When I was a kid, we used to get up quite early every Sunday morning. The getting up thing was never a favorite of mine, but the eventual payoff was priceless.

We would put on our church clothes, button up our top buttons, and begin the arduous one-hour event that was nothing more to me than a hated precursor to what was in store.

I would watch the hand on my father’s watch obsessively, as it slowly ticked its way around the that big golden dial that always resided on his wrist, hanging on every little movement of the thin second hand as it slowly revolved inside the glass circle.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, the final hymn would play, handshakes would be given, and my brother and I would rush to the car in anticipation of one single thing.

Football.

Immediately after getting home, we would scurry into our rooms to shed the stuffy church attire and swap it for our football shirts. It may have been a Badger shirt that day, or a D.C. Everest football model, but most times, it was a Packer shirt. That is, if it actually happened to be clean, which was rare due to its heavy use.

There was usually an hour until game time, so my brother and I would run outside, grab the Nerf, and hit the backyard. Before we could start playing, there was always a big decision to be made before that first bomb was ever thrown.

Who the hell were we going to be?

I usually removed myself from my own personality and instantly transformed into James Lofton. I was no longer 10-years old. I was a superstar receiver. I was the man, and the crowd in my head chanted my name repeatedly. My brother usually chose to be Jim McMahon, at times even donning the appropriate white headband that was synonymous with the Mac attack.

Shortly thereafter, the play-by-play would begin.

“The snap goes to McMahon, Lofton goes deep, he’s open...McMahon let’s it fly, Lofton makes a leaping grab...TOUCHDOWN”

The resulting six points was immediately followed with an over the back spike, followed by an end-zone dance, or in this case, a dance in what remained of the summer garden as the crowd in our minds showered us with praise.

Although it would appear to be only the two of us, there still were plenty of other adversaries standing in our way. There might not have been 350-pound behemoths to worry about, but we were faced with the most opposing defense ever known to man.

Dog crap.

Somewhere between the 20s, our golden retriever would leave steaming piles of excrement in strategically placed areas on our playing field. We would juke and jive around these piles like Gilbert Brown was hot on our tails. Once in awhile, we were tackled, not feeling the pain of a hit, but rather the stink now stuck on the bottom of our shoes. All we could do was take what we had and use our imagination to fill in the rest.

That my friends, is football.

I have watched the Packer fans slowly disappear this past few weeks. They are sick of losing of course, and again all too quick to dismiss the team they rooted so longingly for last season. Of course it's not over yet, but to most the finality seems to be taking root.

That will not happen here.

I am a Packer fan... and always will be. I have so many Packer shirts and hoodies that I couldn't even count them all if I tried. Every Sunday or Monday is reserved for Packer football. I have not worked during a Packer game in almost twenty years. That trend will live on forever.

You can choose to pursue your fanhood how ever you see fit. For me, it isn't even a question. Win or lose I will wake up tomorrow and bleed green and gold like I have for years. I will continue to religiously fill my fan blog with material and continue to realize that the end of the season only brings us one step closer to the draft.

I am a Packer fan - as I have been since the backyard was my stadium.

It is more than a sport for me - it is life. Life has twists and turns just like every NFL season.

It is about my team, my allegiance, and pursuing my passion like I did outside twenty-five some years ago.

It was the spirit of competition, it was the love of the game, and it was the thrill of victory. It was two kids, throwing around a ball, trying to emulate their ultimate heroes.

That is truly... Packer football.

Be fan enough to dodge the dog crap.

(Stay Tuned)