What is it that makes us fans of the
Green Bay Packers? Answering that
question is difficult, at times futile.
What is it that draws us? Is it the
team's longevity? The dynamics of so
many players over so many decades? The
great games? The championships?

No one will ever be able to give a
definitive answer. But if we could sum it
all up into a single person, no one
embodies the enigma, the history, and the
legends better than the late, great Ray
Nitschke.

There have been players, both before
and after Nitschke, who have had buildings
and roadways named after them, but none
has warmed the hearts of Packer fans and
struck fear into opponents like Nitschke.

We grew up watching him roam the
middle of the field, his toothless grin
flashing in the faces of intimidated
running backs, quarterbacks, and linemen.
His crushing hits, stamina, and grit
helped add to his legend, but it was his
personna, both on and off the field, which
affected us most - so much that his
untimely death brought about action to
name not just a road or a building after
him, but a bridge. For only a monstrous
structure like that could represent the huge
contribution he made to the Green Bay
Packers, the NFL, the community, the
state, and the nation.

His importance goes well beyond the
confines of Packer fans' memories and the
playing field. The respect he garnered
among his colleagues, his fellow warriors,
is just as legendary.

That respect was best illustrated when
Tommy McDonald, the diminutive
Philadelphia Eagles wide receiver who was
inducted into the NFL's Hall of Fame last
year, paid homage to a fallen comrade -
Nitschke.

McDonald, one of the last to play the
game without a face mask, knew Nitschke
well and his ability to jump up quickly
after a smashing hit infuriated opponents,
including Nitschke.

He told of his memories of the Packer
linebacker in a Philadelphia Inquirer story
last year - "Nitschke...some of the hits he
laid on me. Couple of time I thought he'd
killed me. He looked down at me after a
really good lick and said: 'Let's see you
bounce up from that one, you little runt.'
"You know, I always thought Ray's
number was 99. It was really 66, but every
time I saw it, I was on the ground looking
up at him."

The newspaper account continued:
"McDonald's voice goes soft as he talks
about the great middle line backer for the
Green Bay Packers. He rummages through
some photographs, looking for the one of
the two of them together.

"Ray...I was really looking forward to
seeing him when I went into the Hall of
Fame. He said he would have a special
welcome for me. But he, he up and died on
me, you know, I...
"He couldn't finish...McDonald's eyes
fill...the tears stream down his face.
"He is standing there in the den of his
home, the afternoon sun slanting in, and
he is mourning a fallen warrior, a
cherished opponent, weeping for a man
who had tried again and again to take his
head off, but always within the rules and
boundaries of the game, and watching this
you are struck by the power of the bonds
that link the men who play the game, that
link them to the game itself, and to each
other, strong as any umbilical cord."

McDonald's poignancy could have
been attributed to the countless others who
encountered him. They all felt the same
when Ray died - as did the fans.

For when he went, so went a piece of
our lives, a piece of our hearts. Lost was a
time of heroics and heroes, a time when
men played for the love of the game, for
the cheering of steadfast fans. Nitschke's legend will continue to stand and will always be, for many of us, the biggest piece of the puzzle as we strive to assemble the picture explaining why we love the Green Bay Packers.