Packer Prepping : It’s as Much of a Ritual in Green Bay as the Toss of the Coin

When you watch Sunday’s playoff game between the Packers and the Carolina Panthers at Green Bay’s Lambeau Field, take a good look at the fans.

Notice that beneath the cheesehead hats you can see their breath, like smoke, against the frigid January day, and that most look as if they’re wearing all the clothes they own.

Notice, too, that they’re having a great time.

I know this because just a few weeks ago, this Wisconsinite-turned-Californian was sitting right there.

Attending dead-of-winter Packer games at Lambeau is a family ritual that I had always passed on. My preference was to sit by the fireside and watch on TV, hot chocolate in hand.

But just days before Christmas, I found myself at a sub-freezing tailgate party, huddling over a Weber grill filled with sizzling bratwurst, holding a ticket to the Packer-Viking game and wondering where I was going to find some cardboard.

The cardboard, I had been told, would be necessary to keep feet from freezing to the stadium’s concrete floor.

When it comes to Lambeau Field, the cliche is accurate. It does look like frozen tundra. Looking out, it was impossible to find the horizon between the snow and the bleak, pale gray of the sky.

Most Packer fans, however, have held season tickets in their families since the Eisenhower administration, and the worse the weather, the happier they are.

They still talk proudly about being at the famous “Ice Bowl” of 1967, when it was 16 below zero, the field was frozen and the stands were packed as Bart Starr quarterback-sneaked a yard to the winning touchdown in the last minute as the Packers beat the Dallas Cowboys, 21-17, for their third consecutive NFL title.

They keep statistics in Green Bay on how many games are won when the temperature falls below 35 degrees.

This was one of those days.

The temperature reading on a nearby bank clock was 31 degrees, and that was just the start. Figure in the wind-chill factor and it felt much colder. Add in some precipitation and you abandon all hope of being comfortable.

On this day, there was a light dusting of snow and the sun never appeared. Residents considered it a perfect day for a football game. Some even said it was “balmy” for December.

Preparing for the game is a ritual unto itself. I began with a trip to Fleet Farm, a Midwestern chain store that sells hunting gear, automotive supplies, ice-melting compounds, Weber grills . . . all manner of things. Its farm department, for instance, sells calf vaccines, udder wash and Dr. Naylor’s teat dilators. You could spend a day in there just marveling at the things you never knew existed.

But this is where you go to get the clothes that do the heavy lifting. You need socks that wick moisture away from the skin. You need woollies. You need heavy boots with comfort ratings to 40 degrees below zero. The Cadillac of the Fleet Farm boot department, I discovered, are Sorels, Canadian-made boots with rubber feet and leather legs. They come with felt inserts and are highly regarded by ice fishermen and snowmobilers.

On the day of the game, you do not bathe. Washing strips protective oils from the skin, leaving it more vulnerable to windburn. You layer up with long underwear, leggings, jeans, turtlenecks, polar fleece sweatshirts, sweaters, lined snow pants and Thinsulate- or down-lined jackets that promise maximum warmth and make you feel as overstuffed as the Michelin man.

Next come scarves, hats, earmuffs and mittens, which keep the fingers together, making them much warmer than gloves. My huge fuzzy Green Bay Packer logo mittens look like Muppet puppets. Inside each one, I stashed hand warmers, little chemical packets that generate heat.

On top of everything, I wore a Reggie White No. 92 extra-large jersey, a Christmas present from my brother, Ted. Padded as I was, I probably was nearly as wide as White, Green Bay’s premier defensive lineman.

At the last minute, I added a coat, a wool-blanket-type, that shielded my body nearly head to toe with another layer of weather-repellent armor. It’s the everything-but-the-kitchen-sink way of dressing. And I needed every layer. Fashion be damned. The glacial winds coming off Lake Michigan’s Green Bay can really blow through you.

Mind you, this is a thin-blooded California transplant dressing for the game. Though I’m the kind that still laughs when I hear Californians say, “I hate winter,” as the temperature dips to 50 degrees, I have lost the arctic stamina I once had. Long gone are the days of walking to school with bare knees exposed between skirt and knee socks because I was too cool to wear snow pants.

Some Wisconsin natives largely ignore winter weather, as if the bitter temperatures don’t apply to them. They show up at Lambeau hatless, wearing nothing more than winter jackets, jeans and steel-toed mill boots. A good number are fortified from the inside out with Point, Special Export or Leinenkugel beer. Brandy and peppermint schnapps are also widely used as antifreeze.

The machismo of underdressing is a part of the mind set. In the stands behind me, six guys were shirtless, wearing only jeans and body paint that spells out “Go Pack” across their chests. Many fans have skipped sensible headgear in favor of the rubbery foam cheesehead wedges, firemen’s hats, baseball caps and hard hats.

The stands are dotted with neon orange hunting clothes and snowmobiling jumpsuits. Few wear fur coats, but plenty of men wear hats made of the animals they have killed or trapped, such as foxes and raccoons. It’s not a pretty sight to see someone wearing an entire animal on his head, paws and all. Sort of a boozy rendition of “Nanook of the North.”

The local language is as Midwest as a silo. “Yah” replaces “yes” and vowels are flatter than day-old beer. Third person feminine pronouns prevail, as in “take ‘er down the field,” referring to what the players should do with the ball, or “she’s a cold one,” commenting on the temperature.

There’s no wonder why so many of us left all this behind, seeking to make our lives elsewhere. Winters seem unending here, and the main activities revolve around bowling alleys, bars and Friday night fish fries. There’s not much for the Starbucks-swilling crowd I run with.

But there’s an honest simplicity of coming back to my roots, facing the elements and bonding with my family and fellow Lambeau survivors.

I passed the endurance test. Packer fans never go home before the game is over and I didn’t either. Even better, I made it through three hours of tailgating and three hours of game without surrendering to the warmth of the heated women’s restrooms.

I was warm in my cocoon of clothes. The Packers won. The world was right.

The Packers repeated their home field domination in even worse conditions a week ago, when they beat the 49ers in a rainy, muddy slop that has already been dubbed “the Soup Bowl.” Fans were steadfast to the end. There were only three empty seats in the entire place. I hear even the players knew that there were only three no-shows.

But what about today’s game?

January temperatures in Wisconsin frequently dip below zero. Sure, the beer and hot chocolate vendors will be revved to go. And the townsfolk will have shoveled snow off the seats well before ticket holders arrive. No matter what the weather, the stadium will be filled.

But I suspect a few fans, this time around, might opt to wear sensible hats. Those who are not tanked up on Leinenkugel’s, that is. And they’re probably calling the three no-shows from last week to see if they need jump-starts.