By: Matt Boyarsky

When the puffing breath of mainstream media outlets tried to raise the temperature of Mike McCarthy’s seat in Green Bay, Packers players, particularly Aaron Rodgers, stepped in for their guy. After a painful loss to Tennessee, Rodgers dismissed speculative reports calling for McCarthy’s head “ridiculous,” and with his typically curt, mildly annoyed responses, he bought the Packers offense enough trust for another week. He embodied every Packers platitude proven prophetic in past seasons. R-E-L-A-X. One game at a time. Still in the mix.

Yet over the course of the season, one of these supposed truths had been conveniently left out of perfectly applicable post-game and post-practice interviews: Next man up.

The Packers have indeed leaned on this ideology several times before in 2016. As members of the secondary began to drop from injuries, Packers faithful were assured of their depth. When Eddie Lacy’s ankle crapped out for the year, Ty Montgomery’s work ethic, athletic ability, and adaptability were going to be enough to keep the offense (and your fantasy team, supposedly) afloat. When Knile Davis’ two weeks in Green Bay proved to be a fruitless venture, the return of veteran tailback James Starks would surely stop the bleeding.

So what about the collapsed Dom Capers? Who’s next behind him?

Packers: Our backs are against the wall.

You haven’t answered the question. Isn’t Dom Capers’ defense surrendering 30 or more points in five of the last six games comparable to a player tearing an ACL?

Packers: The guys in this locker room have a lot of heart.

Is it possible that that the “bend but do not break” mentality on the defensive side of the ball is officially now just “broken”, and the next man up to supplant Dom Capers is not being given a fair shake? Does such a person even exist?

Packers: We’ve got to prove to ourselves what we can do.

Alright, everyone, that’s all for tonight. *End of interview. Cameras click.

Here is where I must make a confession: I am a Packers fan. My biases are my religion. I watch Brett Favre’s commercials for copper-infused elbow sleeves with absolute reverence and not a shred of irony. I couldn’t give any less of a fuck about Aaron Rodgers’ parents or his soul patch-wielding douche of a brother. Green Bay has the best fans in the world (I’ve seen like four states, so I think I’d know). The Lambeau Leap is the purest reoccurring moment in all of sports. There is only one title town. Dez didn’t catch it.

This is why it pains me to admit that Dom Capers must go. I cannot convince myself otherwise. Because in order to uphold the structural integrity of the bubble that hovers over Green Bay and its innumerable satellite locations, Packers fans must, at the very least, have the outs to believe the lies they tell themselves. In past years, it was the ball-hawking skills of Charles Woodson that counteracted the youth around him. The once explosive Clay Matthews was able to generate disturbances from pure speed and power off of blitz packages that hid the fact that the Packers had no pass rush otherwise (a 3-4 defense will do that to you). But these days Woodson is all smiles, cashing his analyst checks, sitting on a first ballot Hall of Fame slot for 2021, and Matthews is a ghost of his elite pass rushing, pre-HGH-allegation self.

To deny talent on behalf of the D would not be fair, but the fact of the matter is that Ha-Ha Clinton-Dix cannot be everywhere on the field at once, and interior linemen like Mike Daniels are given little chance to disrupt passers from the constantly sliding, twist-stunting nose position that Capers is so adamant about using to make lanes for more blitzes that only lead to arm tackles and subsequent deep completions because of the lack of help. The Packers’ remaining schedule, beginning with the Eagles on Monday, will seek to exploit this now predictable tom-foolery.

So here is one more cliché for the Pack: If you love something, let it go.

We love Dom Capers. We really do. His defensive play calling has had all the appeal of a scratch-off lottery ticket given as a gift inside a Christmas card. At first it feels cheap and seemingly thoughtless, but we say thank you, we accept it for what it is, and we have no choice but to scratch its surface. Well hot damn, wouldn’t you know it, what’s underneath is a small prize; a sack, a stunt that blows up a draw on third down. Dom’s got the right idea. This is that quick money. He’s got the hot hand. So we buy in. We buy more tickets week after week. But everything beyond the initial gift is a bust. All that’s left is a pile of silvery dust, and we check the numbers again and again, asking ourselves, “are you sure that’s right?” In the fine print on the back of the ticket that a person reads only out of boredom and desperation are the emboldened words Gambling Problem? A 1-800 number. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Though one cannot help but wonder what the people on the other side of that telephone number do. Who are these folks that are at the ready twenty-four hours a day to right this ship? The digits from the hotline grow bigger and darker.

Next man up.