In frozen breath and iron mud
Where leather helmets shone,
A boy named Curly carried hope
Before the game was grown.
He played, he coached, he signed the checks,
He begged and borrowed too,
With calloused hands and stubborn faith
In green and gold he drew.
The crowds were small, the winters cruel,
The team was near its end,
But Lambeau stood against the odds
No matter how they bent.
He passed the ball when others ran,
He trusted air and risk,
A daring mind in cleats and grit
That would not coexist
With safe old ways or timid plans—
He changed the game outright,
Let spirals cut through Midwestern skies
On cold Wisconsin nights.
When money failed and doors seemed closed,
He turned to common ground:
A city saved its team itself,
And history was found.
Now Sundays roar where silence lay,
The field still bears his name,
A monument to faith and nerve
That outlasts flesh and fame.
For Curly’s win was more than score
Or banners hung in rows—
It was belief that roots can hold
Where frozen north wind blows.