Dear Brett…

Dear Brett,
Words cannot explain the anguish that you continue to dish onto your once, very loyal ‘Packer Nation’.
Spoken as a true Packer fan and born and raised in a state where the blood of a Wisconsin native only runs the colors of green and gold – I am heartbroken.
We lived for years by the talent of your one armed, sideways, back handed throws.  The game depended on your mood, your hail marys and your unbelievable ability to throw with your eyes closed.  We stood by you through seasons of interceptions and gut wrenching last minute plays that lost us many chances to return to the superbowl.
But yet, we revered you still as our hero until your very last game as a Packer.  We cried the same tears you did the day you gave your ESPN speach telling us that the game of football was all that you were ever in the sport for, when you hung your green and gold number for retirement.
We would have laid down on the tracks for you – hell, we would have kicked any one off the next bar stool just to buy you a beer.  We named streets after you, my goodness you meant so much that grown men tatooed your name and number across their chests to stand in sub zero temperatures on game day just to express their undying love for you – hey man, you could have been considered for the position as Wisconsin’s next governor.
And now, my old friend, I’m afraid – I wouldn’t even lend you a quarter to call someone who cared.  I’m so tired of hearing your name, I turn the television channel every time your face appears.  I huff at the thought of you – as a betraying Minnesota Viking – in purple – wearing the #4 across your jersey.  Really?
I’m a wine writer, not a sportswriter, but I figured that this was important enough to say – not enough wine could help drown the sorrow that I have knowing that I will, most likely, have to sit next year watching you stand in a position of purple.  It’s sad to say, but I will have to resort to drinking California Zinfandel to help soften the blow.  Something thick and undeniably sweet, comercialized and overwhelmingly saturated for the public’s taste.  Something with drama and without much restraint – there for the public to enjoy, yet not one that is worthy enough to hang around for the next decade.  There are a couple of California Zins that come to mind, you know the ones – started out family owned and now have used their success to sell themselves out for more…  I think you get the point.  Just as there as many good zins in the world that hold true to structure, the same is true of honest sports heroes – they are few and far between anymore.
It will be a cold damn day in Minnesota when I raise a glass of Zinfandel to my old hero – good luck, Brett Favre – Mr. Minnesota Viking – and good riddins!
Signed,
Heartbroken Packer Fan