Dear Brett, I’m finally getting around to writing my Christmas thank-you notes, and I figured I owe you one for being an inspiration to a fan who was losing faith in the NFL.

Thanks for helping me ignore Joe Horn’s showboating, self-promoting, cell-phone-grabbing, thinly-veiled-attempt-to-get-on-SportsCenter stunt. The only call he should have been making was to his wireless company to see if cell phone-induced fines from the NFL were covered under his unlimited nights and weekends plan.

Thanks for helping me overlook Ray Lewis scrambling to his feet and dancing like the guy we all laugh at in the bar every time he tackled a running back after a seven-yard gain.

Thanks for helping me forget about Charles Woodson repeatedly bad-mouthing the coach who took him to the Super Bowl just last season. Maybe he didn’t understand that directing your Madden 2004 franchise team to a Super Bowl on the rookie setting doesn’t really count as coaching experience.

Thank you for helping me disregard the bickering. Thank you for helping me ignore the excuses. Thank you for helping me grin and bear it when players gave entire interviews in the third person. Thank you for winning the NFC North so I didn’t have to see Minnesota’s hideous purple uniforms in the postseason. Most of all, thank you for helping me remember why I love football.

Thanks for coming all the way from being a kid in Kiln, Miss., to being a multi-millionaire athlete without changing too much. Thanks for having the permanent five o’clock shadow as a complement to your rocket arm. Thanks for being the down-to-earth everyman who just happens to have a Super Bowl ring and three MVP trophies.

Thanks for overcoming problems ranging from pain pill addiction to winning on turf and still playing like the quarterback for the fourth grade team who’s looking for a big upset over the fifth-graders at lunch recess. Thanks for making big plays, winning big games and brightening the Sunday afternoons of a couple hundred thousand Wisconsinites. Unfortunately, it’s easy to take your enthusiasm for granted, and it’s sad that it took a tragedy to bring into focus what I shouldn’t have lost sight of all along.

Thanks for playing against the Oakland Raiders mere hours after your father died unexpectedly. Thanks for bearing the unbelievable burden of playing with a heavy heart and in the burning spotlight. Thanks for being 2,298 miles from Kiln and about a million miles from where you wanted to be, so that you didn’t let your teammates down when they needed you the most. Your show of strength gives other people strength. I wouldn’t be in any kind of shape to even tie my shoes if I learned my father had just died. You threw for 398 yards and four touchdowns. I wouldn’t be in the mood to talk to anyone after learning my mentor and high school coach had unexpectedly passed away. You answered with class the 100th time some reporter asked you, “How are you feeling right now?”

You played with enthusiasm that masked your heartbreak. You played with courage that masked your pain. You played with a smile that hid your tears.

Thank you.

When the stars aligned for your Packers over the last few weeks of the season, I couldn’t help but think it was destiny. My friends and I jumped around like little kids when we watched Arizona knock off the Vikings to punch your ticket to the playoffs. I watched the highlights from that day on SportsCenter four times and still couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. It was like every clich‚d Disney sports movie ending all rolled into one. My dad and I shouted like maniacs when Al Harris jumped Alex Bannister’s route and took the Packers into the second round of the playoffs. Even our dog was barking.

Thanks for taking loss with class, both on the field an off.

Thanks for your toughness. Thanks for your guts. Thank you for saving me from writing off the NFL. And thanks for giving my dad and me a season that we won’t soon forget.