (Seriously. I was half-expecting Jerry Lundegaard to be stocking shelves in the back.)
I informed her that it was, and that I was in search of Vince Lombardi’s desk.
“I believe that’s in a bar called ‘Glory Years,’” she said sunnily.
Naturally, she didn’t stop there. She actually called that establishment, and informed them as to what I was after. They confirmed that the desk was in fact there.
I mean, do these people love their Packers?
You betcha!
So I went to Glory Years, carrying neither gold, frankincense nor myrrh. And truth be told, it wasn’t quite the hallowed place I expected it to be. While the desk was cordoned off by a see-through plastic partition — and while there was a financial ledger from Lombardi’s day sitting upon it — somebody thought it would be a terrific idea to include the framed jersey of some obscure Packers lineman from the ‘90s in the display. Which was just weird.
Still, Green Bay was an interesting place. A place where the waiting list for season tickets is years long. Where you half-expect Ray Scott, the late broadcaster known for his spare delivery, to narrate your every move. (“Toothpaste left, Mouthwash right …”). Where the designation “Titletown” was thrown around, long before the citizenry of Tuscaloosa, Ala., adopted it.
But now this Land of Make Believe has been invaded, as if by two thugs in a tan Sierra (who are, you can be sure, fully prepared to fire up the wood chipper). The culprits in this case are the twin plagues of ego and power. Aaron Rodgers, who over the last decade-plus has joined Brett Favre and Bart Starr in the Packers’ QB Pantheon, reportedly wants out. He hasn’t said so himself, mind you, but reliable reporters have quoted reliable sources to that effect, noting that his relationship with general manager Brian Gutekunst is frayed beyond repair.
At the heart of the matter is the fact that Gutekunst was so bold as to draft Rodgers’ heir apparent, Jordan Love, last year, without so much as informing the incumbent of his intentions. (That Gutekunst did so rather than select a wide receiver — in a receiver-rich draft — also reportedly rankled the three-time MVP.) And in an odd twist, Rodgers is also apparently upset that Gutekunst cut a run-of-the-mill wideout named Jake Kumerow in 2020.
On one hand, it’s a little stunning. Why should they have to inform him? Why should he be surprised, at this point in his career, that they are looking around for his successor? And who cares about Jake Kumerow, beyond his immediate family?
On the other hand, the organizational game plan has for years amounted to this: Save us, Aaron. He was the one who was supposed to overcome one leaky defense after another, and one lame-brained coaching move after another — the latest being Matt LaFleur’s decision to kick a field goal in the dying minutes of last season’s NFC championship game, with his team down eight and Tom Brady on the opposite sideline. (My therapist tells me I’m making great progress in getting over that, too.)
Rodgers has won exactly one Super Bowl in his 16 seasons, in 2010. And a franchise blessed by extraordinary QB play for over three decades — by first Favre, then Rodgers — has won two in that span. Two! Kind of a tired script, one that just might wear on the guy who has to bear an outsized burden.
Favre left clumsily himself, via the Retire-Unretire-Jets-Vikings Express, while allegedly taking some sketchy photographs along the way. Now it appears Rodgers, a man with a bit of a troubling backstory himself (i.e., he reportedly doesn’t speak to his family), seems destined to depart as well.
If and when it happens, I will understand. While he is an undeniably great player, the team certainly cannot allow him to dictate who is or isn’t the GM. Simply can’t happen, or else you have anarchy.
At the same time, I realize that my fall Sunday afternoons are about to become significantly less enjoyable. From a sports-watching standpoint, two things stand above all others, in my humble estimation: Stephen Curry when he’s got it going on, and Aaron Rodgers playing quarterback. In both cases, you might see something you’ve never seen before. In both cases, there’s joy and creativity and how-did-he-do-that artistry.
Now what am I supposed to do? It’s like telling me that Springsteen broke up with the E-Street Band. (OK, bad example — that once happened, too, if only for a while.) But I guess the point is, no fanbase is immune to hard realities; same for a town that clings to its storybook past. This one is as hard as the teeth on a wood chipper, and only slightly less painful to contemplate.