An Open Letter to Aaron Rodgers

Dear Aaron,

I hope that wherever you are in the world, this letter finds you well. I wanted to take a few minutes to share some things with you, and I’ll send one up to the universe that this somehow makes it way to you via the vast system of tubes to which we’ve now ceded at least 62.5% of our lives.

My message here is straightforward and simple: I’m with you. There are plenty of Packer fans who got your back, no matter the outcome.

I’ve got an interest here, of course. I want you back. I want you hungry. I want you bringing that NoCal swagger to the huddle every possession, strapping on the belt after every touchdown, dancing around the pocket and making impossible 40 yard strikes down the sidelines with seconds remaining to set up the golden leg of Mason Crosby. Yes, I’m talking about the conference playoffs against the Cowboys. I streamed the entire game on a tiny Motorola phone, in the desert of northwestern Kenya, pumping my fist furiously in the air at 3 am as I laid in bed and watched that stroke of unbridled genius.

But as I sit here in my living room and watch the Bucks flail helplessly as the Nets proceed to a two-game advantage, I have to confront reality: this year, in all likelihood, will not be the year the Brewers, Bucks, and Packers accomplish something never done before — the major sport championship trifecta. As someone who spent his childhood nestled under the table listening to Bob Uecker and Pat Hughes throughout the summer, running around the living room to Jim Irwin and Max McGee in the fall, and draining threes on my closet-door nerf hoop to Jim Pashcke and John McGlocklin throughout the winter and spring, this is something of a heartbreak. Never in my life have Wisconsin’s professional sports teams assembled so much talent. Giannis, Khris, Jrue, Brook, Christian, Lorenzo, Brandon, Davante, David, you. Across the board, we’re stacked. And as you know probably better than most, we have high expectations here. Champions or bums.

A few years ago I joked with my family that your game was never the same after you met the Dalai Lama. It got some laughs, but I like to think it’s also a little bit true. It’s a game you play, after all. Sure, it’s big business, and old men throw their millions around to feel powerful, and the rest of us all follow suit because we worship wealth in this country and think anyone who has a decent-sized slice of it must have some special secret to the mysteries of the universe. Yes, I know — millions in contracts, hundreds of millions in media deals, billions when you factor in Vegas, I estimate. But it’s a game. You play. You go out there, and if you’re going to win consistently, you live in this little piece of headspace that says “fuck it”, and you trust your instincts, you push beyond wherever you thought the line was, and you feel absolute ecstasy when you come through.

Maybe it’s because we’re about the same age (you’ve got a few months on me), or maybe it’s because we’re both travelers of similar circumstance — no shortage of family drama, no kids, never married, more than a few relationships that last a bit and then go the way of the dodo. (And oddly, I guess we have a similar type. Something about those brunettes.) As the seconds ticked away from the clock and the Bucs succeeded on to the Super Bowl, I couldn’t help but notice the first thing Tom Brady did — walked to the sideline, reached up, and hugged his son, who wore his number 12 jersey. My mind wanted nothing more than to detest him — this uber-mensch, this bionic, cold, demanding, impenetrable, and ruthless villain. But my heart sang as they embraced and he shared the joy — the ecstasy — of victory with his child.

I don’t know if you saw this. I am probably — almost certainly — projecting a whole lot on to you right now. But permit my indulgence. Let me suggest that maybe you do realize it’s just a game. That there is more — so much more- in this world. Life and death, love and hate, greed and need. There are people who lay their head at night upon stone. People who live with bodies wracked by pain and paralysis, never the beneficiaries of proper medical care. Those who live under the cruel and petty tyranny of brutish men, and those whose life is one of perpetually blurry edges, who never experienced the benefit of corrective lenses.

And your role in it is no more special, no more meaningful, than mine, or the blind child’s, or the migrant farmers. I do suspect your experiences — and yes, meeting the Dalai Lama is included here — have imparted you with a sense of equanimity, which, precious as it may be, has simultaneously dulled your competitive drive. Please don’t mistake this for criticism. Your very awoken sense of being is an inspiration to me. Your passion for the game of Jeopardy; your personal quest for deeper knowledge and good — what St. Ignatius Loyola called the magis; the joy and creative impulses you bring to your community of fellow Packers, in perhaps one of the most patriarchal and circumscribed spaces in modern American society (see picture) — it’s all good.

You are good, my man. I am happy to see you strumming that guitar, letting your hair hang long, and reveling in the love and comfort of your loving partner.

Yes, I’d love to see you back behind Corey Linsley this season, and yes, I believe there is nothing standing between you and the ecstasy of another Super Bowl championship. But — and — yes, it’s also important to honor your heart. And if that takes you elsewhere, well…know that there’s plenty of Packer fans out there who see you, who respect you, and who want you to be your best.

Sincerely,

Greg