Tundra FM: Mission 88, Lombardi's Legacy, and Scoot Scoot

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[upbeat music] Tundra FM! Hard rock.

Cold blood.

Packer net.

Good evening, Rick Lombardi.

This is Tundra FM on the Packer Net podcast network.

Tonight, we go quiet and loud, '90s alternative, the kind that whispers, then breaks a window, and it opens on one man making his case.

Let's get into it.

Here's a song sung from inside number 88's helmet.

Second round pick, forty-second overall, Oregon State, six foot six.

A lacerated kidney early, then years stuck behind the guy drafted after him.

This is him not accepting that.

A contract year, a chance, and a refusal to be the what if.

He wants one clean seam and love looking his way.

The old Finley mold, the downfield tight end nobody used.

Mission active.

This is Mission 88 on Tundra FM.

[rock music] Three years deep inside the shadow.

Too tall to hide, too hurt to run.

They penciled in the eulogy before the mission had begun.

A lacerated season.

A kidney on the floor.

They said the forty-second pick wasn't worth the war.

And I don't need the headline.

I don't need the guarantee.

Just give me one seam open, one clean target.

Love looks left and finds me.

If you were here, I'd tell you everything I bled for.

If you were here, I'd show you what an eighty-eight can be.

And if you were here, the frigate hits the harbor, and I'm never gonna stop until they see.

Gonna stop until they see.

Craft goes down and I'm still breathing.

Final year and I'm still green.

Twenty-four catches, two fifty-two.

You know what those numbers mean.

No, they mean I was right here waiting.

Every route a loaded gun.

Ask love where the pressure window opens.

I'm the one.

And I don't need the trade talk.

I don't need the pity, see.

Just give me fourth and short on the seam route, and I will not retreat.

If you were here, I'd tell you everything I bled for.

If you were here, I'd show you what an eighty-eight can be.

And if you were here, the frigate hits the harbor, and I'm never gonna stop until they see.

Second round, forty-two.

Oregon State, six foot six.

They had the Finley vision before the injury fixed.

Or what they thought they knew about me.

But twenty-twenty-six is not a what if anymore.

I am the last man standing.

Last man standing at the only door.

[rock music] If you were here, I'd tell you everything I bled for.

If you were here, I'd show you what an eighty-eight can be.

And if you were here, the frigate hits the harbor, and I'm never, never gonna stop until they see.

Until they see.

Gonna stop until they see.

[rock music]

[rock music]Here's a song about the man under center.

Three years waiting behind a legend, then the keys to the franchise and a contract to match.

Two hundred twenty million with his name on it.

It doesn't shy from the hard part of his story.

He lost his father when he was fourteen.

He's been open about it, turned it into a foundation, into purpose.

This song sits in that, grief made into resolve.

The quiet one who kept going, the signal through the static.

This is Noise Eternal on Tundra FM.

[rock music] Three years inside the shadow, holding everything unsaid.

The number on his jersey and the name above his head.

They handed him a dynasty and told him, "Wait." So he waited.

So he waited.

Every wound becomes a season.

Every season burns a scar, burns a scar.

The noise is how he reaches through the static.

There you are.

He is the signal through the static.

He is the arm they overlook.

Twenty-five touchdowns in the silence, in the silence.

Proof inside a book they never read, never read.

The dynasty was borrowed.

He is built, he is built.

The quiet ones move mountains when they bleed, when they bleed.

[rock music] His father left in darkness when the boy was fourteen years.

He didn't leave the field, though.

He converted grief to gears.

They said the contract's heavy, two twenty on his name.

But watch how pain becomes precision.

Watch the second half ignite the flame.

Every wound becomes a season.

Every...

Here's a song about the man whose name is on the trophy.

Before the crown, before Green Bay, a butcher's son from Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn.

An altar boy who nearly became a priest.

Five foot eight, too small for the line, played it anyway.

Taught chemistry and Latin for almost nothing.

Carried that same discipline north and turned a losing town into a winner.

The song's whole point is the part nobody sees.

Show up, do it right.

Love the men you lead.

He never left the prayer.

This is Brooklyn's Finest on Tundra FM.

[gentle music] Sheepshead Bay, salt in the air.

Altar boy, learning where to point a prayer.

Yeah, uh, yeah.

Yeah, uh, yeah, yeah, uh.

Harry cut the meat, taught the boys the same trade.

Do it right or don't touch it, that's the code he made.

Twelve years old on a sandlot, no coach, no whistle.

Just kids and a leather ball flying like a missile.

Wanted the collar, wanted to preach the word.

Cathedral bells ringing, everything he heard.

But the game kept calling in a language he knew.

Same devotion, different pew.

Brooklyn made the man before the trophy took his name.

Five foot eight of granite, learned the pulpit on the game.

They see the shine at the finish, never saw the long way down.

Uh, butcher's son, altar hands.

Before the ring, before the crown.

[record scratch] Yeah.

Magna cum laude, Latin on the tongue.

Taught chemistry to teenagers for under a grand a year.

Young seven blocks to granny, didn't have his size.

Had the eyes, had the will, had the fire in disguise.

Discipline wasn't a slogan, it was mass on a Sunday.

Order and duty, Monday into Monday.

He'd say, "Winning's the only thing," but here's the read between.

He meant do the small thing right when nobody sees.

Brooklyn made the man before the trophy took his name.

Five foot eight of granite, learned the pulpit on the game.

They see the shine at the finish, never saw the long way down.

Uh, butcher's son, altar hands.

hands.Rose Bowl slipped away on a Thanksgiving loss.

He called it the worst day of his life.

Kept the lesson throughout the ache.

Never underestimate what's across the line.

Carried it from a Bronx locker room all the way to the frozen edge of the map.

Uh, yeah.

Green Bay wasn't glamour.

It was gray, and it was hard.

Same butcher's discipline, just a bigger yard.

Turned a losing town into a Sunday cathedral.

Made ordinary men believe they were the sequel.

Now his name's on a medal every winner lifts.

But the boy from the Bay had humbler gifts.

Show up, do it right, love the men that you lead.

The trophy's just the granite proving the creed.

Brooklyn made the man, and the trophy kept the name.

Five-foot-eight of granite, still the pulpit in the game.

Now they raise the shine at the finish.

Remember the long way down.

Uh, butcher's son.

Butcher's son.

Altar hands.

Altar hands.

Put the meaning.

Meaning.

In the crown.

[gentle jazz music] Sheepshead Bay.

Salt in the air.

He never left the prayer [gentle jazz music]

Here's the fast one.

This is about the deep threat, the receiver who turns a slant into a track meet.

Out of Fargo, North Dakota State, four national titles up there before Green Bay ever called.

He tore a knee, missed the start of last year, then came back averaging 17 and a half yards a catch and just got paid for it.

Now he's the guy Love looks for when they need to flip the field in one play.

They call it Scoot.

Nowhere to hide.

This is Scoot.

Scoot on Tundra FM.

[upbeat music] Mm.

Yeah, mm.

Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, ah, woo.

Scoot, scoot, scoot, scoot, scoot, scoot, scoot, scoot.

Scoot, scoot.

Woo.

Yeah.

Uh-huh.

Speeding down the sideline, lightning in cleats.

Green Bay's flash setting fire to the Lambeau seats.

Leaps like a hero in a summer block buster.

Grabbing ass, snagging balls, a real Packers hustler.

Scoot, scoot.

Hear the crowd roar.

As Watson sprints, the scoreboard soars.

Quicker than rumors, bolder than lightning.

Green Bay's wonder forever striking.

Smooth with the moves.

Slick on the field.

Dances past defenders, their fate sealed.

Every catch a highlight, each play precise.

Outrunning shadows, cold as ice.

Scoot, scoot.

Hear the crowd roar.

As Watson sprints, the scoreboard soars.

Quicker than rumors, bolder than lightning.

Green Bay's wonder forever striking.

From Fargo's fields to the frozen tundra's gleam.

Living out the childhood impossible dream.

With every juke and every single stride.

He's got that Lambeau swagger, nowhere to hide.

Rodgers is rocket, loves deep throws too.

Watson's the target always coming through.

Got that extra gear, that undeniable burst.

Leaving DBs in the dust, always putting them first.

Scoot, scoot.

Hear the crowd roar.

As Watson sprints, the scoreboard soars.

Quicker than rumors, bolder than lightning.

Green Bay's wonder forever striking.

Yeah, Christian Watson, that's the name.

Setting the league ablaze, playing his own game.

Number eight zero, legend in the making.

Green and gold forever, hearts are shaking.

Scoot, scoot.

[upbeat music]

We opened with Mission 88, a tight end refusing to be written off.

Noise Eternal followed, the quarterback's long climb and the loss he carries with him.

Then Brooklyn's finest, the butcher's son from Sheepshead Bay, whose name is on the trophy.

And we closed with Scoot Scoot, all speed, all comeback.

That's it from me, Brick Lombardi.

You were never alone out there.

Go Pack, go.