GREEN BAY, Wis.
There are worse things in the NFL than being compared to the Pittsburgh Steelers.
There are also more frustrating ones.
Right now, the Green Bay Packers live in that uncomfortable overlap — the Steelers of the NFC, a label that reads like a compliment carved in stone and an insult written in disappearing ink. Legacy franchises. Massive fan bases. Lombardi trophies in the lobby. Divisions won by muscle memory. Playoff appearances treated like a birthright.
And yet, here they are again — relevant, respectable and maddeningly unfinished.
The Packers’ modern identity mirrors Pittsburgh’s in a way that feels both inevitable and ironic. These are franchises built on continuity, stability and tradition. They don’t bottom out. They don’t panic. They don’t tear everything down just to see what happens. They simply… continue.
Which is admirable. And exhausting.
Green Bay keeps showing up in January — often as a low-end playoff seed, slipping through the door that didn’t even exist until the NFL expanded the field. The Packers haven’t embarrassed themselves. They’ve just stopped terrifying anyone. Making the playoffs has become the baseline, not the launching point.
Sound familiar? Ask Pittsburgh.
The Steelers have made an art form out of staying above water. Winning records. Wild-card trips. The occasional division crown when the math breaks just right. This season, 10-7 has been enough to flirt with the AFC North title in a division that has eaten itself alive. It counts. It just doesn’t feel like it used to.
Green Bay exists in the same emotional zip code.
Both teams usually get quarterback play that other franchises would kill for. Not always spectacular, but functional, confident and capable of winning games on its own. And yet, both organizations struggle with the same riddle: how do you build a modern offense around a quarterback without ever fully committing to modern offense?
The Packers have tried. The receiver room, for once, is not the problem. The talent is there. The speed is there. The youth is there. Injuries have taken a toll at tight end, thinning out options and compressing the middle of the field. That matters more than fans like to admit.
Still, December arrives, and something goes sideways.
Routes drift. Drives stall. The offense tightens up like it knows exactly what’s coming next — and so does everyone else. The Packers don’t collapse dramatically. They just fade. It’s less a car crash and more a slow roll into the ditch.
There has been one glaring exception: that playoff demolition of Dallas two seasons ago, a reminder that Green Bay still owns the Cowboys like a rerun that never gets canceled. That game was a fever dream. Everything worked. Everything clicked. It was proof that the ceiling still exists.
The problem is that it hasn’t become the standard.
That’s where the Steelers comparison cuts deepest. Because Pittsburgh fans know this feeling well. Competitive every year. Dangerous on paper. Rarely dreadful. Rarely dominant. The NFL’s version of a really good band that hasn’t released a great album in a decade.
Both of these teams can win the big one as an underdog, but dammit if they aren’t going to lose to the Browns and Jets of the world in doing so.
Legacy keeps them relevant. Results keep them honest.
Green Bay and Pittsburgh share something else, too: expectations that never adjust. A playoff berth isn’t celebrated — it’s inspected. A wild-card loss doesn’t shock anyone — it confirms suspicions. Success is measured not by presence, but by progress.
And progress has stalled.
That’s why calling the Packers the Steelers of the NFC works so perfectly. It honors what they’ve been while quietly questioning what they’ve become. It acknowledges the culture, the consistency, the refusal to implode — and also the inability to evolve fast enough to separate from the pack.
This comparison is a blessing because it means Green Bay is never irrelevant.
It’s a curse because it means Green Bay is rarely exceptional anymore.
The Packers don’t need to burn the place down. They don’t need to chase trends blindly or abandon their identity. But at some point, continuity stops being a strategy and starts being a comfort blanket.
Steelers fans know this lesson by heart. Packers fans are learning it in real time.
Being the Steelers of the NFC means you’ll always matter. It also means you’ll always be asked the same uncomfortable question when the season ends:
Is this really as good as it gets?
Right now, for Green Bay, the honest answer might be yes — and that’s exactly why the comparison stings.
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