There are certain games that stick with you — not because of the final score, but because of the way they’re played. The kind where effort shows up in every possession and leadership doesn’t need to be loud to be felt (and coming from me, that’s saying something). This one happened to be my first game stepping in as head coach, but what made it memorable had very little to do with me.
This weekend was one of those games for Jackson.
From the opening tip, he was locked in. Focused. Ready to do whatever the team needed… and as the game unfolded, it became clear that his impact wasn’t going to be measured just in points, but in stops, hustle plays, and moments that quietly changed the direction of the game.
Let’s start with defense — because that’s where this game was won long before the scoreboard caught up.
Jax, you took on their best shooter and shut him down. He managed just one shot all game because you were everywhere — hands up, feet moving, body in the right place every possession. You forced tough jumpers and never let him get comfortable. That kind of defense doesn’t always show up in the stat sheet, but it wins games. Your defense was locked in, disciplined, and relentless.
Then there was the hustle.
The ball felt like it had your name on it. You kept it alive over and over — offensive rebounds, assists, steals, tip-outs — just refusing to let possessions die. When we were down by six and momentum wasn’t ours, you were the spark.
No one in this league wants to see you defending them and for sure no one wants to drive the lane and see you standing in the key. You’re like a young Dennis Rodman (before he dyed his hair like an Easter egg). Those extra efforts don’t always go as stats in the box score, but they change everything. They kept us in the game and helped turn it around.
Slowly, possession by possession, we climbed back.
Eventually, we took the lead. Eventually, we won.
And there you were, right in the middle of it — leading the way, doing the little things, helping us come back and keep our team in first place.
Jackson, this was your game. And it’s one I’ll never forget.
PS: I plan on retiring with an undefeated head coaching record!
Five years ago, my wife and I carried bunk bed pieces down the hallway and into Jackson’s room, assembling what felt like the physical symbol of brotherhood. Two small boys. One room. One nightly routine. One parent wedged awkwardly between a wall and a ladder reading just one more book.
That first night they slept together in their bunks felt monumental. I even wrote about it at the time because that’s what dads like me do when they realize a moment matters—try to freeze it in words before it slips away.
Fast forward to now.
For the past couple of months, both boys have been asking to “set up their own rooms.” Not demanding. Not dramatic. Just casually, the way kids do when they’ve already moved on emotionally and are waiting for you to catch up.
So today we did it.
We rebuilt the bunks in Oliver’s room. Jackson’s room got a solo bed—no ladder, no top bunk negotiations, no whispered conversations that definitely weren’t happening five minutes after lights out.
Tonight is the first night they’re sleeping separately.
(Unless you count the occasional 3 a.m. migration into mom and dad’s room or a friend’s sleepover—but let’s not ruin the narrative.)
I knew this day would come. I just didn’t realize how much I’d miss the old routine until it was gone.
There was something special about bedtime in that shared room. Reading a book while one boy asked questions and the other slowly drifted off. Turning the lights down and listening to them talk to each other—about nothing and everything—until their voices faded into sleep. Sitting there longer than necessary because once they were asleep, the day officially ended.
Now there are two rooms. Two goodnight hugs. Two light switches. And somehow… less noise.
I’m proud of them. Truly. This is growth. Independence. Confidence. All the things we’re supposed to want for our kids.
But tonight, standing in the hallway after tucking them in, I felt it—that quiet reminder that childhood doesn’t ask permission before it changes. One day you’re climbing down from a top bunk, and the next you’re realizing you’ve done it for the last time.
I hope they always remember what it felt like to share a room. To fall asleep knowing their brother was right there. To learn—early—that even when life eventually gives you your own space, you don’t have to do everything alone.
Because rooms change. Beds move. Eras quietly end.
But brothers? That’s the part I hope never does.
PS: The fight for where Wednesday sleeps from now on has begun. Chalk up a night one win to big brother.
The scoreboard said we lost our playoff game today… but I walked off that field proud of my son and my team.
This season, my son played up with the fourth graders even though he’s only in third grade. From day one, he never used that as an excuse. He just showed up… every single time. Not one missed practice. Not one late arrival. Every drill, every rep, every huddle… he gave his full effort.
He earned his spot as a starter on offense and defense. He returned kicks and he did everything we asked and more, without ever complaining. He worked hard, listened, and played with heart every single game. That’s not something you can coach… that’s just who he is.
As his coach, I saw the growth. As his dad, I saw the love for the game and for his teammates in his eyes everytime I looked at him.
The quiet confidence that comes from knowing you’ve earned it, that is not part of his game yet… so I’ll say it for him…
He belonged here this year… and he earned every second of it. When the season ended, even in that tough loss, I realized something: stats and scores don’t define a player — character does
There are trips you plan, and then there are trips that have been living in you for years even before you ever pack a bag.
This one felt like the latter.
I had been to Lambeau Field before—twice, actually. Once with Stephanie which resulted in me catching Jordy Nelson in Lambeau Leap and once for a -19* playoff win, so I knew what it looked like, what it felt like, how it somehow manages to feel both massive and intimate at the same time. But I had never been there like this. Never with both of my boys. Never with the four of us together. Never as three Packers owners standing side by side, carrying a tradition we’ve talked about endlessly at home into the place where it actually lives.
After landing in Miwaukee on a quiet Friday night, we started the long drive across Wisconsin, the kind of drive where conversation fades in and out and everyone is half-tired but too excited to really sleep. Green Bay doesn’t announce itself loudly. There’s no sudden skyline, no dramatic entrance. Instead, it sneaks up on you. And then, in the distance, you see it—a small glow against the dark sky. Easy to miss if you didn’t know what you were looking for.
But we knew.
That tiny illuminated speck grew with every mile. Slowly at first. Then unmistakably. Until finally, there it was—Lambeau Field, rising out of a sleepy town like a cathedral, glowing against the night as if it had always been there and always would be. I’ve seen it before, but seeing it through the windshield with my family beside me made it land differently. Heavier. Fuller.
We couldn’t go to bed, not even after a long flight and a three hour drive… That night we found ourselves right inside Lambeau for some food and a walk around the atrium where so many of my football memories live. It wasn’t the focus of the trip, but it added to the feeling that this place isn’t just about Sundays. It’s about moments. Shared ones.
Inside the stadium, everything felt amplified. We took the tour. We walked the halls. Later in the trip we would step onto the field and stand beneath the goalposts, trying to fully process the fact that we were standing where legends stood. In the Hall of Fame, the Lombardi Trophies gleamed behind glass, and for a moment the boys were quiet. Not because they were bored—but because they were registering something bigger than themselves.
Meeting former players throughout the weekend felt like touching history. Dan Majkowski. Brady Poppinga. James Lofton. Jerry Kramer—a Hall of Famer whose name still carries weight the second it’s spoken. Watching him talk to Jax about how to avoid a block and footwork and then allowing him, as the oldest, (because according to Jerry, “the oldest has the most responsibility”), to wear his Super Bowl Ring had me covered in goosebumps. Watching my boys meet them, shake their hands, listen to their stories, felt like watching football generations overlap in real time.
And then there was Oliver, standing with Super Bowl champion Ryan Grant, getting a lesson in running back technique. No crowd. No pressure. Just a former Packer passing down knowledge to a kid who dreams in green and gold. That’s the kind of moment you don’t fully understand while it’s happening—but you know it will matter forever.
Game day came fast.
We spent the morning in Titletown, the boys running around with that restless energy only kids can have when something big is coming. We tossed a football back and forth, the boys throwing passes to Steph (who believe it or not throws a pretty tight spiral) while Lambeau towered over us in the background. That image—casual, unscripted, perfect—might be my favorite memory of the whole trip. No tickets scanned. No crowd noise yet. Just us, a football, and the stadium looming quietly behind it all.
Tailgating together felt like something we had been rehearsing for years. Food, laughter, green and gold everywhere. Conversations with strangers that didn’t feel like strangers at all because when you’re there, wearing those colors, you’re already connected. The boys took it all in, wide-eyed, absorbing not just the spectacle but the sense of belonging.
The game itself had its own unexpected twist. With Jordan Love injured, Malik Willis stepped in and did what Packers quarterbacks have always been asked to do—win. Watching him guide the team to a win felt symbolic, especially with my boys beside me… waiving the Yellow G Flag in support. Football, like life, doesn’t always go according to plan. But preparation, belief, and opportunity still matter. The end of the game came down to a defensive stop on fourth down to put the game away and just like that the four of us cheered like it was a Super Bowl win.
As we walked out of Lambeau that day, tired and happy and still buzzing from a HUGE WIN, I realized something simple but important. I’ve written a lot about the Packers. I’ve watched them for decades. I’ve passed that love down intentionally, sometimes obsessively. But this trip wasn’t about teaching my kids why the Packers matter.
It was about watching them feel it.
Seeing the place. Standing on the field. Meeting the players. Throwing a football in the shadow of Lambeau. Driving toward a glowing stadium on a quiet Wisconsin night and knowing exactly where we were headed… to the place where the Lombardi Trophy was born…. and while it might visit other cities… the Lombardi Trophy will always call Titletown home.
Titletown
This wasn’t just my third trip to Green Bay.
It was our first—together.
And somehow, that made Lambeau feel brand new again.
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BTW… we are now all currently on the 44 year waitlist for Season Rickeys at Lambeau:
Go Pack Go!!!
The Owner Trio
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…PS When you can try to get in a Lambeau Leap… you do it!
Hopefully this is just the first of his many Lambeau Leaps
This is the last blog entry I write for you before you officially meet your baby brother. There is nothing in this world that I can compare the past three years with you to. You have literally been my world for so long I can’t remember what it was like before you came.
I often go back and reread some of the things I’ve written to you (or about you) and can’t believe how much we’ve been through. For someone who (used to) enjoy talking about himself… I’ve enjoyed not being the center of attention because you have been just that, the center of attention, since the day you were born and you should be because you are the most caring, loving, funny and energetic little boy I have ever met. Now you have to share the spot light. I’m not going to lie… it’s not easy. Take it from the oldest sibling… the big brother… it ain’t easy! the good thing is… I’ll always get it… I’ll always understand what you’re going through… I’ll always be able to relate to how you feel as the oldest.
You’re always going to be blamed for “it” because you should know better (but if you’re smart you can set your little brother up quite easily… little brothers usually will do what you say). You’ll always have to “set the good example” (even when you’re both at fault).
But here’s the thing… you have to be careful… because with great power comes great responsibility. You literally are going to teach your brother everything. You are going to have to talk him out of dumb decisions, both because you’ve made those same decisions and also because you know better. You’ll get his back when things go wrong and he’ll get yours as well. If anyone is going to kick his butt… it should be you… and vice-versa.
The thing is, no matter what happens you’ll always have me in your corner. I’ll always be here for you… nothing will ever change that… not another baby… not another son… not a brother… nothing. I will always cherish the last three years with you… and look forward to seeing you continue to grow up and even more so look forward to watching you help your brother grow up.
Thank you for making my life so amazing. I love you Jackson Carmine… I always will.
Trust me, I know a thing or two about being a big brother
Tonight we learned just how deep Buster’s loyalty lies. Ohh you know it’s just Auntie Tricia holding Baby Jax. “Ohh hell no, not in my house she ain’t.”
Whether it’s simply a protective instinct he feels for his little brother, or just a hope he might snag a little scrap of dirty diaper… It’s still cute as hell.
Sorry Sons: Chronicles of a New Dad 