Man, what a bummer. We Wisconsinites have just experienced the ultimate trifecta of sports downers – losses by the Badgers, Packers and, of course, the playoff loss by the Brewers. And, to add insult to injury, our local marathon was won by a guy from Illinois. Nothing like kicking us while we’re down.

 

Here in our household, we had the good (or bad) fortune to experience two of these maudlin moments – I was at the Brewer game Sunday with a friend and my husband was at the Packer game. Thanks to the wonders of text messaging, we were able to have a digital conversation that went something like this:

 

Me: Suppan just gave up a three-run homer in the third.

 

Him: The Packers can’t stop the Falcons.

 

Me: We’re losing 5-0.

 

Him: We’re losing 27-17.

 

Me:  It’s over here.

 

Him: Done here too.

 

Sigh. No joy in Mudville…or Milwaukee or Green Bay or Madison.

 

But I hate being a glass half-empty kind of girl. I need a positive thought or two upon which I can hang my hat. So here goes. My feeble attempt to blow sunshine into a room out of which all the happiness has been removed. My top ten reasons to still be happy about Wisconsin sports:

 

10. Ryan Braun is signed to a long-term contract.

9. The Bucks are still undefeated.

8. 186 Days till Opening Day.

7. The Brewers open at home against the Cubs, meaning there’s a good chance that for once, Miller Park will not be “Wrigley North.”

6. If you don’t have season tickets, this is an excellent time to get seats at a Packer game.

5. We won’t have that dilemma about whether to watch playoff baseball or our favorite TV shows.

4. Unlike other states, our legislators aren’t arguing the pros and cons of building a new stadium. Oh wait. I forgot about the Bradley Center.

3. It would be a stretch, but the Packers could still match last season’s record.

2. There’s no wait for tables at TGI Friday’s at Miller Park.

1. The Brewers won one more playoff games than the Cubs who were SWEPT. Ahhh….

 

What about you? What are you looking forward to in local sports?

 

It seems like everyone I know has Olympic fever. They’re watching and talking about the Olympics more than ever before. And how could you not watch them non-stop? They’re everywhere. I mean, really. They’re on NBC, USA Network, Oxygen, MSNBC, Universal HD and of course, online all the time.

 

Count me among the folks that are just a little bit befuddled by this Olympic experience. I think the problem is that I missed the opening ceremonies, a.k.a. the gateway to Olympic addiction. I was out that night and forgot to record it. I tuned in as the guy lighting the torch was walking along the top of the Bird’s Nest. Let me tell you, Peter Pan’s got nothing on that guy.

 

Since then, I’ve tried to watch the Olympics, many times. But every time I tune in, I either get boxing (which hurts me to watch), a water polo match, (a ridiculously hard sport that's pretty boring to watch) or a replay of a sport where the results have been splashed all over the internet. Or, I get all excited about an event, only to find that I’m watching a HEAT. Sorry, but nothing could be less exciting to me than a heat. Sort of like pre-season football or spring training. (I know it counts more, but if the athletes don’t care about finishing first, then I don’t either.)

 

I’m a huge sports fan, but in this day and age of instant information, it’s incredibly tough to get engaged in a medal competition when I can walk over to my computer and find out who won. I just don’t have that much self-control.

 

And NBC has tried their darnedest to ratchet up the drama. They’ve done background mini-documentaries, complete with tear-jerking music, on virtually every U.S. athlete. Perhaps that’s the problem for me. They over-prepared. Rather than allowing us to experience the real drama as it unfolded, they had to spoon-feed it to us until we practically gagged on it.

 

Then there’s the big kahuna - Michael Phelps. It’s not his fault. There’s no denying the fact that he’s one of the most amazing athletes of all time and I congratulate him and wish him the very best. I just wish they could have dialed down the over-the-top hysteria and just let us see it as it happened - without the anatomical diagrams explaining why his giant feet and short legs make him such an uber-athlete. I’m going to say this and it might be un-American: I’m Phelps-ed out.

 

In defense of NBC, how else do you fill HOURS of prime-time television? The time difference of 13 hours makes it unrealistic to show anything in real time. I guess they just crossed their fingers and hoped that people were OK with seeing their sporting events on tape delay. I can’t explain why I’m not. Perhaps it’s just the cynic in me.

 

Maybe the problem isn’t so much the viewing as it is the listening. I imagine Al Trautwig, Tim Daggett and Rowdy Gaines clutching their NBC-issued Official Glossary of Adjectives as they attempt to explain to us how a seemingly small mistake is really “disastrous” or “catastrophic.” Meanwhile, Bela Karolyi, whose wife coaches the U.S. Women’s gymnasts, makes absolutely no attempt to appear unbiased in his commentary. I guess that’s OK, because I’m rooting for the U.S. women too, but perhaps he shouldn’t be a regular “fixture” in the studio.

 

Bob Costas, who I usually like a lot, has really disappointed me this time in his role as NBC’s Olympic ring-master. I have never seen a more awkward moment on television than the split triple screen with Costas, Phelps and Mark Spitz. Rather than asking Spitz something mildly compelling like: “How does it feel to no longer be THE Olympic guy?”, he lobbed softballs and instead went for: “Mark, what do you think of what Michael has done?” Gee Bob, what did you think he was going to say? It was all just so painfully predictable as the two multi-medalists practically wrenched their shoulders patting each other on the back.

 

Now that I’ve totally rained on the Olympic parade, I’ll say that the other day I was brought to tears by the Olympics. It was the medal ceremony for the 55 kilogram wrestling weight class. The gold medal winner was Henry Cejudo of the U.S. who was apparently a surprise medalist. As our national anthem played, the announcers deftly explained that Cejudo is the son of illegal immigrants who had never slept in his own bed until he arrived at Olympic training camp. At that moment, I choked up and beamed with American pride as both Cejudo and his father had tears in their eyes.

 

Now that’s the kind of Olympic moment that I love.

  

Next time, I think we’ll just do lunch.

 

It all started about a year ago. My grade school friend, Margie, and I were trading e-mails at the end of the 2007 baseball season.

 

“Tell the Brewers to stop winning!” she pleaded.

 

“Not a chance,” I replied.

 

“Next summer, we should go to a game in Milwaukee,” she suggested.

 

At that point, I should have politely declined and offered to meet her at Six Flags. I hate roller coasters, but even that would have been more fun than yesterday.

 

Thursday afternoon, I took Margie to the Brewers’ game. I refuse to call it a Cubs’ game even though the crowd was at least 80% Chicago fans. (It was a day game. Don’t these people have jobs?!)

 

A month ago, this outing seemed like a very bad idea.

 

Last weekend, it seemed like a great idea.

 

Monday – less great.

 

Tuesday – um, well….

 

Wednesday – oh no!

 

Still, this was my old friend who I hadn’t seen in a long time. We grew up together on the north side of Chicago. We wore the same ugly plaid uniforms at St. Mary of the Woods grade school. We sat at our high school lunch table together. Back then, Margie made green Rice Krispy treats for everyone’s birthday. We’d catch up on old times and she’d make it fun, right?

 

When we entered Miller Park, Margie and I apparently looked like an odd couple. She in her Cubs’ t-shirt and hat and me in my really cool Brewers’ jersey. (I now hate the fact that this jersey just happens to be Cubbie blue. Dang it!) The Miller Park employees and vendors shot me pitiful glances, as if to say: “I’m sorry. Did you lose a bet or something?”

 

I knew it would be tough, but I never expected the force and number of Cubs’ fans that I encountered at Thursday’s game. I felt like the proverbial salmon swimming upstream against the tide of giant “Cs” and Chicago apparel. But I hung on to the hope that MY home team could send them back to Illinois, crestfallen and sorely disappointed. Alas, that was not to be.

 

At first the game looked like it could be a fair contest, until the home runs started…the Cubs’ home runs. Margie would clap loudly, stand up and then bend over and say: “I’m sorry!” “No you’re not,” I’d reply with a false grin hiding my grim demeanor.

 

And then the text messages started rolling in. First it was Margie’s sister: “Hey! The Brewers just traded CC and Sheets for Santo! Edmunds rocks!” Then it was our grade school friend, Liz, who sat with a bus-full of flatlanders in the nosebleed section. “Sorry for the delay in my response to your last message. I was distracted by the GRAND SLAM!”

 

Man, this was a very bad idea.

 

In the middle of the 8^th inning, when I could no longer sit and watch the massacre, I suggested that we wander up to visit Liz and her friends. Great idea, right? How much worse could things get?

 

My jersey and I walked up the steep steps into their section and I was greeted by a rousing chorus of boos and jeers as I valiantly waved my newly acquired Brewers’ car flag. This emboldened group, fueled by victory and alcohol, questioned my allegiances, my heritage and my ability to cheer for a team from Milwaukee.

 

“The Cubs never did anything for me when I lived there,” I started.

 

“I’ve lived here longer than I lived in Chicago,” I continued.

 

“They built me a stadium!,” I finally added, somewhat desperately. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” They agreed and said they really, really liked Miller Park. I would too if I were them.

 

Then they made feeble attempts to console me: “Karen, this will be great. The Cubs will win the division. The Brewers will win the wild card and then the Cubs will win the World Series. Everybody’s happy!” Um, sure. You did well in logic class in college, didn’t you pal?

 

Finally, it ended. Margie and I waded through the Cubs’ merchandise, the stupid Cubs’ victory songs and the “W” flags (apparently their fans need single-letter explanations for the outcome of a game – perhaps the Tribune sports page is too complicated?) And of course there were the brooms. Yes, we know. You swept us. Now go home. Your mommy needs to clean up the kitchen.

 

In the end, I’m a die-hard Brewers’ fan. There’s no turning back. The truth is, I’m jealous of their over-the-top euphoria. I’d like to think that we Milwaukeeans would handle it a little less obnoxiously, but I don’t really know that. All I really do know is that there’s only one way to stop this humiliation – just win baby.

 

In the meantime, Margie and I will stick to lunch….or roller coasters.

  

I have heard that retirement, like many major changes in life, is tough. One day you’re an important cog in the wheel. The next, you’re spending your mornings at Walgreens waiting for your prescriptions, at a time of day when you used to be in meetings.

 

My father and my late father-in-law spent decades on their careers. And although their jobs took different paths (my dad in marketing and my father-in-law in medicine), they had one thing in common. They dreaded retirement. How would they define themselves without a job title? They eventually figured it out, but it took years.

 

Now, we Packer fans have a front-row seat for Brett Favre’s own late career crisis. The player most likely to create drama on the field has brewed up a perfect storm of controversy pitting himself and his legacy against Packers GM, Ted Thompson.

 

Brett, I know it’s tough to retire, but you should be ashamed of yourself.

 

Let me back up and tell you that I am one of the biggest Brett Favre fans there is. When everyone else in my house booed his interceptions, I continued to cheer him on. We all have bad days on the job, right? I was continually impressed with his team-first attitude, despite professional and personal challenges. Oh and one more thing: I do not blame Favre for the NFC Championship loss to the Giants. Sorry, no. It takes an entire team to lose.

 

Today, my feelings have changed. (About Favre, not that frigid game.)

 

Favre has single-handedly put the Packers in a no-win situation. He points the finger at the team administration for asking him to make a decision before the draft. Can you blame them? The team’s job is to look to the future and prepare for the upcoming season. It is not their job to look out for Favre and twiddle their thumbs while he rides his tractor and mulls over his choices.

 

He has changed his mind several times since his retirement press conference. And rather than answer to the rumors swirling about, he allowed his brother and his mother to talk to the media. C’mon Brett. Do your own talking.

 

What bothers me most is that everything Favre has done demonstrates that he feels he is more important than the team. The good ole boy from Mississippi apparently has a sizeable ego. He doesn’t want to be traded, he just wants to be released. He won’t be a backup ($12 million for holding a clipboard - nice work if you can get it) and he doesn’t feel like he should have to compete for the starting job.

 

And to add to the drama, Favre is supposed to be in town this weekend to help induct Frank Winters into the Packer Hall of Fame. Poor Frankie Bag O’ Doughnuts. His big day of celebration just became a media circus all about Brett. Way to go, gunslinger.

 

I heard former Packer wide receiver Don Beebe on the radio the other day. He had a great suggestion: Favre shows up at training camp and proves that he is humble enough to get out there with the rest of the guys and compete for his position. This will force the Packers’ hand and make him look like the all-around great guy we thought he was. They’ll either have to reinstate him as a starter, trade him or release him.

 

For those who have said that the Packers owe Favre his release or his job back, I disagree. Favre has always been paid handsomely and, in turn, has performed commensurate to his salary. Both sides upheld their ends of the bargain. That’s it. Favre gets the endless accolades for ever and ever. But to bow to his every whim, at the expense of the future of the franchise, is just plain foolish. To let him go and get nothing in return would be, in my opinion, a poor fiscal decision for the team.

 

There are no winners in Favre’s self-created soap opera. His legacy has been forever tarnished. The Packers are damned if they do, damned if they don’t. It didn’t have to be this way. If Favre had just left us wanting more and moved on to pursue other hobbies, I think we’d all be happier. I would much rather remember him in that last heartbreaking game, leaving it all out on the field, than hear him whining to Greta Van Susteren on Fox News. (What? Was ESPN’s Chris Mortensen busy or just tired of the theatrics?)

 

Now, we’re just left with the name of a popular Tom Petty song:

 

Brett, “Stop draggin’ my heart around.”

They call this time of year March Madness, and that, I love. If you give me a choice, I will always choose college basketball over the NBA.

 

In college, every game, give or take a cupcake or two, means something. The players play from the tip-off to the final buzzer, leaving it all out on the court.

 

In the NBA, they start to bring their A-game, oh in about April, so you still have some time to rest up for the playoffs. (Oh wait. There won’t be any playoffs here in Milwaukee. More about that later.) A typical SportsCenter highlight of an NBA game consists of nine guys standing around, while one guy shoots a three-pointer…uncontested. Yawn.

 

One final thought on the NBA here in Milwaukee. Is anyone else as bewildered as I am that the Bucks continue to run their print ads in the sports section with the tagline: The Milwaukee Bucks – Where Amazing Happens? Right. Amazing as in “it’s amazing that the general manager didn’t get fired until this past week.”

 

Anyway, like so many others, I have filled out my NCAA brackets. I expect to be soundly beaten by far more savvy college basketball experts and probably somebody’s 10- year old daughter who chose winners based on uniforms. Nevertheless, I find it endlessly entertaining.

 

Along with March Madness, we are also having one of the earliest Easter Sundays in many, many years….and it’s snowing…a lot. Gone are those dreams of taking walks in new spring apparel while we happily gaze at the blooming daffodils. Not gonna happen this year. That, my friends, is the true March Madness.

 

For many years, my family and I have had a tradition of playing the soundtrack to Jesus Christ Superstar in our car pre-Easter. I guess because it’s the perfect soundtrack to the season. I vividly remember buying this album in grade school and being very worried that the nuns would confiscate it and send us to confession. They actually liked it…and to this day, so do I. It never fails to impress me with its brilliance and beauty.

 

And so, on that note, I leave you, my readers, with an Easter egg of my own. (Not to be confused with a hidden bonus feature on a DVD.) If you click on this link, you’ll hear one of the gifts that my kids gave our family this past Christmas. It’s a recording of “I Don’t Know How To Love Him” from Jesus Christ Superstar. (I know – shameless offspring promotion.) This just seems like the right time to share this. My daughter, Maria, on lead vocals, my son, Dan, on harmony and guitar. (They're going to kill me. Oh well.)

 

Enjoy and Happy Easter!

  

I sat and watched, riveted, with a box of Kleenex by my side. He cried. I cried. I’m sure that most of Packer nation cried. Suffice it to say, you’d have to be a cold, hard soul not to shed a tear or two.

 

I’m speaking, of course, about Brett Favre’s press conference this afternoon to announce his retirement.

 

As a Packer fan, I needed to hear what he had to say. As a sports radio listener, I needed him to answer the many questions that have been bouncing around. He did, with a surprising amount of candor, especially when asked what he would do next.

 

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”

 

Frankly, he seemed to be feeling the way most of us are feeling – a little lost.

 

And so begins the next era of the Green Bay Packers and Stage 2 in the life of Brett Favre, everyday guy.

 

Look, the man has led a charmed, yet blindingly public life. He’s climbed to great heights in professional sports and reached great depths in personal tragedy. His life is a Disney movie waiting to be written. We, and he, just don’t know the ending.

 

I know that many of you are really tired of hearing about this. There’s even a Facebook group called “Stop the Brett Favre Insanity and Report Some Actual News.” I have to say, I agree. On the other hand, collectively, we’re all having a tough time moving on. But in the interest of local public health, I’d like to try.

 

First of all, let’s all remind ourselves that the man did not die, something you would think if you saw 1/10 of the coverage in the past few days. He’s alive and well. He’ll survive without us, so we should be able to survive without him.

 

Secondly, hello! We knew this day was coming. It just happened a bit unexpectedly, but that’s pure Favre, through and through. Just when you think he won’t, he does.

 

Finally, I like the analogy that Brett used in the press conference. He said that Deanna said it to him the other day.

 

“It’s time to look at life through the front windshield instead of the rear view mirror,” he said.

 

Wise words indeed. Let’s all give it a try. Or think of it this way: If Brett can do it, so can I.

I blame the Boca Burgers. Perhaps he’s low on protein. A little too much Tofu?

 

How else to explain why Prince Fielder has messed with the delicate Brewer fan base at a time of unprecedented pre-season adoration. One of Wisconsin’s favorite sons has gone all Sterling Sharpe on us and started whining about his contract before the bases are even loaded.

 

On the one hand, I can’t say I blame him. The guy’s proven himself. He’s a force to be reckoned with who has become his own human highlight reel. On the other hand, don’t ya think it hurts just a little bit more because we don’t fancy our stars this way here in the land of cheese?

 

We like to think our home run hitters are home-grown and come complete with an aw-shucks-that’s-plenty-of-money-thank-you-attitude. This isn’t New York, so the egos should be checked at the door, right?

 

Um, apparently, no. This is 2008 and the bigger they play, the bigger we pay.

 

So Prince and his agent have dropped this giant publicity stunt, smack-dab on the front page of today’s sports section. Pretty savvy actually. The deal was renewed last spring. Yet Prince has chosen this spring, when we’re still fresh from NFC Championship heartbreak and hoping beyond hope that this is the year that we take back “Wrigley North” from the Cubs’ fans and claim the division and a playoff spot in grand fashion.

 

Prince knows we want it bad. He knows this will strike fear in the hearts of the Bucket Brigade. He knows we’re tired of watching pennant races filled with the names of former Brewers. Please Mark Attanasio. Let’s not add Prince’s name to that list.

 

But contract negotiations, like baseball, are a bit of a game. It’s he-said, they-said with a dash of revisionist history thrown in.

 

So let’s hope this blows over. Let’s cross our fingers that somebody steals that copy of Skinny **** from Prince’s locker and grills him a big, fat sirloin. Maybe then he won’t be so cranky.

 

Because although it’s going to snow again this week, Opening Day is barely a month away.

 

Please, Prince. Don’t mess with destiny. If you build it, we will come.

 

 

*Skinny *** is supposedly the book that Prince Fielder's wife gave him which started him on his Veggie Tales.

For the first time ever, I sat and watched the entire Super Bowl and even some of the pre-game. No special reason. Just a quiet Sunday afternoon. You didn’t ask for it and you’re probably SO past it, but here are my unsolicited thoughts on Sunday’s Super Bowl:

 

I was interested, then shocked, then depressed by the commercial aired by TicketToHope.com, a.k.a. “12 Minutes to Die.” If you missed it, the commercial showed a businessman preparing for his workday. We’re told that he will die in 12 minutes. The good news is, he’s insured his family. The bad news is he hasn’t insured his soul. Wow.

 

I’m sorry, but what’s up with the faux dramatic recitation of the Declaration of Independence before the game? In 2002 (post 9/11), it made perfect sense. In 2008, it seemed overly staged. Oh wait. The Patriots were playing. I get it.

 

The Audi Godfather spot completely missed the mark. My first response was: “Huh?” Too bad. The car looks pretty cool.

 

I’m consistently entertained by the Fox network ads, especially those for House and Prison Break.

 

Paula, Paula, Paula…(insert snarky Simon comment here.) Honey, you should stay behind the desk. Really.

 

This just in – there was a wardrobe malfunction and it occurred on Bill Belichick. The dark lord of NFL coaches chose a bright red sweatshirt with hacked-off sleeves. I’m sorry, this man makes how much money? They can’t afford a tailor to create something slightly less sloppy? (Oh and a very unclassy move to leave before the game was over, Bill.)

 

Two commercial winners – Diet Pepsi Max and Bud Light. Even if every one of their ads wasn’t perfect, I’ll always stop what I’m doing and pay attention.

 

Two phrases that I’ll never use in my everyday conversation: “Curve the bullet” and “Silence the stain.” Still, it’s fun to think about the possibilities.

 

I think we knew the Patriots’ dynasty was in danger when we saw Gisele Bundchen, a.k.a. Tom Brady’s girlfriend, drinking wine in her luxury box. I’m sorry. That just seemed wrong.

 

The Planters Cashews “Unibrow” spot was creepy and hilarious. So was the E-Trade talking baby.

 

I know it’s my demographic and they did a decent job, but even I think that Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers seemed like a stale choice for a halftime show. Seriously, did anyone believe that the fake fans that surrounded the stage had any idea who the bearded old man was? Note to the No Fun League: I think it’s safe to book someone a little more current.

 

Finally…the game. It was, undoubtedly, the best Super Bowl I have ever watched. I didn’t think I cared. But from the beginning, I decided that I was tired of the Patriots premature coronation as the best team ever. I cheered loudly and often for the Giants. Especially after Tom Brady snubbed Eli Manning pre-game. (Did you see it?) All in all, it was worth watching.

 

Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.

Feeling frustrated and looking for something to attribute the Brewers’ late season decline? It’s me. It’s OK. I can take it. Here’s how it happened.

It was August 13, 2007, a bright and sunny day. My daughter and I headed over to Miller Park. The Brewers were not there, which is exactly why we were there. With a brand, spankin’ new driver’s permit in her pocket, my daughter was anxious to begin honing her behind-the-wheel skills. Miller Park, with its acres of empty parking lot, provided the perfect first-time test.

After a few fits and starts, we decided that we had earned a lunch at Friday’s Front Row Grill, inside the stadium. Next to Friday’s is The Fan Zone Store, filled with lots and lots of Brewers’ apparel and merchandise. This is exactly where it all started.

That fateful day, my daughter and I bought Brewers’ shirts. We actually bought shirts for everyone in the family. And, of course, why wouldn’t we? Things with the Brew Crew were going well. Pennant fever was in the air. And so I purchased the most ridiculously overpriced piece of team apparel I will ever own. An old school/old logo Brewer shirt.

How expensive was it? I won’t tell you, but it caused my husband to ask: “You didn’t really pay that much for that shirt, did you?” I don’t know what I was thinking. I offered to take it back which he nixed. I should have done it. I think it has jinxed the team.

Although the Brewers have won more than they have lost since I purchased The Shirt, I still have yet to wear it. Everyone else has worn theirs, which is why I blame myself. I kept waiting to wear it in triumph of our playoff hopes shining brighter and brighter. The opposite is happening. The light at the end of the tunnel is growing dimmer each day. The shirt hangs in my closet with tags still attached, taunting me.

Meanwhile, back in Illinois, where I grew up a Cubs’ fan by geography and circumstance, my almost-77-year old father sits at home watching his beloved Cubbies. This is where it all gets murky. How can I cheer against my father? How can I applaud when the thing that he would want most in his sports fan lifetime could possibly happen? I have to tell you, my Catholic guilt is waging war with my shiny new allegiance to the Brew Crew.

I haven’t yet worn The Shirt, feeling like it’s filled with empty promises and unfulfilled glory. How can I wear it with any amount of swagger when our playoff chances diminish with each passing day?

So here’s where it stands: I’m still cheering for the Brewers. I want them to win, but it doesn’t look good. And if the Cubs win the NL Central and go far in the playoffs, I’ll be quietly OK with it…for my dad. Very quietly. Because sitting on the couch next to me will be my husband - the die-hard Brewers fan/Cubs hater who drove 1,500 miles to watch The Crew when they were in their one and only world series in 1982. I have to be quiet about it - he paid for The Shirt.