Last week, the Packers lost to the Giants, in a game they were expected to win. I have never been so gutted about watching a bunch of arrows move around on nfl.com.
Anyway, the Packers. Green Bay. A place I would probably have never heard of if it wasn't for football.
When I was about eight years old, I got a book explaining American Football for idiots, or something. It had the list of all the Superbowl winners up to that point. I saw the name "Green Bay Packers" down for Superbowls I and II.
"Wow", I thought, "They're my team now, done nothing for several decades, perpetual underdogs, slightly unfashionable, got a strip like Norwich City. Yup, my team. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer."
Forward the best part of twenty years. I fall in love with American Football again, through a combination of the Nintendo Wii, Cialis Jones (my created WR), and a perfect season for the Bills.
Through this all, however, I still had a thing for the Packers. And that thing was rekindled this season. Every sports team needs a hero, an icon, and Brett Favre was that man, this season, for me.
Favre. Like an ageless Alan Bateman, he bestrode Lambeau Field like a colossus. If there was any justice in this world, he would have faced off against Brady and the Patriots next Sunday, and performed whatever the hell the American Football equivalent is of what Scott Gibbs did on April 11th 1999. Favre would come back from the dead, show that at the age of 94, that he is not too old. Instead, the Packers went to pieces, New York kicked the winning FG in overtime, darkness fell.
In a world of justice, Brett Favre would be playing next week. As it is, we have to put up with Eli Fucking Manning.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Bah...
What kind of Welshman has anything other than dispariging remarks for American Football?
I always thought the Welsh only liked beer, rugby and eating (in that order).
Disappointing.
Post a Comment