Something special

I recognized it early. I’m not sure exactly when, but soon into his career as a Green Bay Packer I realized that we were witnessing something special. While I’ve always been pretty hardcore about the Packers, it became an obsession. Family gatherings, holidays, weddings, even my daughter’s cesarean birth had to be coordinated around Packer games.

I was blessed to see several of his games in person, including some unpleasant memories from Minneapolis, and have made a point of attending at least one game a year at Lambeau Field since today’s inevitability first appeared on the radar.

Initially, pre-Favre, I was with my genuine cheesehead step-brother; our fanship strengthening our tenuous familial bond. We participated together in a Don Majkowski poster-burning ritual after Favre arrived on the scene. We were side by side in the Metrodome when T.J. Rubley came in to spoil the day. He didn’t even notice I had puked under the table before our hasty departure from a Green Bay strip club.

I cherish these and countless other memories with Scott. But it all changed in June 1993, within a year of Favre’s first of what would eventually reach 275 consecutive starts at quarterback for the Packers. That’s when my first child, a son, was born.

Before he was old enough to object, his name was on the waiting list for Packer season tickets. I tolerated the Tennessee Titan dalliance as an early effort to assert his independence, knowing full well that a trip to Green Bay would set things straight. The Packers – and Favre – soon became a string that bound our relationship.

We shared many a Sunday afternoon with the Packers – often at home, at a sports bar if need be, and sometimes within the football Mecca that is Lambeau Field. I’m typically not one to take time to smell the roses, except when it involves my kids. I smelled them when we toured the Packer Hall of Fame; she saddling the bicycle display – which I’m pretty sure we weren’t supposed to do – and he reflecting in the shadows of three Super Bowl trophies. I smelled them that memorable Monday night after Favre’s own dad died. I smelled them when we chanted “one more year” in attendance at the season finale three years ago. I smelled them two years ago as we watched, from a hotel bar, Favre’s emotional New Year’s Eve exit from Soldier Field.

Last year, somehow, I was oblivious that the end was near when an unexpected victory over San Diego gave the hint of a special season. Or when Favre stole victories at Denver and Kansas City. Or when we desperately searched for a place to watch the Washington game. Or when connections with the manager enabled the 14-year-old to remain at the sports bar late on a school night at Dallas. Or when Thanksgiving dinner was delayed at Detroit. Or when a trip to St. Louis became punishment for bad grades.

Did I mention the snow globe playoff game against Seattle? Or the playoff dance I unveiled against the Giants? I didn’t think there would be an equal to our collective sadness after the Giants snatched a return to the Super Bowl from our mitts.

Until today.

Once I knew it wasn’t some Internet snafu, I texted “Favre is done” to Zach. By then, he had already heard the news from his Packer-fan science teacher. “I would have cried if I wasn’t at school,” he revealed later. After dinner, we settled in for the ESPN coverage.

“He’s the only Packer quarterback I’ve ever known,” he said.

“I know.”

Five years from now, I fully expect we’ll travel to Canton for Favre’s Hall of Fame enshrinement. How the Packers will fare in the meantime is anyone’s guess. All I know for sure is this was a special time. Thanks Brett.