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… waiting the G Flag in support. Football, like life, doesn’t always go according to plan. But preparation, belief, and opportunity still matter.

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.

This wasn’t just my third trip to Green Bay.

It was our first—together.

And somehow, that made Lambeau feel brand new again.

Go Pack Go.

…PS When you can try to get in a Lambeau Leap… you do it!