I'm a Cheesehead, born and Brett.

That isn't the contradiction it appears now that quarterback Brett Favre is in the NFL playoffs with the Vikings, not the Packers. Favre is the reason that I, born and bred in Wisconsin, came back to professional football as a fan.
   
I grew up on the Packers, Vince Lombardi and the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field. Despite my 34 football seasons as a resident of Minnesota, I never cared a twaddle about the Vikings — until now. Now they have Favre.

For many of his 16 seasons in Green Bay, Favre was stellar — and I missed it because I had renounced all TV team sports, especially violent football, as entertainment not worth my time. Oblivious to the lure of Lambeau, on occasion I even made the horrendous mistake of calling family during sacred game time.
   
Then one autumn Sunday in 1998, I was doing yoga at a motel in Provo, Utah. A month past a milestone birthday, I was heading for a celebratory splurge at an expensive resort. I was staying one night nearby in a far cheaper place so I could scoot up the mountain quickly on Monday and lounge around before check-in.
   
My idea of sport then?
Yoga was my idea of sport. Stretch it out, open the chakras, breathe. After my routine, I was relaxed, quiet and bored. I turned on the TV.
   
The screen swarmed with green and gold uniforms. Two minutes left, and the Pack was losing. Something Cheesehead stirred within me, and I turned a corner toward football.
   
I don't remember the opponent. I only had eyes for Favre, leading the Pack to the end zone in a classic execution of the two-minute drill. Victory secured, he took oxygen on the sidelines.
   
Damn, I thought, this guy is good.
   
There followed a decade of pleasure in watching Favre — those long bombs to Donald Driver, Oakland after his father died in December 2003, body blocks to clear a path for his runners. What other quarterback would be so nuts, or wait so often until the second half to come alive?
   
Favre the gunslinger notched quarterback record after record, including the one for most interceptions. Exasperating but excellent, that was Favre.
   
He was admirable off the field, too. He cleaned up a painkiller addiction, started a charitable foundation and showed husbands how to be good spirits when helping a wife face breast cancer. And, to my knowledge, he never needed a defense lawyer.
   
First trip to Lambeau Field
In early March 2008, I finally made my first trip to Lambeau Field to see the place that had seemed so magical when I was growing up. I wandered into a gift shop, browsing beer mugs and sweatshirts as I slowly became conscious of the news on the overhead TVs.
   
Brett Favre was retiring.
   
That first time, he cried. Wisconsin cried with him. Then came the un-retirement, and Wisconsin's tears dried up. At least they did in my family. Sympathy was short for agonizing indecision. The revered gunslinger became the throwed-out bum ya love to hate.
   
I couldn't muster any rage. Brett was in clear possession of my football heart, and if he was leaving Green Bay, I could stand it so long as he didn't join the Vikings.
   
His contract for 2008 went to the often hapless New York Jets. They blossomed into peppy contenders until the pace sagged under Favre's late-season injury.
   
Brett retired again in spring 2009, but by summer's end he flew to The Purple, the last team in football I wanted to cheer. Vikes, Pack — what to do?
   
I chose both. Brett was just too good to ignore, though I still was thrilled at the sight of my people pummeling Lambeau leapers after Packer touchdowns. But if I stuck with Favre I had a better chance at following a TV team, even though I lived in faraway New Mexico. Where Brett Favre throws, the broadcast cameras follow.
   
By season's end, Favre looked almost normal in purple, retirement speculation was back, and the Vikes were solidly in the post-season. I'm happy that Green Bay is there, too, with a wild-card spot.
   
But oh, the joy of Brett for even one more Sunday, now that January's here.
   
Trudi Hahn Pickett, formerly a Twin Cities journalist, lives in Las Cruces, N.M.