A friend posted a Cat in the Hat meme that said:
“Will it rain?
Will it snow?
I live in Wisconsin!
I do not know!”
I responded:
I do not know,
nor do I care.
I will go out
everywhere.
Snow is good,
sun is fun,
and we like
the combination!
I will eat cheese.
You will drink beer.
And we’ll not know
the time of year.
We do not fret,
we do not fuss.
We will hang out,
just the Wisconsinus.
Folks who are not from/
Wisconsin gripe about one/
mosquito. Cheese laughs.
They came,
seeking a new life
for themselves,
for their children.
Hoping
for something better.
Not knowing
they would be the first
cheeseheads.
I stood,
having passed the old cemetery
many times,
at last,
at their graves,
and wept.
A surreal
central Wisconsin
sunset moment,
a circle completed,
their names on headstones,
my face on photos
to show I was there.
I wept more,
blessed them
for their vision,
cleaned off their markers,
scrubbed their names:
“John”. “Father”.
“Victoria”. “Mother.”
They were born and died
centuries ago,
but their dreams
and hopes
are alive,
still,
in me,
on a rural Wisconsin hill.
Do they know
how much we,
seven generations
or more,
appreciate
and thank
them?
St. Killian Old Irish Cemetery,
Highway 83 east of Hartford.
I found them at last.
“Danke sehr, Victoria and John Kuntz.
Ya done good.”
Understanding who/
you are means accepting and/
embracing your roots.
Please don’t judge me for/
wearing my Cheesehead hat. I/
went to church early.
Wearing my Cheesehead over my Seahawks’ hat, my Packers’ jersey over my #12 Seahawks’ jersey, driving top down up I-15, I waved at some guy in a jacked-up pickup truck with HUGE wheels.
Then, one of the great pleasures ever as he passed: Seeing that the truck had a Dallas Cowboys bumper sticker.
Do you think he’s overcompensating?
The question is not/
which outfit I shall wear/
on Super Bowl Sunday/
in Arizona.
Which garb will make me/
sweat the most
under the blazing
Phoenix sun.
Which team will have
my heart
and my throat,
and that, loudly,
the first Super February day.
That Super choice will be made
by forces far outside
my control:
Legion of Boom versus
The Receivers.
Wilson’s legs versus
Aaron’s calf.
Clay + AJ versus
The Line.
Beast Mode versus
his heir apparent.
The exuberant Peter Pan boy-man verses
“Hide Your Mic, Mike!”
Green and Gold versus
“I can’t even name those colors!”,
Lambeau Loud versus
The CLink Quake.
No, that Super choice will be made
by the two warrior groups,
two Sundays prior,
and whoever is there,
that garb shall I wear,
loving both,
cheering for them
(because the Pats
and Luck
suck.
“You mad, Bro?”)
But the question,
the conundrum,
the true choice,
is much more difficult,
poignant,
heart-felt,
painful:
The NFC Championship looms tomorrow.
One team is my birthright.
Generations
of Lake Michigan water fed.
Proclaimed on my license plate frame,
I am an NFL Owner.
A folk hero full back leaves
the “S” off his name.
My father and grandfather
attended the Ice Bowl.
My dad met Nitschke.
My mother met Lambeau.
I call my father
after every score.
I cheered for them
in the Snow Bowl.
I have Brett’s autograph.
My daughter threatened a “12”
who swiped my cheesehead
during the “Fail Mary” game,
the same cheesehead which rolls
when my top is down,
up I-15.
The Packers are my legacy.
The other team,
adopted,
is infused in my blood.
How could I help it?
I was drinking Cascade clear water
for more than 25 years,
proudly waving my 12 flag,
having my number retired,
watching my children grow up
in the Evergreen State,
Largent 80 and
Alexander 37
jersey clad,
sneaking across the street
to watch the games
at friends’ houses
on restricted Sabbath Days
(did we make a mistake?),
in the bar yelling “BEAST MODE! GRAB IT!”
5 yards before the
back leap into the end zone,
writing a defense of
the LOB,
“LOB BABY!”
and RS 25
defense,
wearing a ‘Hawks/Sounders minion hat,
knowing I’m a 12.
What garb will I wear?
Who will I show for?
The choice is clear.
I know where my heart is.
But, underneath,
my second team will
be repped.
Because, no matter the outcome,
I win.
Update after the Seahawks pulled off an incredible come-from-behind overtime win
The voice of experience
has taught me otherwise, now:
When your team is way ahead,
and implodes at the end
to loose,
you feel bad.
Sick.
Like you got kicked in the stomach.
And it will take phone calls
to your kids,
and a video
of your friends celebrating
to make you feel
a
little
better.
But,
no matter what,
you can hate
the Patriots.
GO HAWKS!
News Report: Temperatures in Northeast Wisconsin were expected to only reach -6 degrees, with wind chills of -25 degrees or less.
To some, it’s just a /
scruffy beard. Cheeseheads know: It’s/
frostbite protection.
While I’m getting ready/
to fly out,
a sophisticated,
jet-setting
Mercedes-driving couple
sees my cheesehead,
my John Kuhn autographed Packers jersey,
my Wisconsin wool and leather letterman’s jacket,
and my Packers shopping bag
(filled with cheese
and summer sausage.)
They smile,
and then exclaim: “We like your style!”
Ja, hey!
I’m in Wisconsin,
aina?!?
If I’m packing to/
fly to Wisconsin, does that/
make me a Packer?