THE DRIVE FROM DOOR COUNTY, Wisconsin, where I am vacationing, to Green Bay takes about an hour. The trip is an early morning blur of taverns, cows, gas station-cheese shops, red barns, and lots of church signs. The Holy Name of Mary advertises its “Polka Mass.” And in case the Devil himself cruises Highway 57, the deacons of another chapel have a message for him: “Satan, You are the Weakest Link. Goodbye.” Lucifer is nowhere to be found at 8:15 A.M. on this steamy mid-August weekday in Green Bay, although one person standing across from Lambeau Field is wearing a Chicago Bears T-shirt. Four thousand “railbirds” are vying for a view of the crisply mowed field on the other side of the chain-link fence. Ten minutes later, the police shut down a traffic lane on Oneida Street, because the fans–now ten-deep–are spilling over the curb. It is a cliche to say that Green Bay Packers football is an obsession. It’s also an understatement. The thousands of fans aren’t here to watch a championship game. Or a regular season game. Or even a scrimmage. They’re here for a morning session of preseason practice. These workouts sometimes draw more fans than you’d find at a Florida Marlins home game. The Packers are expected to do well this year, but fans showed up in similar numbers throughout the ’70s and ’80s, when their quarterbacks threw like girls, and wins were as rare as a pregame tailgate without brats or beer. Around 8:30 A.M., offensive guard Kevin Barry, who weighs at least 325 pounds, comes pedaling around a row of cars in the Lambeau Field parking lot. His legs splay out to the sides and his 6’4″ frame overwhelms the tiny dirt bike beneath him like a circus clown on a tricycle. Standing on pegs extending out from the back axle is a little boy of six or seven years. The kid has his arms around Barry’s neck–actually halfway around, because that’s as far as his arms will reach. He is wearing Barry’s oversized helmet, and as Barry navigates a curb, the little boy looks remarkably like a real-life bobble-head doll. This is how most Packers travel the two blocks from their locker room to the practice field. Local kids line up–sometimes hours in advance–for the privilege of having a Packer borrow their bike. Moments later, Brett Favre, the league’s only three-time MVP, rounds the corner enveloped in a running throng of several hundred kids, many of whom are trying to pat him on the back as he rides. I can identify. Before I was two years old–not a misprint–I could recite the names and numbers of the Packers’ entire starting defense. My dad had me perform this trick anytime someone new came to the house. I loved the attention and accolades that came with each recitation. I’d grab random passers-by at the grocery store and regale them with my knowledge. It was a hit, so I began using this ruse anytime I was in a rough spot. If I didn’t want to eat my veggies, I’d begin listing the defensive line. It’s almost a reflex. Even now, I screw up, and then it’s “Jim Carter, Charlie Hall, . . .” For some fans, training camp may be their only chance to see the Packers in the flesh. Although Lambeau Field can seat more than half the population of Green Bay, the waiting list for season tickets is 60 years long. This leads Packers fans to go to ridiculous, sometimes unhealthy, lengths to get tickets. In January 1997, I flew to Green Bay from Washington to see the Packers play the Carolina Panthers for the NFC Championship. The wind-chill factor was thirty below zero. I wandered around the parking lot from 8 A.M. until noon, offering $350 for one ticket. While I managed several free beers, no one would part with a ticket. I watched the game at a nearby friend’s house with something near $350 worth of Pabst and pizza. (An aside to Packers fans reading that last paragraph: I know you’re wondering what, exactly, were the ridiculous lengths I went to for the tickets. I wore my old moon boots in public.) Even today, I’ll abandon longheld principles just to satisfy my Packers urges. Today I am committing press pass abuse. There’s no actual professional reason for my presence. But with some persistence (apologies to PR assistant Sarah Koenig), I’ve managed to finagle on-field credentials. This is the highlight of my Packers passion and my journalism career. There are limits, though, to what I’ll do to sate my appetite for all things Packers. I wouldn’t pay more than $5,000 for a Super Bowl ticket. I wouldn’t fly to Japan just to see the Packers, should they ever play the annual preseason opener there. I wouldn’t name my first son Cletidus. And I would never write an embarrassing article detailing my obsession on the off-chance that a fellow junkie might read the piece and offer, say, tickets to the Packers-Jets game in New York on December 29. –Stephen F. Hayes
