It's football season, and in our house, we fly the Green and Gold. My husband is a diehard fan. We are engaged in the state pasttime of wondering if Bret Favre's un-joining the Oneida Golf club really means he's retiring, or if former Viking nemesis Randy Moss will don a Packer uniform next year. (Interesting emotion, envy. When Moss played for Minnesota my husband called him a cancer to the team. Now he views him as a possible savior.)
This year, the Packers were slow to gain momentum, had a team full of rookies and didn't make the playoffs. My husband's main wish is that the Chicago Bears don't win. I love Chicago, the city. I can't stand Chicago, the fans. But no, I don't wear a cheesehead!
I'm torn on this one. I love Lovey -- the man and the name. I love that he had the guts to state that his main goal was beating the Packers. I also have no small amount of nostalgia for the 1985-86 team, led by Jim McMahon. They won the Super Bowl during the time I was in Paris -- and feeling more American than even I cared to admit. (Homesickness being what it is.) No hard feelings given our long-standing rivalry.
It was also concurrent to the space shuttle exploding and I recall being so shocked to be witnessing the videotape of it while eating in a Mexican restaurant (read: American) surrounded by other Americans. It was one of a few moments for me that is an "I'll always remember when..."
So, to our archenemies, I say, "Good Luck." Or should I say, "Good luck getting past the Saints, and then the Patriots."
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