Sunday

It's a normal Sunday.  My dad comes to pick us up from my mom's house.  He puts the car in park but leaves the engine running, walks up the front stairs and rings the doorbell.  He doesn't have to though; I've been looking out the window for the past hour. . . anticipating. . .waiting.   We walk to his car.  Its December. It's cold.  I can see the white exhaust billowing from the gas pipe - matching the snow. His heat doesn't work, but that's okay.  I snuggle with a pillow I found in the back seat.  I can smell the cold but I don’t feel it. I laugh at his jokes.  I draw smiley faces on the steamed up windows. I’m 10.  I'm happy.

Ten minutes later we pull up to my grandma's house.  We run inside. Warmth.  My cheeks start to turn red as my body thaws out.  I walk into the kitchen and make myself a hot ham sandwich. I grab myself a Jolly Time Pina Coloda soda that my grandpa bought just for us. Sometimes, you can't count on much - but on Sundays in Wisconsin these are the things I counted on.  My dad.  My grandma's house. Hot ham sandwiches.  A cold drink.  And, of course, The Green Bay Packers.  I can still smell it, only instead of encircling my nose, those smells now swirl around in my brain - in my memories.

My dad goes downstairs and grabs a Miller Lite. He sits on an old plastic dark green recliner.  The top pops. He takes a sip.  "Ahhhh", he’d say.  Kind of like a Coke commercial.  I look around.  I see my uncle’s collection of dusty records - Blonde, "Call Me" was the one on top today.  His 8 track tapes line the shelves that the TV is sitting on. I count them - I dust them. We wait, and finally, it’s kick off time.

Brett Favre comes on the field.  Green and gold fills the stands - excitement fills the stale musty air in the basement on the opposite end of the TV. We all will be holding our breath for the next three and a half hours. Hearts racing.  Favre is playing like a twelve-year-old - laughing, smiling - he throws the ball. . . It's up. It's long. It's a rocket.  Freeman in the end zone.  TOUCHDOWN GREENBAY PACKERS.  Brett Favre throws his arms in the air and runs to the end zone - jumping-  cheering - smiling.  My dad grabs my knee and screams.  I double over in laughter. Magic. He opens another Miller Lite.

The Packers win.  Celebration.  We stay the rest of the day and jump back in his cold car.  I snuggle with the pillow.  Relief.  A win.  There’s not a lot of things you can count on when you are 10. I could count on the Packers playing.  I could count on Brett Favre throwing Hail Marys down the field.  I could count on them being caught. The Packers aren't just football to me.  The Packers are my childhood.  They take up a part of me deep deep down.  They are that musty basement.  They are cold car seats.  They are ham sandwiches on Sunday. They are Brett Farve.  They are my first beer. They are Aaron Rodgers. They are anticipation, the edge of my seat, jumping up and down excitement. When they win. When they lose.

Just stop for a second - can you feel it?

Go Pack Go.