‘Kill ‘em all:’ The Sean Rhyan Code

Every Sunday, the Green Bay Packers' brawling right guard reads a message on a lighter... and morphs into something else. Good news for a team that finally wants to bludgeon opponents.

Illustration by Brave Buffalo

GREEN BAY, Wisc. — Personality does not square with the punishment inflicted on the field. He’s introspective. He’s conscientious. He’s polite. Soft-spoken. This barrel-chested right guard for the Green Bay Packers is a quintessential gentle giant, inviting me right into the common room of his apartment complex with an extra Nicolet water bottle in-hand. The first hour of our conversation, Sean Rhyan meticulously describes his profession as more of an artform.

This 24-year-old a refreshing gust of curiosity. Before boarding flights, he makes a point to buy a magazine so his eyes aren’t glued to a screen. He wants to learn. Lately, he’s been exploring investing options in crypto. This laidback So Cal kid grew up surfing, never parties and prefers a refreshing Diet Coke after a hard day’s work.

Long hair pulled back into a bun, mustache entering Fu Manchu territory, Rhyan wears spectacles with sleek golden frames. His backpack isn’t an ordinary backpack, rather one of those MCM Worldwide designer backpacks worth a grand. Around one wrist is a sparkling watch. Around the other are two homemade bracelets with small beaded letters spelling something out.

His voice is strikingly calm — comforting — on this sleepy Tuesday in Wisconsin.

He’s told none of this was not expected.

Through a window, he takes a moment to gaze at his office. All season, this 6-foot-5, 321-pound man has conducted his day job right there at Lambeau Field with the congeniality of a werewolf. Rhyan has spent his third season in the NFL asserting himself as one of the NFC’s feral barbarians, stuffing grown men into that hallowed dirt. He understands why people may be perplexed at first blush and takes a moment to explain this shape-shifting transformation each Sunday. First, there’s his musical selection. Back at UCLA, teammates were always confused by the bouncy sounds blaring from the speaker in his locker because after The Killers, after Blink-182, they’d all be treated to what he and teammate Atonio Mafi dubbed “white girl music.”

His game screams Rob Zombie, but Rhyan’s actual go-to musician is… Taylor Swift.

He’s a fan of the classics, too: “Teardrops On My Guitar” and “Blank Space.”

Bruin players would shoot Rhyan a dirty look, but never dared say a peep. “Because,” Rhyan says, “we’d fucking get it done.” In Green Bay, the pregame tradition continues in his earbuds. His pregame playlist — titled “Boing” — is teeming with cheery pop music. Rhyan wants to bop his head to Mike Posner, T.I., Rihanna, T-Swift and appreciate the fact that he has “the best job in the world.” Football is the only profession that allows 300-pound men to smash into each other for three hours, and that makes him smile.

Even if this becomes more of an evil smile the closer Sean Rhyan gets to kickoff.

He sincerely views offensive line play as “you or me.” Two men enter the fight, one exits. There’s no such thing as a stalemate in his mind. That’s why one picture on a vintage history IG page stopped him dead in his tracks one day — a rusted cigarette lighter from the Vietnam War. On the back, it read: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for I am the evilest son of a bitch in the valley.”

He loved it. Every gameday, he sends a picture of this lighter to his father.

Once the music stops, once the Packers’ team prayer is complete, Rhyan asks God to protect both himself and whoever’s lining up on the other side of the ball. (“Ironically,” Rhyan chuckles.) Then, he consciously thinks about that lighter one final time. The coin is flipped. The ball is kicked. Sean Rhyan steps onto the field and becomes something else entirely.

“For those three hours, all of this is gone,” Rhyan says. “It’s fucking me or you. I’m going to win.”

“The yin and yang. You’ve got the Bible verse, yet you have a verse right after it that basically says that you don’t care because you know you’re the worst on the field. It’s beautiful. And almost emotional for some reason. Every time I text it to my pops, all of a sudden, I feel like this wave come over me. And then once I feel that? It’s time to go fucking smash some heads and make some holes. Everyone talks about that ‘switch’ thing and, yeah, I guess it is a switch.”

A switch these Packers have lacked because a special something has been missing around here.

For two decades, the identity of the entire team was tied up in Aaron Rodgers and, hey, the quarterback did win four MVP awards. But the agonizing playoff defeats also added up. When mid-January opponents slug the Packers in the jaw, they stagger. They fall just short. As Matt LaFleur continues to remake the team in his vision — post-Rodgers — it’s clear the head coach craves a team that’s feared at the line of scrimmage. An ambitious goal. Since Green Bay won a Super Bowl in 2010, there’s always been a bigger bully on the block. LaFleur is winning 68 percent of his games. Only Vince Lombardi won more often in team history. But the coach with vigilantly gelled hair is also 3-4 in the playoffs. He knows more muscle is required to slay Dan Campbell’s pack of savages in Detroit, a Minnesota Vikings team on a mission, anything Green Bay encounters when the playoffs begin.

This team as a whole must undergo the same transformation as No. 75 those precious hours before kickoff.

So, Go Long spent time with the grinning goliath on the front lines.

If you’re building a bully, this is where you start.

You start with the lineman who broke clavicles in rugby, reveres Richie Incognito, views himself as the “evilest son of a bitch,” has the ultimate secret weapon (Dad), and always knows how to bring a few words of wisdom to life on a football field. Because from afar, you’d assume those delightful pink, blue, green and orange letters on his bracelets spell out a message straight from a Hallmark movie. Be Happy or Love Life. Again, this is a remarkably jolly fellow. Two years ago, Rhyan’s girlfriend asked what message he’d want on a bracelet, and he didn’t hesitate. He gave her two ideas. She laced them together — and now? — the only time Rhyan ever takes them off is for practice or a game.

Lean in. Squint. Right there are two edicts he keeps at the forefront of mind.

Fuck You.

Kill ‘Em All.

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Go Long

When his parents met in Southern California, Dad was struck by Mom’s beauty. Son makes it clear that Cupid’s arrow struck his father directly in the heart. But… yes. The legend is true. Steve Rhyan also informed Mary Lou that they could create quite an athlete with their genetics. He was an international Motocross driver with a degree in exercise physiology. She was a native of the Philippines who excelled in multiple sports at Walnut High.

Very early, Dad got to work building a monster. Early as 5 years old, on family vacations to Hawaii, Sean waded in the ocean currents because Dad believed it’d strengthen his core.

With the water rising to his waist, then his chest, Sean learned how to stabilize himself.

Dad was never pushy. Never forced Sean to do anything. Growing up in Ladera Ranch, Calif., he still had time for skating and surfing, in addition to dabbling in a slew of sports. Rhyan didn’t even play football until high school. Rugby was No. 1 in his heart. All violence we see was born in those scrums on a paddock. As the team’s largest player, Rhyan was always the player designated to crash into Polynesians 1 on 1 after penalties. Growing up, he couldn’t find Green Bay, Wisc., on a map. He didn’t watch the NFL, no, Rhyan loved the famed New Zealand “All Blacks” and his favorite athlete: Sonny Bill Williams. Here, he brings up Sonny’s highlights as if they live in NFL Films-classics lore — the time Williams grabbed Cian Healy by the collar and deftly swapped hands to free up a right fist, the time four combatants all closed in for blood and Williams didn’t care. Wildly outnumbered, with a massive grin on his face, he clearly wants a brawl… and swings away. (He was a pro boxer, too.)

While the best lineman in his division, Lions tackle Penei Sewell, concussed a poor sap in “sharks and minnows” during football practice, Rhyan had “English Bulldogs” in rugby. Two “bulldogs” stand in the middle of a field and everyone on the team tried to run from one side of the field to the next. If you’re tackled, you become a bulldog. The goal is to be the last man standing. As a 6-foot-4, 265-pound freshman, Rhyan was virtually impossible to bring down.

Thankfully, he saved most of his damage for opponents.

Rhyan begins by reiterating he means no harm. In reality, one of his faults as a young athlete was being too friendly with opposing players.

“I’m a nice guy,” he says. “I don’t want to fuck anyone up on purpose.”

But he couldn’t help it. He’ll never forget the first collarbone he snapped in half. Rhyan had the ball in the flat… stared down a wing player 1 on 1… had time to tell himself this will be bad, then rammed through a tall, skinny kid. Here in Green Bay, Rhyan clicks his tongue at the top of his mouth. That’s what it sounds like when someone breaks their collarbone. Next, you hear a scream. Yet as his victim rolled and wailed in agony, he simply Iverson-stepped over the kid, kept on running and admits he didn’t feel any remorse until after the game.

As the kid ate a sandwich and chips — his arm in a sling — Rhyan apologized.

The Olympics were quickly becoming a realistic possibility.

At Capistrano Valley Christian School, one random question then changed his life forever. After going to the bathroom one day, he took his sweet time walking back to class when one of the high school football coaches spotted him. “You play football?” he asked. Rhyan said he only played baseball and rugby. The coach asked if he was interested, and the forever-inquisitive Rhyan figured “Why not?” He was in.

Just like that, the high school freshman was lining up in the Oklahoma Drill against a senior named Clark Vaughn.

One yard apart, each lined up in a three-point stance.

With three fingers on the leather ottoman between us — as another apartment tenant microwaves lunch in this common room — Rhyan reenacts this defining moment.

Round 1 went to Vaughn. The senior drilled him under his chin and this jolt, this stinging sensation felt so foreign. Protective gear such as helmets and shoulder pads, he realized, actually made this sport more painful.

Right then, it would’ve been easy to retreat, to mentally hit the eject button. Stick with rugby. Stick with what he knew.

Round 2, however, he held his own. He enjoyed the pain and told himself, “I could dig this.” Back home, a light bulb went off in Dad’s head. Maybe football was his son’s calling. Steve Rhyan transferred his son into San Juan Hills — a much larger school — to get him more exposure and, after a brief foray at tight end, Rhyan volunteered his services on the offensive line. He could tell the team needed help up front. After waiting six games due to transfer rules, Rhyan got his chance. He played all of four games that sophomore year and four games of teeing off on unsuspecting linebackers was all it took for an SEC school 2,400 miles away to take notice. The memory of his coach sharing the news still gives Rhyan goosebumps. South Carolina verbally offered a scholarship. Five more offers followed.

“I was wrecking shop,” Rhyan says. “We were in a lot of power where I would straight arrow to the linebacker and the linebackers don’t really have their head on a swivel, so they wouldn’t see me coming. I would just clean ‘em out.”

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Football was an “unknown feeling,” a “release.” All Sean Rhyan knew was that he wanted more.

He decided to hang up both the rugby and baseball cleats for good…with one addition: Track.

Dad believed that throwing a 12-pound shot could help his boy as a lineman because, Rhyan explains, Dad forever views football as “fusion food.” He wants to mix up American and Asian cuisine together to create something new. Rhyan started watching grainy clips of East Germany athletes and, above all, the 1980s Swiss legend Werner Gunthor. Within a seven-foot ring, he realized throwing shotput is all power. “Quick power,” Rhyan adds. And he chose the “gliding” method instead of spinning, which felt extremely similar to pass-setting in football. Both require an urgent, giant step. Think of David Bakhtiari firing out of a stance.

Rhyan finished third in the state of California and set the school records in the shot and disc.

In came the D-I track offers.

His home garage became more of a personal laboratory. Still is, too.

The walls are decorated with action shots of NFL linemen: Nate Solder, Joe Thomas, Zack Martin and Richie Incognito. But over time, Steve also hung up Da Vinci’s iconic “Vitruvian Man,” to stress balance. There’s a photo of famed ballet dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov, to stress flexibility. The Rhyans have two racks, a heavy bag, a light bag, medicine bags and a mat — father and son would grapple, too, because Dad is an expert in the modern Japanese art of Judo. Rhyan jokes that his Dad doesn’t look like him. True, Steve is half his size. But he also calls his Dad’s mental drive “unmatched.” Steve Rhyan raced internationally in motocross at age 15, became a police officer in San Diego, got that exercise physiology degree at SDSU while competing in the decathlon. After this, for good measure, he became a physician assistant.

The motocross stories always blow Sean’s mind. Training in the hills, Steve once crashed, destroyed his bike, totally blacked out and somehow drove himself home with a massive headache.

“The shit he’s done,” Rhyan says, “you could write a whole book on this dude’s life.”

Into his senior year, Sean was up to 20 scholarship offers. All of the nation’s top programs wanted this mesmerizing science experiment with the 34-inch vert and 6’7” wingspan on their campus. Yet, he never attended football camps. Nor did he take any official visits. The Rhyans didn’t want to feel like they owed a school anything for spending thousands of dollars on an elaborate visit with a five-star hotel. He wasn’t on Twitter. He still isn’t on Twitter. A total novice to the college sports world, Rhyan didn’t care at all about raising his profile on social media and, to this day, he’s thrilled he refused to get swept away by the hoopla. “It kept me a kid,” he adds. Inevitably, the best of the best made their pitch. USC OL coach Neil Callaway came to one practice, saw Rhyan run onto the field and left. That was enough. One day, Rhyan stepped out of Spanish class to take a call from Nick Saban. Hearing the stoic, serious, all-business voice of the Alabama legend forced Rhyan to realize he may be (really) good at this whole football thing.

He unofficially visited the three nearest schools — USC, UCLA, Stanford — and chose the Bruins.

Dad had his son cultivate mass ahead of fall camp because he knew Rhyan would lose weight — fast — through Chip Kelly’s scorching practices. He was right. Tipping the scales at 340, Rhyan dropped to 312 by his first game. An injury thrust the babyfaced freshman into action and that 2019 season opener was a wake-up call. It felt like the University of Cincinnati fans were right on top of him. The cheering. The screaming. He crouched into his first stance and remembers thinking, “Man, this is fucking LOUD.” Early on, UCLA offensive line coach Justin Frye realized Rhyan was a perfectionist. To prevent one bad play from becoming two, Frye repeated one message: “Wipe it off.” Move on. Rhyan learned to forget bad plays by unstrapping, then re-strapping his chinstrap buckles in-between plays. One deep breath, and he’s free. Similar to George Kittle drawing a red dot on his wrist tape to hit as a reset at Iowa.

As a result, he never relinquished his spot. All Rhyan cared about was football and his classes for Geography and Environmental Studies. The only time he partied was after UCLA upset No. 16 LSU his senior year. After helping the two backs behind him rush for 200+ yards, Rhyan enjoyed a few beers. Don’t worry, Wisconsin. Even though Rhyan prefers soda, he crowns your state the king of beers.

Everyone on the UCLA team sure could’ve used a drink to numb the pain of Dec. 28, 2021. Hours before playing in the Holiday Bowl against N.C. State, the Bruins withdrew due to positive Covid tests. It still pisses Rhyan off. In the lobby, seniors Kyle Philips and Chase Cota were in tears. This would’ve been their final collegiate game. All season, the team’s Covid protocols never made a lick of sense. UCLA tested players before working out and didn’t even reveal the results until after they sweated all over each other. Now, their season was over. Rhyan still had a year of eligibility and Rhyan hadn’t even gotten a report from the draft advisory board — he had zero clue if NFL scouts liked him.

In that sad moment, however, he knew it was time to go pro.

Over the next few months, the Cincinnati Bengals and Las Vegas Raiders seemed most interested. And deep into Round 3, he got a text from a former grad assistant at UCLA. Ramsen Golpashin was now a quality control coach with the Packers and told Rhyan the Packers were going to take him if he was still on the board at No. 92 overall.

“Next thing you know, it rings,” Rhyan says. “9-2-0.”

His NFL ascent has taken longer than expected but finally — in Year 3 — Sean Rhyan is entrenching himself as a game-in, game-out mauler. Only five teams have run the ball more than the Packers this 2024 season. LaFleur has clearly tried to callous his roster for the winter months. Finesse no longer flies in Wisconsin. At one point, I ask Rhyan for the moments that made him and he’s hesitant to reflect because he’s in the midst of creating those moments.

He might’ve grown up on a beach. But from birth, Rhyan also prepared his body for the rigors of this winter. Now, his ears are open.

He’s sharpening his mind.

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No amount of chinstrap buckling could clear Sean Rhyan’s mind through a miserable performance against the Detroit Lions at Lambeau Field this season. This 24-14 loss in the rain served as an ugly reminder that Green Bay wasn’t quite ready to elevate in weight class.

Still furious inside the sauna, postgame, Rhyan asked cornerback Jaire Alexander how he copes with bad games personally.

“Do you dwell on it? Do you just try to forget it as fast as you can? What do you do?”

Alexander told him that he’ll immediately examine what he should’ve done better. He’ll replay his mistakes. But then? It’s gone. It’s forgotten. Because to survive in the NFL, you’ve got to live in the present. “If you think too far ahead, you’ll get anxiety,” Alexander told him. “If you think in the past, you’ll get depression.” Then, he paused. The swaggering No. 1 corner let those words simmer in the sweltering heat of the sauna.

“Is that why we live in the now?” Rhyan asked.

“Exactly.’”

Alexander’s words were so simple, yet so profound to Rhyan. After the cornerback left, he stayed in the sauna a few minutes longer to let his advice sink in. For all of his unique training, the No. 1 source of his tenacity — and, in turn, the Packers toughening up — is Rhyan’s mind. He never wants to feel as if he knows everything. Whenever he hears an axiom like this, he adds it to his code. He finds a way to tangibly apply sage advice to his day-to-day life.

‘Tend your garden’

This came from Dad… via Buddhism. Steve Rhyan enjoys studying other religions and — while reading up on the power of Zen — these three words sounded most applicable to his son. Exactly like tending to your personal garden, it’s best to nurture inner-peace and never worry about trying to control external factors. Think this way and you’ll naturally assume personal responsibility. “We do what we do,” Steve tells his son, “and they do what they do.” No use wasting energy on anything they cannot control.

Sean views his own life as a Zen Garden. He’s only concerned about his box of sand.

Who the Packers play. Who the Packers sign. Anything that happens at the micro or macro level never matters.

Take today as an example. This is something as simple as making sure he drinks a lot of water and eats three meals today.

This also means trying out new training moves back in the garage with Dad to attack specific muscles in new ways, such as ripping through upright rows on their shark-pit machine. Once Sean is back in Green Bay, Steve sends him reels of judo moves from Instagram. Sometimes, he’ll apply that maneuver to a specific block. Other times, he politely tells Dad that particular move would draw a 15-yard flag.

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‘1 percent’

He’s determined to get “1 percent” better every day. Be it “mentally,” “physically” or “emotionally.”

One way he achieves this is by hunting down abstract techniques from other sports.

Which brings Rhyan back to his hero: Werner Gunthor. The older he gets, the more he enjoys watching the Swiss because a 6-foot-7, 290-pound man should not be able to bound into the air with such grace or spring up two steps at a time so effortlessly, so eloquently. Rhyan implores us to watch clips, and he’s not exaggerating. On TV, it may seem like offensive line play is nothing but five grunts bashing into a defense. But a block is won or lost in a millisecond. Through his own Gunthor-like training, Rhyan creates the flexibility and muscle memory necessary to own that millisecond.

Rare is the rep you’re able to “set-set-punch,” Rhyan explains. Nothing is ever clean.

He’s guaranteed to find a new 1 percent each time he hits play on Gunthor.

“You’ve got to be able to adapt and adjust like that,” he says, snapping his fingers. “So if I’m off-kilter — maybe instead of having my hand on the outside — I’m going to try to get on the inside because that’s better for my body angle. I might not be in front of the guy, but if I catch him on the inside and I could push him.”

The “1 percent” can be something as minor as the former Packers tackle Bakhtiari saying he drinks water at room temperature during those minus-20 games at Lambeau or as powerful as watching Mike Tyson on YouTube for hours on end. His raw power through those 44 knockouts is stunning, but the fights aren’t what Rhyan is drawn to most. He’s always watching the behind-the-scenes training videos to add 1 percent to his mentality. Because when it’s noon on Sunday, every NFL player has a killer instinct. “When they’re training, do they have it?” Rhyan asks. “Do they have that fucking power and grind?”

It doesn’t matter if he’s 20 years old or 58. A scowling Tyson looks fully capable of killing a man with his bare hands in these videos.

Jabbing, dodging, jump-roping, he represents exactly how Rhyan aims to train with his father.

He wants to bring the same intimidation, too.

‘Me vs. You’

The movie “300” lit a fuse inside. This 2006 cinematic masterpiece, of course, is based on the bravery of a small group of men taking on the Persian empire. Again, the concept is simple. Here were 300 men who knew death was certain against an invading army of more than 300,000. Yet, they decided to fight anyway and their valor inspired all of Greece to fight a common enemy. Rhyan’s antennae is always up for stories of human triumph and tragedy. He recently watched a podcast featuring a French Foreign Legion soldier who suffered from serious drug addiction and hit rock bottom at one point in life.

“I like watching shit like that just to remind myself that life ain’t sweet,” he says. “You could be here today and gone tomorrow.”

No sport helps drill home the reality that life isn’t all rainbows and puppies and daisies quite like football because there’s no sugarcoating the nature of his job. There’s no place to run or hide when the ball is snapped.

Two players lock horns and someone will lose. The exercise is binary. Let up for one split-second, and you’ll be humiliated. His freshman year at Capistrano Valley, a pair of senior captains — free safety Ben Sukut and linebacker Daniel Herber — would light up their own teammates in practice. To this day, even as an NFL player, their total lack of mercy blows his mind. One specific practice at UCLA then crystallized this mentality. Rhyan knew teammate Krys Barnes was battling a knee issue so when it was his job to block the UCLA linebacker on a pull, he let up. He hesitated. Barnes popped him directly in the chest and dropped Rhyan on his ass.

Frye fumed and shared one valuable message that Rhyan applies today.

In football, it’s either “me or you.” Choose to be the hammer or the nail.

“Fucking hit him,” Frye said. “It’s football.”

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‘You can’t fill your cup if your cup is full’

There’s always more to learn. He approaches every day with an open mind, which means studying linemen who are both bigger and smaller. And when he starts cycling through different players, the guard he tends to hit the play button on most is a familiar name in these Go Long streets: Richie Incognito.

When Rhyan says his name, he’s well aware of the baggage that immediately comes to mind.

“Off the field, shit, whatever. Don’t care,” he says. “But his on the field? Unreal. Again, it’s his mindset.”

About the only thing he can’t emulate is the “lobster claw” tape job. That is, seal two fingers together on each hand. Rhyan likes spreading his fingers out and even wears tight end gloves because he’s got to be able to feel everything with all 10 fingers. But gradually, he’s becoming the same pain in the ass Incognito was during his 164 bloody games. Finishing plays with one extra shove. Talking trash. At his peak, Incognito was a nonstop source of mayhem. Nobody could crawl under a defensive player’s skin quite like him and the examples are endless. You may recall Antonio Smith ripping Incognito’s helmet off and trying to swing it across his skull.

He’s been voted the league’s dirtiest player. He’s taken a baseball bat to his own Ferrari.

“I like that he’s a little bit fucking crazy,” Rhyan says, “because he’s one of the best, and you’ve got to get into that mindset of ‘I don’t fucking care. I’m going to get my job done one way or the other.’”

Incognito never had a problem tapping into a dark side because his life’s been full demons. Here in Green Bay, I share the story of eating dinner with Incognito in Scottsdale, Ariz., the night Jonathan Martin — the source of his infamous bullying — threatened to kill him on Instagram. It looked like Incognito saw a ghost. He departed the restaurant, rushed home and the FBI got involved. Authorities instructed Incognito to evacuate his home and drive far away. (Here’s that podcast, icymi.) Since his own haunting childhood, it’s always been quite easy to draw the Point A-to-Point B line for why Incognito plays with such brutality.

Rhyan has not been exiled from the NFL twice over but he’s inching closer to this same state of mind 60+ snaps a game. There’s been a few spells of turbulence in his own life. On the field, he was suspended six games as a rookie for PEDs. A shock that compelled him to whack all supplements from his diet: whey, creatine, hell, even Vitamin C. Off the field, his mother overcame breast cancer when he was younger and both of his father’s parents died from cancer.

Somehow, Dad never skipped a beat. He kept working. Son believes that same relentless DNA strand is in him.

Maybe all of that Taylor Swift before games supplies a nudge. (“Real killer shit type music!” he quips.) All he knows is that football — to its core — is “primal.” He got hooked on that mysterious feeling in high school and, now, Rhyan feels like one of those Spartans drawn to the danger. He needs it. He turns into someone else.

“I don’t know how I get into that mindset,” Rhyan says, “but it fucking comes out.”

This NSFW language, this temperament is mostly foreign to the franchise. The last two decades Ted Thompson and Brian Gutekunst have mostly steered clear of anything resembling an Incognito. Occasional ass-kickers pass through and try their damndest to cattle-prod the roster. T.J. Lang was one wicked SOB at his peak. Eddie Lacy steamrolled tacklers before eating his way out of the league. Mike Daniels was the man doing everything shy of roaring, “This is Sparta!” Seated in his locker, the MMA-training defensive tackle never minced words ahead of those defining games against San Francisco and Seattle. It drove him mad to see teammates carted off the field with zero consequences. “When are we going to punch somebody else in the face?” he’d ponder.

Violence simply was not valued in Green Bay.

Several players have told me that the playoff defeats under Mike McCarthy were no coincidence because they viewed his practices as far too soft. A pass-happy organization (justifiably) ran through its quarterback. When Rodgers (finally) exited the building, the Green Bay Packers as a whole had an opportunity to morph into something new.

The tundra’s freezing.

The moment of truth’s one month away.

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Only uncomfortable moments force a team to change in biological composition. Boundaries must be crossed, feathers must be ruffled. Pro football is Darwinian like that. The “Legion of Boom” Seattle Seahawks that used to slap around Green Bay didn’t rise to power in a safe space.

Sean Rhyan never want to hurt his teammates — obviously — but the man who fears no evil in the valley of the shadow of death cannot exactly sleepwalk through a football practice. Last summer, he couldn’t help himself. D-Tackles were bull-rushing him without pads, so he says his default mindset kicked in: “Fuck that. I’m going to bury you.”

And he did. He promptly put those defensive linemen “in the dirt.”

LaFleur was not happy. LaFleur called Rhyan out in a team meeting — vehemently.

But even Matt LaFleur had to know such moments are good for his team’s soul.

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The internal struggle is real. Shortly after Rashan Gary signed his $96 million contract, Rhyan was instructed to pull and block the edge rusher on a counter play with the scout team. Rhyan told a coach to let Gary know he was pulling — to avoid potential injury — but the message was not relayed. So Rhyan pulled, let up, gave the edge rusher a minor pop and Gary went down. You could hear a pin drop at practice. Luckily, Gary merely suffered a stinger and was OK.

In 2024, it should be obvious to all that Green Bay needs a hard edge. This Lions machine is built for the long haul. Campbell’s crew is officially the living and breathing embodiment of the head coach’s dynamite narration. Brian Flores’ insane defense is rooted in hard coaching. Angry players are unleashed at ludicrous angles.

Since a 15-1 season blew up in smoke 13 years ago, the Packers have repeatedly learned a valuable lesson: It’s time to toughen up. This is a team that must embrace those vulgar words on Rhyan’s bracelet and make zero apologies. We can fully expect the former rugby player to play through the echo of the whistle. After sharing the story of his father’s motocross crash, Rhyan says he hasn’t suffered any diagnosed concussions himself… but he did ring his bell this season. Back in a 30-27 win at Jacksonville, Travon Walker — the No. 1 overall pick in his 2022 draft — stuck his helmet in Rhyan’s chin. A blow reminiscent of Rhyan’s first Oklahoma drill.

“That pissed me off,” Rhyan says, “so I grabbed him behind the helmet and fucking pulled him down.”

Walker had zero clue. He thought he tumbled through the flow of the play. Back in the huddle, Rhyan’s vision started “tilting.” He unclipped his chinstrap, popped it back in and cleared up by the time the Packers’ line trotted back to the line to run another play.

Given one primetime opportunity to flex their muscles — a rematch against Detroit — LaFleur’s team lost, 34-31. There’s a good chance they’ll meet a third time at Ford Field, too. Until then, the Packers have four games to talk to that man in the mirror. LaFleur has spoken often about this team’s toughness. He’s doing his best to speak it into existence.

“One thing that stands out to me is just we’re being physical in every phase of football,” LaFleur said after his team blasted the Miami Dolphins at home, 30-17. “I think that gives you a chance each and every week. When it shows up all over the tape—whether it’s how our linebackers hit people, whether it’s up front, our receivers blocking… the physicality, when you get it from the skill positions, it changes the complexion of your team. Obviously, Josh Jacobs has been huge. Tucker Kraft, I can’t say enough great things about him. Really, in every phase of the game I think our guys are being extremely physical, and that’s something we can hang our hat on.”

He later added: “I just love the mentality of our football team. Our guys, they strain for one another. They fight. They block. They try to inflict pain which, as a coach, you love to see.”

It’s smart to talk toughness into existence. Now, these Packers team needs to live it.

This Sunday presents another test in the NFC West-leading Seahawks on NBC. Other names will be discussed by Mike Tirico and Cris Collinsworth on the broadcast. Jordan Love is the $220 million face of the franchise. He’s obviously the most important employee in the building. The Packers are paying him to be a star, so we can bank on his name being repeated roughly 500 times. Jeff Hafley, the new DC, was hired to overhaul a defense full of first-round picks. LaFleur fired one of his best friends in the business for this unit to get more bite. We’ll hear about the team’s free-agent acquisitions that paid off in a big way: Josh Jacobs and Xavier McKinney.

But the key to conquering the NFC may be the player who isn’t mentioned all night.

Here in Green Bay, history is preserved. Hang around that 14-foot statue of Vince Lombardi staring off into Lombardi Avenue, and it sure feels like football hasn’t changed nearly as much as we think. This is the same combat sport Lombardi lorded over 60 years ago. Masculinity on fourth and 1 matters exponentially more than a playbook that’s three inches thick — a distinct temperament. These Packers must physically embarrass opponents like their forefathers. The days of getting punked in elimination games must end.

Each day, Rhyan keeps perspective. Not too far from that Vince statue, inside the parking lot, a young disabled boy has greeted players after practices when the weather cooperates. From a wheelchair, he yells “GO PACK GO,” simply thrilled to slap a player’s hand.

“And it’s just like, ‘Man, if I don’t have anything else to play it for, I’m going to fucking do it for him. I had a bad play. I feel so bad.’ This kid’s smiling because he gets to see us just leaving.”

With that, Rhyan picks up his stylish backpack and strides toward the stairs.

He’s got time to kill today, but he won’t waste it. There’s always a Gunthor video to watch, a new drawing to sketch. Dad will probably text him another reel from IG. The countdown toward Sunday will tick… and tick… and tick. He’ll tap open that “Boing” mix, listen to pop music, think once more about that quote on the lighter and then Sean Rhyan will do everything in his power to dominate his adversary.

By the time he’s back in the sauna, perhaps he changes everything you think about the Green Bay Packers, too.

ICYMI, from our Wisconsin trip: