WISCONSIN -- The Super Bowl is this Sunday, which in Wisconsin means a day to take out the garbage, clean out the garage, or maybe work on that half-finished carpentry project.

Yes, we know that the Packers were - yet again - oh so close to making it to the big game. And since our fandom was so mercilessly crushed in Atlanta two weeks ago, here's a poem to salve the wounds. 'Twas Super Bowl eve, when all through the house

not a creature was stirring, nor was Davon House.

The jerseys were hung in the closet in despair,

in hopes of a Super Bowl with the Packers down there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

while visions of Atlanta still danced in their heads.

And momma's foam finger, and I with my cap, had just settled our fandom for a long winter's nap. When out in Arizona there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my couch to see what was the matter.

Away from the TV I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and grabbed some spare cash.

The sun on the crest of the slowly-melting snow, foretold of events that I needed to know.

What to my wondering eyes should appear

but the vision of spring training and baseball this year. With a spry young manager so quiet and stoic,

I knew Brewers Baseball was coming up quick.