number four

As young boy, I played a lot of sports.

In Oakland, I played baseball with the neighborhood kids in a small yard at the end of my block, and played football on the schoolyard at recess. As a middle-schooler in Philadelphia, I played Little League baseball in the Summer, and pick-up football and "Smear-the-Queer" on an empty lot across the street from my house.

I played football as a Freshman at a tiny high school in Northwestern Wisconsin in the days when Don "Majik" Majkowski was stirring the hearts of long-suffering Packers fans. I had moved from the east coast after the school year had already started (school started in August in Wisconsin!), and was a few months behind the team in practice. I never even received a copy of the playbook. But coach let me suit up for games, and even put me in at safety on a few plays here and there. I had to ask the other safety what my job was once the play was called.

I moved again after only a semester in Wisconsin, and headed to Vista High School in Southern California. Vista had the winningest high school team in California at the time; a team full of guys twice my size, who had been playing together since their Pop Warner days. I never even considered trying out. Sports mostly faded from my life after that, as I turned my attention to other pursuits. Mainly, my quest to be Kirk Hammett.

After high school, I packed my belongings into my '81 Malibu, and headed back east to a small college town in Northwestern Wisconsin. Once there, I unpacked my stuff into room 421 of Fourth North Crabtree Hall.

Fourth North was populated mostly by guys from around Wisconsin and Minnesota, and for the first time since middle school, I found myself with a group of friends large enough to get pick-up games going. Whenever it rained or snowed, we'd be out in the field playing football. Always tackle, never touch. The little kid in me was happy.

Most Sundays, I found myself sitting in my friend Cueball's room, watching the Packers with him and Ed. Cue never missed a game. Ever. When he couldn't watch the first half of a game because he had to drive back from Milwaukee on Sunday morning, he programmed his VCR to tape it, listened to the first half in the car, and arrived in time to catch the second half with us on television. He watched the first half on tape after the game was over. At the time, I watched more for the company than for the football, but it didn't take long before I was one of them: a Packers fan.

Even all the way across the state from Green Bay, the mystique and legend of Lambeau Field is evident. Every bar in every town has a team photo or a Packers "G" hanging behind the bar. Every other house has a green and gold flag flying below the Stars-and-Stripes. It's almost religious.

At the start of the 1993 season, some guy named Brett Favre, an impetuous gunslinger of a quarterback, had the state excited. After replacing the injured Don Majkowski early in the season before, Favre lead the Packers to a six-game winning streak (their longest since the Lombardi era), second place in the NFC Central, and just missed the playoffs.

But Favre also had a lot of doubters. He was wild, and improvisational. If a play broke down, rather than eat the loss and try again, Favre would often keep the play alive by somehow dodging a charging defensive end, then scramble out of the pocket to throw a laser. . .right to an opposing linebacker. Shouts for benching Favre in favor of Ty Detmer would echo through the halls of Fourth North, and through living rooms and bars across the State of Wisconsin.

I was never among the doubters, though. Sometimes, instead of a linebacker, Favre would hit Sterling Sharpe or Jackie Harris for a first down. Fourth North would erupt with cheers as Favre streaked down the field to smack his receiver on the helmet, or tackle him to the turf. He was still a kid having fun, and it rubbed off. "Stick with this guy," I thought, "and the Packers will get a Superbowl."

Three years later, Favre lead the Packers to their first Superbowl in thirty years, an easy win over the New England Patriots. So much for Ty Detmer.

After a disappointing loss in the Superbowl the following year, and the departure of his coach and mentor, the frequently red-faced Mike Holmgren, Favre's future in Green Bay was uncertain. A lackluster season under his new coach, Ray Rhodes left a bad taste in fan's mouths, and shaky playoff performances in the following years under Mike Sherman led to retirement rumors and talk of diminishing skills. But I was always happy when Favre would announce that he was coming back for another year. Until this year.

At the end of last season, I was certain he wouldn't come back. After a slow start, the Packers won their last four games to finish 8-8, finishing off with a home victory over the Bears. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than the 4-12 record the year before, and at least Favre could retire with a win at Lambeau.

When Favre announced that he was coming back, for the first time in fifteen years of watching him play, I was one of the doubters. As a fan, you're always optimistic in September. Any given Sunday, and all that. But I wasn't this year. I was afraid of watching him flounder on an unproven team. I was afraid of another 4-12 season with more interceptions than touchdowns as he tried in vain to win games on his own. I was afraid of watching Favre retire on a downer.

As Favre and the Packers prepare to face the Giants in the NFC Championship game, I'm happy Favre has again proved the doubters wrong. No matter what happens this Sunday, and in the coming off-season, it's been a great year, and one hell of a career.

So, thanks, Number Four, four fifteen years of memories. On every touchdown pass, every improvised first down, and every interception you played like any one of a million kids playing on vacant lots near their homes. I like to think you would have fit right in with us playing on the field across from Fourth North Crabtree Hall.

I wish you could play the game forever.