In Green Bay, everybody just turns the crank on the phone and shares the same party line. The only Caller ID in town is when you recognize the voice of the neighbor who is yelling out his window. In Dallas, the oil bidness means trying to strike a multimillion-dollar deal. In Green Bay, it means checking under your hood at the full-service station where they still pump your gas, too. In San Francisco, they discuss their wine ad nauseam while eating overpriced entrees with dainty names at chichi restaurants.
Dinner is a six-pack and a bratwurst at the bowling alley.
There are no end-zone dances, just the exhilarating joy of the Lambeau Leap. You take Manhattan and the glittering neon signs on the Great White Way. I'll take Green Bay and all of the old war stories down at the Sullivan-Wallen American Legion Post 11 on Sal Street. It used to be Starr and Nitschke and Jim Taylor and Jerry Kramer and Paul Hornung and Lombardi. Now, it is Favre and White and Sean Jones and Robert Brooks and Dorsey Levens and Mike Holmgren.