Well, it sure is good to be back etching in the Union Log, ‘cause idle pencils in my neck of Wisconsin means the off-season for the Green and Gold. Bless ‘em. And after last season, the quiet spell of summertime has perpetuated itself far too long. But, so it goes.
The wretched pain of a 12-loss season has instilled upon me a whole heap-load of horrible anguish. Such as I haven’t felt since my old Newfoundland, Don Majkowski II, passed in the autumn of two-thousand and two. Not even them Milwaukee B’s or them damn garden vermint out back have been able to distract me from this fact. Just rotten.
Sure, we had Brett’s soap-operatic, and the big regime change (finally) to tide us over in the meantime, but hell, I thought these days of sub-mediocrity were long and far behind us. So I thought. After a return to glory over the past decade plus, losing in such a fashion sure stings. Stings like a zippy bumble-buzzer bite on the chin.
But don’t you folks worry sicknesses anymore. Pre-season hollers. And with it scampers the bittersweeted-ness long nestled amongst my wrinkley in-sides. Today, I write with optimism in my pockets.
It’s like Brett said during his first press conference of the season: This year’s team is the most talented one he’s been a part of, ever. Maybe he’s getting senile in his old age. Maybe I am too. But at this moment, I’ve got nothing but hope and a batch of pickled pike in the ice-box.
So with the next season now officially underway, I’ll make a prediction from my heart and my rocking-chair: Perfect season. 16 and ‘oh. Champions of the world and the whole whiz-bang.Until next week, then.
F.G., circa 1929
