There are stadiums in the NFL, and then there is Lambeau Field.
You can see the grill smoke as you drive closer to the stadium with the huge G on the backside of the south side scoreboard.
It does not shimmer. It does not intimidate with futuristic architecture or luxury gloss. It sits in a neighborhood, wrapped in parking-lot tailgates and generations of ritual. It is cold steel and frozen breath and stories passed from grandparents to grandchildren. It is a memory as much as a venue.
I can still remember shivering on a bitterly cold December day as I witnessed the birth of the Lambeau Leap way back in 1993.