Gunslinger

by Jeff Pearlman

  After four uninspired seasons, Gregg was replaced by Lindy Infante, former head of the USFL’s Jacksonville Bulls and a man whose modest coaching abilities were yanked downward by the organization’s repeated personnel gaffes.

  Unlike the other 27 franchises, all of which featured an owner (or owners) who paid the bills and a general manager in charge of personnel decisions, the Packers—the league’s lone publicly owned team—was run by a 45-member board of directors and a 7-man executive committee charged with providing input on all organizational moves. There was a president and a general manager, but neither position came with autonomy. As a result, the Packers could not make decisions. Or, at least, good decisions. In 1979, Red Cochran, one of the team’s scouts, repeatedly begged the Packers to draft a quarterback he had watched and loved. Finally, with the 82nd pick, the San Francisco 49ers grabbed Notre Dame’s Joe Montana.

  Between 1980 and 1991, just 3 of 13 first-round picks ever appeared in a Pro Bowl. The absolute lowest moment came on April 23, 1989, when the Packers used the No. 2 overall pick in the NFL draft to take a Michigan State offensive tackle named Tony Mandarich. At six feet six and 330 pounds, with the quickness of a halfback and the strength of a weightlifter, Mandarich was hailed by Sports Illustrated’s Rick Telander as “the best offensive line prospect ever.” Yet while four of the first five selections from the draft wound up in the Pro Football Hall of Fame, Mandarich—plagued by addiction issues and a body fueled by illegal performance-enhancing drugs—lasted but three dreadful seasons as a Packer.

  There was also the matter of race. Really, lack of race. Green Bay is a city of 100,000 residents, a solid 3½ percent of whom are nonwhite. In the dark ages that followed Lombardi’s departure, a trade to Green Bay was used as a threat against black players. “My first experience in Green Bay came right after I was drafted in 1971,” said Brockington, who is African American. “I went to the Midway Motor Lodge on Lombardi Ave. and asked for a room. They told me they didn’t have one.” Brockington asked Rollie Dotsch, an assistant coach, for another option. Dotsch marched Brockington back into the Midway lobby. “This is John Brockington,” he told the clerk. “He is our No. 1 draft choice. Give him a room.”

  Black Packers players traveled to Milwaukee (120 miles away) or Chicago (180 miles away) for haircuts, food, and women. There was (and still is) a running joke among the African American players over the number of times in a season local white residents confuse them for other members of the squad. “Everyone who comes into contact with you knows you’re affiliated with the team because you’re black,” said Patrick Dendy, a defensive back in the mid-2000s. “That’s not a bad thing. It’s just a shock at first to see so few people who look like you.”

  One more issue was the weather. Arctic cold, piles upon piles of snow, ice-coated roads. Young players from warm-weather climates arrived in town with only a few sweatshirts and, maybe, a thermal. They learned quickly. “The snow, the ice, the lack of other black people—it all gets to you,” said Johnny Holland, a Packers linebacker from 1987–93. “Try being a guy from Florida or Alabama or California, coming to Green Bay, Wisconsin, for a winter. It’s not a selling point.”

  By October 1991, Bob Harlan had had enough. The Packers’ president and CEO had been with the organization since 1971. Through the years, Harlan hopped from one position to another to another, always accompanied by a blinding smile and irrepressible enthusiasm, always convinced this season would be the one. “I genuinely believed in the things we did,” he said. “But more often than not, they didn’t seem to work out.”

  Now, with the 1990 Packers headed toward a 6-10 finish, Harlan decided something big had to be done. For nearly five years, Green Bay’s key decision maker was Tom Braatz, the executive vice president of football operations. He was a by-the-book thinker—steady, hardened, and as creative as a turnip. Every move the Packers made was predictable. No surprises. “We needed a spark of life,” said Harlan. “Really, we needed Ron Wolf.”

  The men first met in 1987, when Harlan was interviewing candidates for the vacant general manager position. At the time, Wolf was working for the Raiders, and Judge Robert Parins, the Green Bay president, only wanted a GM who would split personnel authority with the head coach. Harlan flew Wolf into town, and they spent three hours chatting over hamburgers and Coca-Colas at Denny’s, one of the few restaurants open past nine o’clock. Wolf talked about his boyhood in New Freedom, Pennsylvania; about three years in the Army. He talked about the craziness of working under Al Davis in Oakland and Los Angeles; about serving as general manager for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Harlan was mesmerized by Wolf’s knowledge, but reached the sad conclusion he would never take a position where he didn’t have full authority. That’s why Braatz was hired.

  This time, though, Harlan came armed to the GM search with the new title of president and CEO of the Green Bay Packers. He told the executive committee that he wanted to let Braatz go and pursue Wolf, and scored the green light. He then received permission from Dick Steinberg, the Jets general manager, to speak with Wolf. “I said I wanted to give him full authority over the football operation,” Harlan recalled. “It would be his team to run. There would be absolutely no interference, and we would make sure he had everything he needed to succeed. I also told him that I didn’t even have a second choice for the job. I intended to do everything I had to do to get him to say yes.”

  That conversation was held on a Friday. One day later, Harlan and Wolf agreed to a deal. At 52, he was among the oldest first-time general managers in league history.

  The timing was unusual. New general managers are generally hired once a season is completed. Harlan, though, wanted Wolf to evaluate the Packers as they operated. “They were mired in bad,” said Wolf. “That was the biggest problem. They were mired in bad and they couldn’t escape.” He arrived in Green Bay for a Tuesday press conference but had to complete a handful of scouting assignments for the Jets before fully diving into the gig. On December 1, the Packers were scheduled to fly to Atlanta to face the Falcons. Wolf agreed to connect with Harlan at the game. They met up in the Fulton County Stadium press box three hours before the 1:00 p.m. kickoff. Wolf set his briefcase down next to Harlan and said, “I’m gonna go watch Atlanta’s backup quarterback. If his arm is as strong now as it was coming out of college, we’re gonna go after him.” Wolf walked off and as soon as he exited, Harlan grabbed the nearest Falcons roster. “I thought his name was Fav-ray,” said Harlan. “Who was Brett Fav-ray?”

  En route to the playing field, Wolf ran into Ken Herock, the Falcons’ general manager. “If you wanna see Favre throw, you’ve gotta watch now,” Herock said. “Because once the whole team comes out for practice, Jerry [Glanville] probably won’t let him throw. He’s being a dick to the kid.”

  The Packers lost 35–31 on a late touchdown, and the next afternoon Wolf attended his first Green Bay practice. He wandered from spot to spot, taking mental notes without saying much. Later, he met with Harlan. “You have a problem on your practice field,” he said. “This team is 3-10 walking around like it’s 10-3.” Wolf grabbed a yellow pad and drew columns—one marked “All Pro,” one “Star,” one “Starter,” one “Backup” and one “Can’t Do It.” He placed every Packers player into a category, and was shocked by how many simply couldn’t do it. “They had too many athletes whom I hadn’t considered seriously as draft possibilities for either the Raiders or the Jets,” he recalled. “Wherever I looked, the mediocrity had become as routine as eating macaroni and cheese once a week for dinner. Everyone was polite and nice. The staff did their jobs—and then they went home every night promptly at 5:30.”

  The season ended on December 21, 1991, and Infante was fired the following day. One month later, after being rebuffed by Bill Parcells, Wolf hired Mike Holmgren to be the organization’s 11th head coach. The San Francisco 49ers’ offensive coordinator was 43 and the hottest assistant in the league. Unlike the Packers coaches of the past decade, who worked with such nonlegend
ary signal callers as Anthony Dilweg and Randy Wright, Holmgren’s time with the 49ers was spent learning and teaching a master class on inventive offensive football with two future Hall of Famers, Joe Montana and Steve Young. He came to Green Bay not only eager to lead the moribund franchise back to glory, but armed with an unrivaled knowledge of the West Coast offensive system that helped the 49ers to three Super Bowl titles in six years. “Mike wasn’t just your average assistant,” said Roger Craig, the former 49ers halfback. “He was the innovative guy. He always had a big idea.”

  Actually, the big idea belonged to Jerry Glanville, the Falcons coach who badgered Herock into action. In mid-January, with the Redskins and Bills preparing for Super Bowl XXVI, Herock called Wolf, the only man he knew who loved Brett Favre’s potential as much as he did. “So, Ron, we have this quarterback here and he’s available,” Herock said. “You know we already have a Pro Bowl quarterback in Chris [Miller], and there are none in this draft. I’d be willing to do something, but I’m looking for two firsts.” The Packers, not coincidentally, owned a pair of first-round picks.

  Wolf laughed. “Two firsts?” he said. “You’re kidding me. Look what he did this year.”

  “Well,” Herock replied, “what would you be willing to offer for Favre?”

  “A second,” he said. “Best offer.”

  Herock returned to the conversation after a few days. He demanded a first-round selection, or no deal.

  “One first,” said Wolf. “The 19th pick, not the 5th.”

  Herock told Wolf he’d have to check back with the Falcons. A day later, he met with Glanville and June Jones, the offensive coordinator, and told them of the offer. “Oh my gosh,” Glanville said. “You’d be a genius. A first for that guy?”

  Herock was raised in Pittsburgh. He lived and died with the Steelers, and could never grasp the organization releasing Johnny Unitas in 1955. “I used to think Pittsburgh was so freakin’ dumb,” he said. “How do you dump Johnny Unitas?” Following the session with Glanville and Jones, Herock debated whether he was now the one about to commit a similar blunder. “But then I calmed down,” he said. “I mean, there was no way he’d be another Johnny Unitas.”

  On February 11, 1992, Green Bay and Atlanta reached an agreement. Brett Favre became a member of the Packers, and the Falcons owned the 19th slot in the first round. The quarterback was sitting inside the kitchen of his parents’ house in Kiln when the phone rang. It was Jones, the Falcons’ offensive coordinator. “Brett, you’ve been traded and I wanted to call and tell you before anyone else did,” Jones said. “I know it wasn’t a great year for you with us, and I know you and Jerry had your problems. But I think this will be great for you.”

  Brett was stunned. “I’ve . . . I’ve been traded?” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Jones. “To Green Bay.”

  Click.

  Scott Favre was also in the kitchen. “I’m going to the Packers,” Brett told him, nary a trace of emotion in his words.

  Bonita overhead the conversation and rushed in. “The Packers?” she said. “The Packers? Where do they play?”

  “Green Bay,” Brett replied.

  “Green Bay?” A pause. “Where’s Green Bay?”

  The phone rang again. This time it was Wolf. “We just traded for you,” he said, “and I want you to know that we’re very excited about having you and having you lead our team.”

  Favre proceeded to pour himself another pitcher of beer. Yes, the Falcons were dumping him. But the Packers sought him out, and Wolf even said they saw him as a future starter. “I was real excited,” he said. “It was like turning over a new leaf for my career.”

  As was the case when he first arrived in Atlanta, Favre figured he’d report to Green Bay and—“future starter” talk be damned—challenge for the No. 1 job.

  If only there wasn’t someone formidable standing in his way.

  Back in the late 1980s and early 1990s, the hottest hangout for members of the Green Bay Packers was Knights on Main, a sports-themed pub at 401 Main Avenue in the nearby city of De Pere. If the team didn’t happen to be playing on Monday Night Football (and Lord knows, the nation wasn’t clamoring to watch the Packers), one could find a solid 15 to 20 players that night at Knights on Main, drinking beers, hitting on women, taking to the dance floor. The owner, Kevin Burkel, was a Packers fan, and he even allowed members of the team to slide behind the bar and serve drinks to patrons.

  A warm man with thick brown hair and a wide smile, Burkel meets few people he dislikes—and almost no Packers. From Sterling Sharpe and Ron Hallstrom to Ken Ruettgers and LeRoy Butler, anyone who wore the green and gold was not only welcome into Knights on Main, but assured protection and special treatment.

  “There was just one guy who didn’t always do it for me,” Burkel said. “Majik.”

  Before Brett Favre established himself as the quarterback in Green Bay, there was already the quarterback in Green Bay. He was handsome. He was nimble. He was (relatively) strong-armed. He was popular. His name was Don Majkowski, and the onetime 10th-round draft pick from Virginia somehow led the predicted-to-be-woeful 1989 Packers to a 10-6 record by throwing for 27 touchdowns and a league-best 4,318 yards. “He just had a great feel for it all,” said Sharpe. “He was smart, athletic, savvy.” Majkowski rallied Green Bay to five come-from-behind fourth-quarter triumphs. Sports Illustrated responded by writing, in a glowing profile, “The transformation from Don Majkowski to Majik Man occurs on game day . . . Majik can afford to be cocky; he is the most athletic quarterback in the NFL.”

  Majik, though, was also a pretty boy, prone to blow-drying his blond hair in the mirror before games and staring longingly at his reflection. He referred to himself as Majik, and seemed to believe the hype of a city longing for a hero. “He was a very arrogant guy,” said Burkel. “Very arrogant. He was just a real . . . if he walked into the bar, he’d be sitting over to one side, and there’d be a couple of good-looking women on the other side. He’d say to me, ‘Hey, Kevin, go tell them I’m here.’ Like I was his employee and they would automatically fall over themselves to meet Don Majkowski.”

  One would think, with struggles and trials, ego subsides. But it didn’t seem to with Majkowski, who held out for a $1.5 million contract until four days before the 1990 kickoff, played poorly as Green Bay opened the year 4-5, then suffered a torn rotator cuff against the Cardinals. Majkowski missed the remainder of the year, and returned for the 1991 season with all the predictable athlete-back-from-an-injury redemptive story lines. His performance, though, was pitiful. Majkowski started eight games for Green Bay, throwing three touchdowns and eight interceptions. It took Ron Wolf but a couple of days on the job to see the Packers had a genuine quarterback dilemma. “With guys like that, you have these flashes of greatness and you always hope it’ll happen again,” said John Jurkovic, a Packers defensive tackle. “You get reminiscent for the old days, but you also realize—sadly—the old days are over. And you’re left with something half of what it used to be.”

  As he readied for the 1992 season, Majkowski once again walked with the confidence of a seven-time Super Bowl winner. When the Packers sent the first-round pick to Atlanta for Favre, the reaction around town was muted and somewhat perplexed. Why, loyalists wondered, would a team in need of young blood surrender a high draft selection for a backup quarterback? This was Majkowski’s take as well, and with good reason: he’d never heard of Brett Favre. “Almost no one knew about Brett,” said LeRoy Butler, the third-year safety. “Weird name, unknown guy.”

  He came to Green Bay on March 7, stepped off the airplane, and was greeted by 14 inches of snow and a temperature of minus 13. “The coldest I’ve ever played in was 32 degrees,” Favre cracked, “and I thought that was bitter.” The Packers sent Jon Gruden, the young quality-control coach, to pick him up. “I couldn’t believe how loose he was for a young guy who had just been traded for a first-round pick,” Gruden recalled. “He felt no pressure, no responsibility. None. Zero.” In fact, a
fter Gruden introduced himself, he was bowled over by Favre’s first question: “Do they have any fried okra around here?” Then, the second: “So where does a guy get a beer?”

  Favre’s early arrival was an effort to start rightly in Green Bay. Which didn’t quite happen. To begin with, Favre failed the team-administered physical when Clarence Novotny, the Packers’ physician, discovered that his left hip was degenerative; the diagnosis was avascular necrosis, the death of bone tissue due to a lack of blood supply to the socket. The condition had contributed to the end of Bo Jackson’s football career two seasons earlier, and was an automatic red flag. Yet Wolf demanded a second opinion, looked over the charts, and said, “No, we’re not failing him.” Patrick McKenzie, an orthopedic surgeon, figured Favre could last four or five years before being destroyed via injury. Wolf considered it a risk worth taking.

  Minicamp was scheduled to commence on April 5 at the team’s practice facility, and the angel on Favre’s right shoulder told him to get plenty of sleep and show up wide-eyed and eager. The devil on the left (nonthrowing) shoulder, however, whispered sinister thoughts. He was staying at the Best Western, and that day a young woman at the front desk told him she had an extra ticket for the evening’s concert at the Brown County Arena. The lineup was Brooks and Dunn, Reba McEntire, and Travis Tritt—and while Favre wasn’t a huge country music fan, he’d met Tritt in Atlanta and considered him a casual pal. “Well, we went to the concert and had a big time,” Favre recalled. “We walked around the arena, drank some beers, and got to go backstage with Travis.” When the concert ended, Tritt invited Favre onto his tour bus, where the men, in Favre’s words, “partied until Lord knows how late.”

  The next morning, he arrived at the facility with the scent of alcohol adhered to his body. Steve Mariucci, the Packers’ quarterbacks coach, picked up the smell, but presumed he was misunderstanding. There’s no way the quarterback would show up drunk for his first day, right? Mariucci let Favre participate in the practice, and watched aghast as his balls wobbled and fluttered through the air. Afterward, he grabbed Favre for a stern lecture. “You can’t do that,” Mariucci said. “You’ve got to tighten up. This whole organization has a lot invested in you.”