The Lambeau Field of
Worship
17/04/08 23:45
Lambeau
Field is the crown jewel of National Football League
(NFL) stadiums in the US. Sitting on the outskirts of
the smallish and rather drab town of Green Bay,
Wisconsin, its history is a legend unto itself. Since
1957 when it was first built, it has been home to the
Green Bay Packers, named after the workers that used
to pack canned meat for the Indian Packing Company.
One such worker was Curly Lambeau who formed the team
back in 1919. Twenty-five sturdy guys responded to
the ad he printed in the paper, and he swore them all
in by the holy rules of the game. Ten years later
they became the first to win three championship
titles in a row. The only team to repeat the feat is,
of course, the Green Bay Packers themselves.
We learn
all this from the ordained football priest Lee who
shows us around the sacred stadium premises. Lee has
attended Packers games at Lambeau Field since the
very beginning. He still remembers the fabled Ice
Bowl played against the Dallas Cowboys in '67. With
an on-field temperature of -13ºF (-25ºC), and a will
chill factor of -48ºF (-44ºC), it is the coldest game
ever to be played in the NFL. It is also known to
have been one of the best. With only 16 seconds left
of the game, and the Cowboys leading 17 to 14,
quarterback Bart Starr called the Packers' final
timeout. After a short conferral with legendary coach
Vince Lombardi, Starr executed a quarterback sneak,
and scored the touchdown that for the second time in
NFL history won Green Bay Packers their third
consecutive championship. As Lee recalls that
glorious moment, I can hear his voice quivering with
awe.
He then
takes us through the majestic gates, and into the
oval field of service itself. Expanded several times
over the last fifty years, the most imposing
expansion to date was the $295 million renovation in
2003. In order to raise the money, a half-cent sales
tax increase was approved by the entire county. The
only condition was that bleachers seating an
additional 4000 people - increasing the total number
of seats to 72.000 - were to be reserved for fans
living in the county. As tickets have been sold out
for the last 48 years, and season cards are passed
down no further from the holder than first cousins,
the decision was one of great significance. At the
beginning of each season the additional 4000 seats
are distributed randomly among the appliers for four
games at a time. Even though the Packers only play
eight home games in a season, it still means that
8000 new fans get to worship at the field each year.
The
stadium where the ceremonies are performed is an
explosion in gold and green. The colors were decided
upon by Vince Lombardi in 1959 when he first started
coaching the team. The bleachers are lined by golden
walkways and fronted by golden railings. Even the
bars that make up the goals are golden. The field, on
the other hand, is kept green by man-made grass seeds
specially imported from Holland. Though covered by
tarpaulin until the season starts in early september,
the lush green color can still be made out
underneath. The contrast to the yellow-brown
countryside surrounding Green Bay this time of year
is striking. I feel like reaching down and stroking
the soft blades of grass, but the stern look on Lee's
face tells me that it would amount to sacrilege. As
direct and down-to-earth as I have heard the gospel
expounded in American churches, as uplifted and even
transcendental is the spirit I feel surrounding
American football. Fans are not just fans. They are
disciples.
The tour
continues through the Hall of Fame in the vaults
below the stadium. A time tunnel takes us all the way
from the earliest days up to the present. Year by
year we proceed down the hall, stopping to inspect
the shrines along the way. Buttons activate audio and
video clips of famous games and players, and saints
and martyrs like Lombardi and Lambeau each have their
own walls tracing their life stories from birth
through death to martyrdom. It is a place of mythical
proportions, like an American version of the ancient
caves of Lascaux in France. This is where football
history began, and this is where it is still being
written. Here is a letter of congratulation on yet
another great victory from John F. Kennedy, and there
is a photo of Nixon with a congregation of fans in
the stadium pews. Lambeau Field is a nexus of
American culture and worship, and one that cannot be
dismissed with a simple lack of interest in sports.
At last
we come to the final chamber, the innermost sanctum,
the holiest of holies - the Shrine of Trophies. The
room is circular with a likewise circular locker room
bench in the centre. The walls are lined with
portraits of all the players, coaches, managers, and
moneymen that made Green Bay Packers what they are
today. Photographs are encouraged, but lighting is
dignified and dim, giving the flash on my camera a
hard time penetrating beyond the glass frames unto
the sacred faces of the chosen few. Instead I turn my
attention to the three trophies at the back of the
room. They, too, are sealed off behind bulletproof
glass, but focusing my flash on the polished silvery
surfaces of the trophies themselves, I do manage a
few good shots. Though, not even knowing the rules of
the game, I cannot help but feeling like an intruder,
a blasphemer. But at least I try to understand.
Kristian and cable educate me as we go along, and
before we return back home I hope to be able to grasp
more of the phenomenon that manifests itself on tv
screens all over the country every autumn and winter.
Stepping back out into the open, I find myself
standing in the shadows of two enormous sculptures.
On the right side of the entrance Curly Lambeau
towers, one hand holding a football, the other
pointing down an imaginary field. On the left side
Vince Lombardi stands tall, wearing a trenchcoat and
sunglasses, hands neatly folded behind his back. They
look like something out of an Al Capone flick from
the thirties. Yet here they stand. Objects of
worship. Modern yet ancient. Emblems of the constant
paradox of American history. I zip my jacket to
shield myself from the strong winds, and start
walking across the empty parking lot to the Road Star
Inn across the street.
