Ahman Green, Radio Waves, and a Love for the Green Bay Packers

How my childhood's evolving connection to the Green Bay Packers was shaped by the highs, lows, and technological challenges of the 2002-03 seasons

As a young fan of the Green Bay Packers in the late 90s and early 2000s, I experienced the ups and downs of fandom in a very personal way. From the excitement of Super Bowl appearances to heartbreaking playoff losses, my connection to the team was shaped by the changing fortunes on the field as well as the evolving ways I was able to engage with and experience the games. This is the story of how my Packers fandom developed over those formative years.

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Sometimes the simplest moments plant the deepest roots. In 1998, at six-years-old, I experienced my first real memory of the Green Bay Packers through Super Bowl XXXII. The specific plays are mostly lost to time, but what remains is the memory of a pizza party and being allowed to watch the first half - a treat for a kid usually bound by earlier bedtime rules.

Somewhere during the broadcast, the channel accidentally changed to a station playing a commercial for an animated show. I remember being momentarily more interested in the cartoon than the game, much to my older brother's disgust. It's a small detail that survived simply because it made it onto the VCR recording that I'd watch repeatedly in the following months (and years).

Looking at it now, that Super Bowl was pivotal for the Packers franchise. They entered as 11-point favorites, defending champions expected to handle the Broncos with ease. Instead, Terrell Davis rushed for 157 yards and three touchdowns, while the Broncos' defense did just enough to contain Brett Favre in a 31-24 upset.

The game itself matters less to this story than what it sparked. Those VCR rewatches, complete with the brief channel change interruption, became my first real exposure to football strategy and flow. Without realizing it, I was studying the game, even if I didn't fully understand what I was seeing.

But this isn't really a story about Super Bowl XXXII. It's about how those early seeds of fandom would grow into something more meaningful over the next five years - culminating in the 2002 and 2003 seasons, when the Packers would help teach a young fan about both victory and heartbreak.

Those lessons would come through unreliable TV reception in a basement near a wood furnace, through scratchy radio broadcasts in a top bunk, and through the pure imagination of a kid playing makeshift football games before the real ones began.

But we'll get to all that.

The 2002 Season - Picture Perfect (When the Antenna Cooperated)

The Packers were coming off what could have been a great 2001 season, as their 12-4 record suggested. However, my main memory from that season is sitting alone in my friend's living room, watching Aeneas Williams return an interception for a touchdown early in the divisional playoff game against the Rams. That sinking feeling in my stomach? It was justified. Brett Favre went on to throw six interceptions that day, each one making me want to slide further into my friend's family's couch.

There was some storybook quality to losing to Kurt Warner and "The Greatest Show on Turf" - the former Packers training camp quarterback who went from stocking shelves for $5.50 an hour in Iowa to NFL MVP. But try telling that to a kid who just watched his team's season implode and now had to face the prospect of pretending to want to play with his Vikings-fan friend afterward. I just wanted to go home.

By the start of the 2002 season, I had transformed from a casual observer to dedicated fan. We had a TV in the basement of our cement block house, near a wood furnace that could turn watching games into an impromptu sauna. The picture wasn't always clear, but my growing appreciation for the game was crystallizing.

The 2001 playoffs had left a bitter taste. The Rams had dismantled the Packers, and Brett Favre's performance was disappointing. But the 2002 season brought renewed hope. With Favre at the wheel, the Packers jumped out to an 8-1 start, scoring 30+ points multiple times.

When the TV antenna cooperated - which was never guaranteed in our rural pocket of Wisconsin - I got to witness Ahman Green emerge as one of the NFL's elite backs. He churned out 1,240 yards that season, but what the stats don't capture is how he ran - like he was personally offended by everyone trying to tackle him. In a basement that fluctuated between freezing and sauna-like depending on the wood furnace's mood, I watched Green become my favorite player. Even through a static-filled screen, you could feel the power in his running style.

Favre himself put together the kind of season that somehow didn't get enough MVP votes, despite throwing 27 touchdowns. Donald Driver had his breakout year with 1,064 yards receiving, though at the time I probably cared more about getting our antenna positioned just right to actually see his catches than understanding the significance of a young receiver finding his stride.

The season seemed to reach its emotional peak in Week 16 against Buffalo. The defense forced six turnovers in a 10-0 shutout. For once, the antenna delivered the game with crystal clarity - though maybe that's just how memory works when something good happens.

But football has a way of humbling you quickly. The following week, with a first-round bye still up for grabs, the Packers got demolished by the Jets 42-17. At the time, I just knew we'd lost badly. Now I understand the domino effect: Chad Pennington and the Jets needed that win to make the playoffs, and by giving it to them, we fell into a three-way tie at 12-4 with Philadelphia and Tampa Bay - both of whom held tiebreakers over us.

Then came the Atlanta Falcons in the wild card round. Eleven-year-old me wasn't thinking about missed byes or tiebreakers. I just knew we were playing at Lambeau, where the Packers never lost in the playoffs - at least that's what the grownups always said.

Looking back now, the warning signs were there from Week 1, when Vick and the Falcons had already beaten us once. But this was different - this was January in Green Bay, where dome teams weren't supposed to survive. Through our temperamental antenna, I watched a quarterback change what seemed possible on frozen ground.

I don’t remember the stats - Vick's modest 117 yards passing, his 64 yards rushing, our five turnovers - but do remember the growing silence in our basement as the game slipped away. Even through static-filled reception, you could tell this wasn't the same team that had dominated Buffalo two weeks earlier.

I didn't understand then that I was witnessing the end of Lambeau's playoff mystique. I just knew I didn't want to watch anymore once the fourth quarter started. The numbers tell us the final score was 27-7, but they don't capture how a childhood certainty - that the Packers were unbeatable at home in the playoffs - melted away.

That offseason would bring changes, both for me and the team. A storm would soon take our antenna, forcing me to discover the magic of Wayne Larrivee's radio calls from my bunkbed. But first, I'd cope the way any football-obsessed kid would - playing makeshift games by myself and dreaming about next year being different.

A New Way to Watch (and Play) the Game

After losing to the Falcons in the playoffs, something changed in how I followed football. I understand now - that loss made the Packers feel more human, more interesting. When your team isn't invincible, every game matters more somehow.

The 2003 offseason brought the usual roster shuffling. Hardy Nickerson retired, Vonnie Holliday left for Kansas City, and Terry Glenn was traded to Dallas. The team acquired Al Harris from Philadelphia. But what I really remember is how football was consuming every spare moment. I’d get just one precious hour of computer time each day and remember spending it playing Madden 2001 - a game that was already old at that point. That was the best I could do, since I had received Madden 2002 for the previous Christmas but had to return it because our old family computer couldn't handle it. That was a real bummer, a sad Christmas for sure.

When my computer time ran out, the games didn't. I'd take my Madden-inspired strategies to the real world, creating my own league complete with a full schedule of matchups. In the small living room of my family's house, I'd have 4 downs to try and cross the field, throwing the ball up and forward to catch it myself, or even attempting diving catches on the couch. If I got close enough to the "end zone" at the other end of the room, I'd try for a toe-tapping catch. If I didn't score, I'd punt the ball through the antlers of my dad's mounted elk that we called Bullwinkle. I played this living room football game a lot, and looking back, I'm surprised everyone put up with the occasional broken ceiling fan light dome!

While playing this game, I'd track stats and scores on my dry erase board, taking turns playing as each team's offense. It was basically Madden without the graphics - or really, without anything except my imagination and that board. Looking back, it was a strange way for a kid to spend his time, but it made perfect sense then.

That's probably why fantasy football clicked with me immediately, even if I didn't fully understand it at first. A friend who lived down the street introduced me to the concept one summer afternoon. The idea of drafting your own team? It felt like my makeshift whiteboard games come to life - like I'd finally found other people who understood how I saw football.

We held our draft in his shady yard, on splotchy grass that was probably due for a mowing, passing around a crisp football magazine that seemed like a treasure at the time. The concept still felt a bit foreign - picking players from across the league instead of just rooting for my Packers. But after spending hours playing both virtual and whiteboard football, I understood something fundamental about player stats and matchups.

Still, there were limits to my newfound analytical approach. Dante Culpepper might have been putting up monster numbers in Madden and real life, and Randy Moss might have been unstoppable even on my ancient computer's choppy graphics, but they were Vikings. Some loyalties run deeper than fantasy points or video game ratings.

I find all this amusing now, especially considering I'd later spend years working as a software engineer for a fantasy sports company. But back then, our league was endearingly primitive. Without internet access, we tried piecing together scores from the local newspaper, scanning box scores like archaeologists looking for artifacts. I'd find rushing yards and touchdown totals, doing math that may or may not have been accurate, trying to figure out who won the week's matchup.

Our fantasy league wouldn't survive past the first few weeks of the season. It turns out calculating fantasy points from newspaper box scores is about as reliable as our basement TV's antenna - which, coincidentally, was about to face a challenge bigger than any spotty reception we'd dealt with before.

But that storm was still coming. For now, I split my time between Madden's digital fields, my whiteboard games, and anticipating a new Packers season where Ahman Green seemed poised for something special. Even through a kid's eyes, you could see the pieces coming together for what might be a memorable year.

I just didn't know how memorable it would become, or how differently I'd end up experiencing it.

The 2003 Season - Through the Radio Waves

In retrospect, the 2003 Packers season painted a clear picture of a team on the rise. Ahman Green's record-breaking rushing yards and the team's high-scoring offense were undeniable. However, my personal experience of that season took an unexpected turn. A storm knocked out our TV antenna, forcing me to find a different way to follow the games.

I certainly appreciate the irony of it - just as the Packers were reinventing themselves, I was about to discover a whole new way to experience football. But as a kid, I just knew I had to find another way to follow the games. That's how I found myself negotiating with my brother to let me sit on his top bunk during the games, as it was the only place in the house that got a reliable reception. There, I pressed my ear to a radio, tuning in to WTMJ’s broadcast from Milwaukee.

What I couldn't have known then was that I was experiencing games just as many fans had for decades before me. Wayne Larrivee's play-by-play calls brought the action to life in a way our old antenna TV could never match. Listening to Larry McCarren's analysis helped deepen my understanding of the game in a way that a video game like Madden couldn’t. And iconic radio calls, like "and there is your dagger!" with the crowd roar in the background, felt more thrilling than any pixelated touchdown celebration.

The O'Reilly Auto Parts jingle punctuated what felt like every other commercial break, becoming part of the rhythm of game day. Even now, I can't hear that jingle without being transported back to that top bunk in my cramped bedroom.

Through Larrivee's calls, Ahman Green's runs came alive. The stats show he averaged 5.3 yards per carry that year, but radio made each yard feel meaningful. Without the constraints of the fuzzy images on the TV, my imagination could fully engage with the action on the field and appreciate the significance of Green's performance.

Nothing demonstrated radio's power more than the Monday night game against Oakland, the day after Brett Favre's father passed away. That game actually kicked off at 9pm, since it was against the Raiders on the West Coast. I wasn't supposed to be up that late, but I had my portable radio tucked under the covers in my shared bedroom, volume turned way down low, listening intently to the play-by-play. The numbers - 399 yards passing, 4 touchdowns, a 73.3% completion rate - ended up looking impressive on paper. But through that late-night radio broadcast, every one of Favre's completions felt like they were meant to be. I'm sure my older brother in the bunk above me knew exactly what I was up to, despite my attempts to be sneaky.

The contrast between 2002 and 2003 became clearer with each game. In place of Donald Driver's 1,064-yard breakout season, we now had a three-headed receiving threat with Driver, Robert Ferguson, and emerging star Javon Walker each making big catches.

But it was the ground game where the transformation was most evident. I could hear it in McCarren's analysis - the offensive line was mauling people in a way they hadn't in 2002. The numbers back up what my ears told me: Green's yards per carry jumped from 4.3 to 5.3, and the team's rushing touchdown total climbed from 12 to 18. Every Sunday, I'd lie in that top bunk listening to Ahman Green pound away at defenses, imagining each cut and broken tackle.

Through all the radio broadcasts I listened to that year, a pattern emerged. The 2003 Packers weren't just different statistically - they felt different. Although, maybe, it was just that listening on radio made me focus more on the game's subtle rhythms.

By the time we reached Week 17, I found myself glued to the radio again, this time listening to the Packers demolish the Broncos 31-3. The numbers were impressive - Ahman Green broke loose for a 98-yard touchdown run that seemed to last forever in Larrivee's telling. But more importantly, combined with Arizona's miraculous last-second win over Minnesota, we'd somehow won the division.

As I lay there that night, trying to process everything that had just happened, I couldn't help but feel like something special was building. We'd won the division. Ahman Green had rushed for nearly 1,900 yards. The offense was scoring at will. And our first playoff opponent would be the Seattle Seahawks, led by former Packers backup Matt Hasselbeck.

With my 12th birthday just days away, it felt like the Packers were giving me an early present. The way this season had unfolded - from losing our TV antenna to discovering the magic of radio broadcasts, from Ahman Green's big season to Favre's unforgettable Monday night in Oakland - it seemed like the stars were aligning.

Little did I know just how memorable the next two playoff games would be, with Matt Hasselbeck's infamous coin toss declaration and the agony of fourth-and-26. But in that moment, filled with anticipation and a childlike sense of wonder, anything felt possible. The Packers were peaking at the perfect time, and I was about to experience the thrill and heartbreak of the postseason like never before.

"We Want the Ball and We're Going to Score"

You never forget where you were for certain moments in sports. I sometimes look at stats from that Seattle playoff game: Ahman Green's 66 yards against his former team, Favre's efficient 26-of-38 passing day, the defenses trading punches in a 27-27 deadlock. But what I remember most vividly is being in that top bunk, pressed against the wall of our small bedroom, listening to Wayne Larrivee's voice crackle through the radio as Matt Hasselbeck said his famous line.

"We want the ball, and we're going to score!"

As a kid who'd spent the season learning to visualize games through sound, I could practically see the smirks on both teams' faces. The former Packers backup quarterback had just written himself into NFL history, though not in the way he intended.

What followed felt like radio drama at its finest. The overtime coin toss winner's curse. The building tension with each play. Al Harris jumping the route. Larrivee's voice rising with each step of Harris's interception return (that clip is awesome because the radio broadcast is overlaid on the video). The explosion of crowd noise as he crossed the goal line. Pure magic.

The next week against Philadelphia started just as promisingly. Through my radio, I created mental images of our defense containing Donovan McNabb, of Ahman Green grinding out tough yards. Leading 17-14 late in the fourth quarter, we just needed one more stop.

Fourth and 26. Tough luck if you were hoping for video clip here…

Even now, those three words make my stomach turn. Today I know the exact stats: McNabb to Mitchell for 28 yards. But then? I just remember the sense of disbelief after hearing the outcome of the play through those radio waves. It wasn't just that the Eagles converted - it was how the moment played out in slow motion through audio alone. The snap. The protection holding. McNabb finding Mitchell. Each detail more agonizing than the last.

The rest feels like a blur in memory, though the stats tell the story clinically enough: Brett Favre's interception in overtime (he’d go on to throw a few more costly playoff interceptions, lol…), David Akers' game-winning field goal. But numbers don't capture how different the radio silence felt after this loss compared to the jubilation of the previous week. The same top bunk that had been my celebration spot seven days earlier now felt like a lonely place to process disappointment.

Looking back, I realize that experiencing these games through radio made both the highs and lows more intense. Without visuals, every play lived or died in my imagination. Harris's interception return became legendary precisely because I had to envision it. Fourth and 26 haunted me more because I could only hear its impact.

That season taught me something about football and fandom that stats can't measure. Sometimes it's not what you see, but what you hear - and imagine - that stays with you forever.

Antennae Down, Volume Up

Looking back on those two seasons, the stats tell one story: a franchise in transition, shifting from Favre's air attack (27 touchdowns in 2002) to Ahman Green's ground assault (1,883 yards in 2003). The numbers show a team that went from invincible at home to suddenly vulnerable, from pass-first to pound-the-rock. Two relatively successful seasons that somehow felt completely different.

But that's not really what I remember most.

Instead, I remember the physical artifacts of becoming a real fan. The Ahman Green card from that police community outreach program that I treasured, not because it was valuable - it wasn't - but because it made my hero feel tangible. The dry erase board filled with makeshift football stats. The dented light fixtures from living room football games. The ancient computer wheezing through Madden 2001 because it couldn't handle the newer version.

When that storm took our antenna, it could have disconnected me from the Packers. Instead, it gave me the gift of Wayne Larrivee and Larry McCarren. Even now, decades later, working in the tech industry where everything is high-definition and instant replay, I sometimes wish for those days where I’d spend an afternoon by myself tuning in to radio broadcasts. There's still something magical about letting your imagination fill in the pictures.

Those seasons taught me that football isn't just about what you see. It's about what you hear, what you imagine, and most importantly, what you feel. Whether it's the heat of a wood furnace in a basement during a December game, or the comfort of a top bunk during a Monday night classic, or even the hollow feeling after a fourth-and-26 conversion - these moments shape us as fans.

I still have that Ahman Green card somewhere. It's probably worth even less now than it was then. But like those scratchy radio broadcasts and fuzzy TV signals, it reminds me of when football was simpler and somehow bigger, all at once.

Sometimes the best reception comes when the antenna's down.