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<blockquote data-quote="PackOne" data-source="post: 234741" data-attributes="member: 544"><p>July 17th, 2008</p><p></p><p>Written by: Alex Tallitsch (Special thanks to Trom)</p><p></p><p>When I was a kid we used to get up quite early every Sunday morning. We would put on our church clothes, button up our top buttons, and begin the arduous one hour event that was nothing more to me than a hated precursor to what was in store.</p><p></p><p>I would watch the hand on my father’s watch obsessively, as it slowly ticked its way around the that big golden dial that always resided on his wrist, hanging on every little movement of the thin second hand as it slowly revolved inside the glass circle. Finally, after what seemed like ages, the final hymn would play, hand shakes would be given, and my brother and I would rush to car in anticipation of one single thing.</p><p></p><p>Football.</p><p></p><p>Immediately after getting home, we would scurry into our rooms to shed the stuffy church attire and swap it for our football shirts. It may have been a Badger shirt that day, or a D.C. Everest Football model, but most times it was a Packer shirt, that is if it actually happened to be clean, which was a rare occasion due to its heavy use.</p><p></p><p>There was usually an hour until game time, so my brother and I would run outside, grab the Nerf, and hit the backyard. Before we could start playing, there was always a big decision to be made before that first bomb was ever thrown.</p><p></p><p>Who the hell were we going to be?</p><p></p><p>I usually removed myself from my own personality and instantly transformed into James Lofton. I was no longer ten years old, I was a superstar receiver. I was the man, and the crowd in my head chanted my name repeatedly. My brother usually chose to be Jim McMahon, at times even donning the appropriate white headband that was synonymous with the Mac attack.</p><p></p><p>Shortly thereafter, the play by play would begin.</p><p></p><p>“The snap goes to McMahon, Lofton goes deep, he’s open … McMahon let’s it fly, Lofton makes a leaping grab …. TOUCHDOWN”</p><p></p><p>The resulting six points was immediately followed with an over the back spike, followed by an endzone dance, or in this case a dance in what remained of the summer garden as the crowd in our minds showered us with praise.</p><p></p><p>Although it would appear to be only the two of us, there still were plenty of other adversaries standing in our way. There might not have been three hundred and fifty pound behemoths to worry about, but we were faced with the most opposing defense ever known to man.</p><p></p><p>Dog crap.</p><p></p><p>Somewhere between the twenties, our golden retriever would leave steaming piles of excrement in strategically placed areas on our playing field. We would juke and jive around these piles like Gilbert Brown was hot on our tails. Once in awhile we were tackled, not feeling the pain of a hit, but rather the stink now stuck on the bottom of our shoes. All we could do was take what we had and use our imagination to fill in the rest.</p><p></p><p>That my friends, is football.</p><p></p><p>It was the spirit of competition, it was the love of the game, it was the thrill of victory. It was two kids, throwing around a ball, trying to emulate their ultimate heroes.</p><p></p><p>Today, I feel like all of this is long gone.</p><p></p><p>Brett Favre was one of the few players left in the league that could truly be admired. For so many years he stuck to his guns, played the game, and went out everyday to play against the piles of dog doo at Lambeau. He exemplified competition, he re-defined spirit, and he played the game much the way we played on our own field of dreams. Two weeks ago, he took that admiration away from me.</p><p></p><p>Now, Packer fans are left with a hairy situation. It isn’t a good hairy either like a french broad who is a little hairy but is still kinda hot, or an Italian girl who has more hair on her arms than you but still has huge cans. This is Sasquatch standing behind you in a port-a-potty hairy.</p><p></p><p>I don’t care who’s to blame for the mess. Yesterday, I had some life decisions and questions to address. I needed to talk to someone and get some advice on my future. What I did, was pick up the phone. I didn’t call my mom, I didn’t have my friend handle the business for me, I didn’t have my brothers bosses best friends girlfriend pick up the phone, I did it myself.</p><p></p><p>This is exactly what Ted Thompson and Brett Favre needed to do. Both of these guys should have been on the phone for a long time a long time ago.</p><p></p><p>I am sick of the ego battle going on here. Ted Thompson has a team to run, and he has done a remarkably good job of doing so up to this point. We have draft picks to sign, starters who need contracts, and a team that needs to rally around it’s new starting quarterback. Instead we are left with a prima-donna and a hard head who can’t put their personal beefs aside and get something accomplished. They have chosen to let the media do their fighting for them, instead of manning up and owning the situation. They have made a mockery of this fine franchise, and have left an irreversible scar on a once proud organization.</p><p></p><p>There will be no winners when this mess has ended. I will go as far as to say that this perhaps will go down as one of the greatest events in sporting history. Unfortunately for fans, we had to watch it on the news and not on the field where moments like that belong.</p><p></p><p>Brett Favre was asked if he, “Would he go into camp to compete for the starting job?</p><p></p><p>“Why?” Favre said. “That’s what I would ask them: Why?”</p><p></p><p>Why Brett? Do you really need to ask? Football is and always will be about the spirit of competition. It is about the best man winning, it is about passion, it is about giving everything you have for the greater good of the game.</p><p></p><p>It isn’t about rallies, it isn’t about mud-slinging, it isn’t about self glorification.</p><p></p><p>What it is about is two boys in the backyard that no longer can wear their Favre jerseys because their hero is no longer a hero at all.</p><p></p><p>Personally, I think someone is just afraid to dodge a little dog crap.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="PackOne, post: 234741, member: 544"] July 17th, 2008 Written by: Alex Tallitsch (Special thanks to Trom) When I was a kid we used to get up quite early every Sunday morning. We would put on our church clothes, button up our top buttons, and begin the arduous one hour event that was nothing more to me than a hated precursor to what was in store. I would watch the hand on my father’s watch obsessively, as it slowly ticked its way around the that big golden dial that always resided on his wrist, hanging on every little movement of the thin second hand as it slowly revolved inside the glass circle. Finally, after what seemed like ages, the final hymn would play, hand shakes would be given, and my brother and I would rush to car in anticipation of one single thing. Football. Immediately after getting home, we would scurry into our rooms to shed the stuffy church attire and swap it for our football shirts. It may have been a Badger shirt that day, or a D.C. Everest Football model, but most times it was a Packer shirt, that is if it actually happened to be clean, which was a rare occasion due to its heavy use. There was usually an hour until game time, so my brother and I would run outside, grab the Nerf, and hit the backyard. Before we could start playing, there was always a big decision to be made before that first bomb was ever thrown. Who the hell were we going to be? I usually removed myself from my own personality and instantly transformed into James Lofton. I was no longer ten years old, I was a superstar receiver. I was the man, and the crowd in my head chanted my name repeatedly. My brother usually chose to be Jim McMahon, at times even donning the appropriate white headband that was synonymous with the Mac attack. Shortly thereafter, the play by play would begin. “The snap goes to McMahon, Lofton goes deep, he’s open … McMahon let’s it fly, Lofton makes a leaping grab …. TOUCHDOWN” The resulting six points was immediately followed with an over the back spike, followed by an endzone dance, or in this case a dance in what remained of the summer garden as the crowd in our minds showered us with praise. Although it would appear to be only the two of us, there still were plenty of other adversaries standing in our way. There might not have been three hundred and fifty pound behemoths to worry about, but we were faced with the most opposing defense ever known to man. Dog crap. Somewhere between the twenties, our golden retriever would leave steaming piles of excrement in strategically placed areas on our playing field. We would juke and jive around these piles like Gilbert Brown was hot on our tails. Once in awhile we were tackled, not feeling the pain of a hit, but rather the stink now stuck on the bottom of our shoes. All we could do was take what we had and use our imagination to fill in the rest. That my friends, is football. It was the spirit of competition, it was the love of the game, it was the thrill of victory. It was two kids, throwing around a ball, trying to emulate their ultimate heroes. Today, I feel like all of this is long gone. Brett Favre was one of the few players left in the league that could truly be admired. For so many years he stuck to his guns, played the game, and went out everyday to play against the piles of dog doo at Lambeau. He exemplified competition, he re-defined spirit, and he played the game much the way we played on our own field of dreams. Two weeks ago, he took that admiration away from me. Now, Packer fans are left with a hairy situation. It isn’t a good hairy either like a french broad who is a little hairy but is still kinda hot, or an Italian girl who has more hair on her arms than you but still has huge cans. This is Sasquatch standing behind you in a port-a-potty hairy. I don’t care who’s to blame for the mess. Yesterday, I had some life decisions and questions to address. I needed to talk to someone and get some advice on my future. What I did, was pick up the phone. I didn’t call my mom, I didn’t have my friend handle the business for me, I didn’t have my brothers bosses best friends girlfriend pick up the phone, I did it myself. This is exactly what Ted Thompson and Brett Favre needed to do. Both of these guys should have been on the phone for a long time a long time ago. I am sick of the ego battle going on here. Ted Thompson has a team to run, and he has done a remarkably good job of doing so up to this point. We have draft picks to sign, starters who need contracts, and a team that needs to rally around it’s new starting quarterback. Instead we are left with a prima-donna and a hard head who can’t put their personal beefs aside and get something accomplished. They have chosen to let the media do their fighting for them, instead of manning up and owning the situation. They have made a mockery of this fine franchise, and have left an irreversible scar on a once proud organization. There will be no winners when this mess has ended. I will go as far as to say that this perhaps will go down as one of the greatest events in sporting history. Unfortunately for fans, we had to watch it on the news and not on the field where moments like that belong. Brett Favre was asked if he, “Would he go into camp to compete for the starting job? “Why?” Favre said. “That’s what I would ask them: Why?” Why Brett? Do you really need to ask? Football is and always will be about the spirit of competition. It is about the best man winning, it is about passion, it is about giving everything you have for the greater good of the game. It isn’t about rallies, it isn’t about mud-slinging, it isn’t about self glorification. What it is about is two boys in the backyard that no longer can wear their Favre jerseys because their hero is no longer a hero at all. Personally, I think someone is just afraid to dodge a little dog crap. [/QUOTE]
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