Post by Ardbeg... innit on Jan 18, 2008 7:48:32 GMT -6
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Go up to a bar in Houghton, Escanaba or Iron Mountain during football season, and the Lions game might be on - but only in the corner, with no one watching it. The Packers games get center stage, surrounded by devout fans wearing Packer sweatshirts, tuuks, and, yes, Cheeseheads. When I asked a reporter why Yoopers are so devoted to the Packers, and not the Lions, he said, The Lions ignore us. They never come up here, or even send us media guides. The Packers love us, and we love them.
Part of the appeal is tradition. The Packers were formed in 1921, the NFL's first season. They got their name when Curly Lambeau asked the Acme Packing Company to buy the team jerseys. The early Packers played teams like the Hammond Pros, the Muncie Flyers and the Columbus Panhandles - apparently a group of cartographically challenged athletes.
All of the NFL's original 21 teams are gone now - except one. Green Bay is by far the smallest city in North America to host any major sports team. It's population finally topped 100,000 for the first time two years ago - making it a little smaller than Ann Arbor. In fact, there are almost 200 American cities that have more people than Green Bay, but have no NFL franchise.
One of those cities is Los Angeles, home to about 13 million people in their market. If Los Angeles used Green Bay's ratio of NFL teams per capita, it would have 130 NFL franchises. Instead, it has none. Six of the league's 30 teams have moved since 1984, the Packers never will, because it's the only franchise in North America owned by its fans.
When a baby is born in Green Bay, two things happen: First, the nurses put a tiny, knitted Packers helmet on its head; second, the parents put their kid on the waiting list for Packers tickets.
Right now there are 57,000 people on the wait list. Since ticket holders pass their seats on to the next generation in their wills, each year only a handful - often less than ten - make it off the list and into the stands.
A familiar joke in the U-P goes like this: A man goes to a Packers game by himself, leaving the seat next to him empty. The people behind him ask why. My wife passed away, he says.
After expressing their admiration for his touching tribute of the empty seat, they gently ask if he might have another relative who would like to sit there.
No, he says, They're all at the funeral.
The unequaled relationship between the Packers and their Backers is perhaps best explained not with numbers, but a little story. A few falls ago, during hunting season, Packer quarterback Brett Favre snuck up north to a friend's cabin for a night. When they went to a local burger place, some patrons asked the waitress to see if Favre might be willing to sign their menus. Favre told the waitress he would do it, but for $20 each. The waitress was stuck. Not knowing quite what to do, she asked Favre, Do you really want me to tell them that?
Tell em it's for a good cause.
By night's end, Favre had signed 32 autographs, collecting a few hundred bucks for his efforts. And the good cause? After Favre left, the waitress looked down at the formica table and discovered a tip of $640.
Can you imagine that happening in Detroit? Neither can I. And that's why our Yooper friends clearly got this one right
Go up to a bar in Houghton, Escanaba or Iron Mountain during football season, and the Lions game might be on - but only in the corner, with no one watching it. The Packers games get center stage, surrounded by devout fans wearing Packer sweatshirts, tuuks, and, yes, Cheeseheads. When I asked a reporter why Yoopers are so devoted to the Packers, and not the Lions, he said, The Lions ignore us. They never come up here, or even send us media guides. The Packers love us, and we love them.
Part of the appeal is tradition. The Packers were formed in 1921, the NFL's first season. They got their name when Curly Lambeau asked the Acme Packing Company to buy the team jerseys. The early Packers played teams like the Hammond Pros, the Muncie Flyers and the Columbus Panhandles - apparently a group of cartographically challenged athletes.
All of the NFL's original 21 teams are gone now - except one. Green Bay is by far the smallest city in North America to host any major sports team. It's population finally topped 100,000 for the first time two years ago - making it a little smaller than Ann Arbor. In fact, there are almost 200 American cities that have more people than Green Bay, but have no NFL franchise.
One of those cities is Los Angeles, home to about 13 million people in their market. If Los Angeles used Green Bay's ratio of NFL teams per capita, it would have 130 NFL franchises. Instead, it has none. Six of the league's 30 teams have moved since 1984, the Packers never will, because it's the only franchise in North America owned by its fans.
When a baby is born in Green Bay, two things happen: First, the nurses put a tiny, knitted Packers helmet on its head; second, the parents put their kid on the waiting list for Packers tickets.
Right now there are 57,000 people on the wait list. Since ticket holders pass their seats on to the next generation in their wills, each year only a handful - often less than ten - make it off the list and into the stands.
A familiar joke in the U-P goes like this: A man goes to a Packers game by himself, leaving the seat next to him empty. The people behind him ask why. My wife passed away, he says.
After expressing their admiration for his touching tribute of the empty seat, they gently ask if he might have another relative who would like to sit there.
No, he says, They're all at the funeral.
The unequaled relationship between the Packers and their Backers is perhaps best explained not with numbers, but a little story. A few falls ago, during hunting season, Packer quarterback Brett Favre snuck up north to a friend's cabin for a night. When they went to a local burger place, some patrons asked the waitress to see if Favre might be willing to sign their menus. Favre told the waitress he would do it, but for $20 each. The waitress was stuck. Not knowing quite what to do, she asked Favre, Do you really want me to tell them that?
Tell em it's for a good cause.
By night's end, Favre had signed 32 autographs, collecting a few hundred bucks for his efforts. And the good cause? After Favre left, the waitress looked down at the formica table and discovered a tip of $640.
Can you imagine that happening in Detroit? Neither can I. And that's why our Yooper friends clearly got this one right