Polzin: Pat Richter on birthday pranks and Bob Harlan’s legacy

By Jim Polzin, BadgerExtra columnist

MADISON — When two towering figures in Wisconsin sports history share the same birthday, Sept. 9, the calendar itself becomes a stage for friendly one-upmanship. Former University of Wisconsin athletic director Pat Richter and ex-Green Bay Packers president/CEO Bob Harlan turned their shared birth date into an annual duel of practical jokes, each trying to outdo the other with cards, calls and gifts that grew more elaborate every year.

Richter, 83, recalled the ritual with a chuckle during a recent conversation, insisting the competition stayed “good-natured, never mean-spirited.” Harlan, who steered the Packers from the dark days of the 1980s to a rebirth that culminated in Lambeau Field’s 2003 redevelopment, treasured the tradition as much as any board-room victory. “He’d find a way to get me, and I’d try to get him right back,” Richter said. “Bob always said it was the one day we didn’t talk business.”

The light-hearted sparring belies the serious imprint both men left on their respective programs. Harlan’s legacy is literally set in stone: the plaza fronting Lambeau’s atrium bears his name, flanked by statues of Curly Lambeau and Vince Lombardi. Inside the facility, the franchise’s return to relevance traces directly to Harlan’s 1991 decision to hire Hall of Fame general manager Ron Wolf, the move that laid the groundwork for a Super Bowl XXXI title and nearly three decades of competitive stability.

Richter, meanwhile, oversaw a UW athletic department that rose from regional power to national contender, hiring football coach Barry Alvarez in 1990 and watching the Badgers claim three Rose Bowl victories during the 1990s. The parallel arcs of the two administrators—each taking over struggling programs and restoring them to prominence—give their shared birthday an almost poetic symmetry.

Harlan’s wife, Madeline, remembered her husband’s modest reaction to learning the plaza would carry his name. “He wondered aloud whether he’d really earned that,” she said. Friends and colleagues answered emphatically: the resurrection of the Packers brand, the modernization of stadium operations, and the hiring of football minds like Wolf and, later, Ted Thompson, all traced back to Harlan’s steady hand.

Thompson, who succeeded Wolf and battled health issues related to an autonomic disorder, still engineered a roster that produced a Super Bowl XLV championship. His first draft pick, Aaron Rodgers in 2005, became league MVP and delivered the franchise’s fourth Lombardi Trophy. The decision to move on from Brett Favre and commit to Rodgers—culminating in Favre’s 2008 trade to the New York Jets—defined Thompson’s tenure, but Harlan’s earlier culture change made such bold choices possible.

Away from the spotlight, the birthday exchanges continued. One year Richter mailed Harlan a single shoe, promising the mate would arrive the following year. Another year Harlan sent Richter a cake shaped like a Badger mascot—wearing a Packers jersey. Neither man ever conceded defeat.

As Lambeau’s atrium bustled with tourists on a recent afternoon, visitors posed for photos beneath the Lambeau and Lombardi statues, many unaware the ground beneath their feet is Bob Harlan Plaza. Inside the Packers Hall of Fame, exhibits honor Jack Vainisi, the 23-year-old scouting pioneer hired in 1950 whose evaluations stocked Lombardi’s dynasty with future Hall of Famers. Displays also recount the 1919 founding meeting between Calhoun and Lambeau, a reminder that today’s franchise giants stand on foundations laid by generations of visionaries.

Richter, reflecting on his old friend, paused. “We competed over everything—golf scores, who could tell the best story, whose birthday card arrived first,” he said. “But the truth is, every year I looked forward to September ninth because it meant I got to talk to Bob. That was the real gift.”

With Harlan now 86 and Richter three years his junior, the birthday battle has slowed, but the respect has not. Two men, one plaza, one date on the calendar, and a lifetime of memories—proof that even in big-time sports, the smallest traditions can carry the greatest meaning.

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