Gunslinger

by Jeff Pearlman

  Alas, it wasn’t to be. One day later the Carolina Panthers—a second-year expansion franchise with no business making it this far—somehow shocked the Cowboys, 26–17, to earn an exotic weekend trip to ice-covered Wisconsin for the NFC Championship Game. Favre watched the Dallas–Carolina game from his couch with Deanna and Bus Cook, and while the nonplayers rooted for the Panthers, Favre was indifferent. “I didn’t think Dallas could beat us in Green Bay,” he recalled.

  Favre was probably correct, but the Carolina Panthers definitely couldn’t beat the Packers in Green Bay. Not with the temperature at 3 degrees (minus 17 with the windchill) and the field feeling like a bed of slate. The lead-up to the game was everything one would expect from a city that oozes football. Green-and-gold-coated homes, buildings, mailboxes, binders. Every church marquee seemed to feature a Bible verse or inspirational thought geared toward the Packers. The nightly news was 95 percent football, with weather mixed in. For two days, the lead story on every local network was about the NFL importing 40 trucks filled with Maryland sod to fix a field torn apart the previous week.

  By now, Rison was as much a Packer as Favre and White. Which is why Butler, the respected safety, asked Holmgren to have Rison address the team before taking the field against the Panthers. “He’s got the fire,” Butler said. “The young guys need to hear that.”

  Holmgren agreed. “I wasn’t here for the Dallas game last year,” Rison said in his remarks. “But I hear a lot of y’all talk about the bitter taste it left in your mouths . . . this isn’t the Super Bowl—it’s bigger. There’s no way we can let the media intimidate us, telling our offense how it has to handle the zone blitz. To hell with that. They’ve got to stop us. We’ve got too many weapons. So let’s go out there, run our offense, and kick their fucking asses!”

  Green Bay’s players charged the field, and even though the Panthers scored first after a Favre interception, they never had a chance. Green Bay outscored Carolina 17–3 in the second quarter, twice on Favre touchdown passes, and the blowout was on. By the end of the third quarter, following a short Bennett scoring run, the score was 27–13, and Super Bowl tickets could be safely printed. Most of the 60,216 fans stood the entire fourth quarter. Neighboring spectators were unable to hear one another over the roar of the crowd. “It was the most fantastic game I’ve ever been to,” said Tom Lynn, a Journal Sentinel photographer. The final score was 30–13. The Green Bay Packers were returning to the Super Bowl for the first time in 29 years. In the boisterous locker room afterward, White sought out Favre and wrapped him in a terrifying bear hug. “Where are we going tonight?” the minister asked the rehab patient, who had just started his 86th straight NFL game while throwing for 292 yards and two scores.

  “Oh, we’re going partying,” Favre replied.

  White changed and headed for home.

  Favre changed and headed to Chmura’s house, where he’d be joined by Winters, teammate Aaron Taylor, members of Hootie and the Blowfish, and the comedian David Spade. Wrote Dick Schaap: “Just a typical Sunday evening at home in Green Bay.”

  The Packers were off to New Orleans.

  The snow. The wind. The green and gold. The No. 4—darting down the field, making something happen. Classic Brett Favre.

  © Jim Biever

  Don’t be fooled by the cute smile. Little Brett Favre was, in the words of his sister, “mean.”

  © Hancock Schools

  Because his father/coach believed in run-first football, young Brett spent most of his time with the Hancock North Central Hawks turning to hand the ball off.

  © Hancock Schools

  Brett signing his letter of intent to attend Southern Miss—the only Division I school that knew of his existence.

  © Hancock Schools

  A young Brett Favre in a Southern Miss publicity shot. The quarterback morphed from an obscure nobody into a Heisman Trophy candidate.

  Courtesy of Southern Miss Athletics

  A relatively unremarkable Division I football program before Brett Favres arrival, Southern Miss began shocking traditional powerhouses and appearing on Top 25 lists. Fans responded.

  Courtesy of Southern Miss Athletics

  The famous nuclear-charged right arm of Brett Favre was first deployed at Southern Miss.

  Courtesy of Southern Miss Athletics

  A rare shot of Brett Favre, Atlanta Falcon. As a rookie in 1991, Favre threw four passes, two for interceptions. He devoted significantly more time to drinking than football, and was run out of town by Jerry Glanville, the head coach.

  © Perry McIntyre

  Much of Brett Favre’s refusal to leave the field can be traced back to 1992, when he filled in for the injured Don Majkowski (right) against Cincinnati—and never surrendered the position.

  © Jim Biever

  Although he could be off-putting and cantankerous, no one made Brett Favre’s early NFL days easier than Sterling Sharpe, the Packers’ transcendent wide receiver.

  © Jim Biever

  Some of the greatest seasons in Green Bay history can be chalked up to the pairing of Mike Holmgren (left) and Brett Favre. With Holmgren’s departure after the 1998 season, everything changed.

  © Jim Biever

  Green Bay’s triumph over New England in Super Bowl XXXI signified the highest moment of Brett Favre’s career.

  © Jim Biever

  Brett with Jay Leno in 1997, before one of his many late-night television appearances.

  © David Thomason

  Brett Favre with Bus Cook, his longtime agent (left), and Joe Sweeney, an adviser, after landing in Palm Springs, California, in 1998. Although his agent could be annoying and standoffish to media members, hiring Cook was one of the best moves Favre made.

  © David Thomason

  16

  Super Bowl

  * * *

  OVER THE COURSE of the first six years of his NFL career, Brett Favre took pleasure in having people believe he was a backwoods Mississippi redneck with three teeth and a hankering for skinned possum.

  He would address members of the media with excessive insertions of “y’all”; he would play down his intelligence in an effort to have people underestimate what he could accomplish. Favre’s weekly press conferences were often rambling drunk-hillbilly-uncle beauties, and more than a few reporters thought there was genius in the act. “Brett liked to play the hick thing to the hilt,” said Rob Reischel, the veteran Packer beat writer. “But really he was controlling the message. If you only get 15 minutes and he rambles four minutes for each question, he steers the topic how he wants it.”

  Favre wasn’t the first professional athlete to play the “I’m an idiot” card (former Steelers quarterback Terry Bradshaw mastered the craft), and he wouldn’t be the last. But by the time the Packers beat Carolina, he had some cause to regret it.

  Super Bowl XXXI would pit Green Bay against New England in a matchup that was both underwhelming and a bit disappointing. Heading into the postseason, most prognosticators had expected the Denver Broncos, featuring an AFC-best 13-3 record, to wind up facing the Packers. Then the Broncos fell to the Jacksonville Jaguars in the divisional round, and the Patriots snuck through.

  Only, New England was (yawn) sort of dull. Sure, coach Bill Parcells was an all-time great, and a week before the game the Boston Globe published a shocking piece, headlined PARCELLS TO LEAVE, about the coach’s awful relationship with Robert Kraft, the team owner. Other than the grumpy coach, however, the Patriots roster was a who’s who of who cares? New England beat two so-so playoff opponents (the Steelers and the Jaguars) to reach New Orleans, and was immediately installed as a 12- to 13-point underdog. “We were riding a high, but we weren’t a great team,” said Lawyer Milloy, the Patriots’ rookie strong safety. “Even our coaches couldn’t believe we were in the game.”

  With gripping on-field matchup pieces a hard sell, the media turned to the best-available spin: bumpkin Brett Favre returning to the Deep South. In the two-week gap leading up to the January
26, 1997, kickoff, no fewer than 200 stories ran across America concerning Favre, Mississippi, and dumb, ignorant Southerners with pickup trucks and Confederate flags. It began with Mary Foster filing an Associated Press piece headlined PACKERS’ FEVER HITS QUARTERBACK’S HOME TOWN, which painted the quaint portrait of Kiln, Mississippi, rallying around its favorite son. At Rooster’s Café, a stuffed rib eye was renamed the “Brett Favre Special”! At Donna’s Quick Stop, people talked of stocking a Favre doll made of cheese! “I don’t think anyone in town ever gave an interview before this, but all of a sudden we’re all stars,” said a local named Buddy Barnett—and one could all but feel the tobacco juice dribbling from the corner of his mouth. These were real live clodhoppers, and they were amazing print. The New York Times called Hancock County, Mississippi, “ground zero of the football world.”

  Green Bay spent the first week after the Carolina win practicing at home, then flew to New Orleans via charter on the Sunday before the game. The temperature was, with windchill factored in, minus 35 when the plane left. It landed in 65-degree warmth. More than 3,000 media representatives from 150 countries were credentialed and charged with the task of making a relatively dull lead-up interesting. So they descended upon Favre’s home turf like a pen-wielding army, knocking on Bonita and Irv’s front door, badgering local businesses, seeking out any nugget of funny or quirky or (ideally) humiliating information. The tragic car accident involving Scott Favre was prime material. So was a September arrest of Brandi Favre, Brett’s younger sister, for being involved with a drug-related drive-by shooting at a motel in Slidell, Louisiana. (The details—including the fact that Brandi had nothing to do with the actual crime and was largely a victim of circumstance—were conveniently omitted from most copy.) Anyone who wanted to speak about Favre’s addiction issues was likely to be quoted. But mostly, the articles and TV segments concerned the image, the scene, the middle-of-nowhere Bayou presentation.

  The father.

  Irvin Favre ate it up. While Bonita was happy to chat, Big Irv (as he was referred to throughout town) seized the spotlight and refused to let go. You wanted a story? Hell, he’d give you a whopper. Just pull up a bar stool, order a beer (and make certain to buy him one, too), and relax for the next four hours. Irv would talk about the bayou, about Brett as a baby, about the time his son threw that pass to Charles Burton, and on and on and on. Hey, did you hear the town of Kiln just put up a wood sign honoring Brett? How about the history of the old Indian tribes? At 52, Irvin knew exactly what the press was after. In a sit-down with the New York Times, he told reporter Jere Longman that they’d be eating hamburgers, shrimp jambalaya, seafood gumbo, and “whatever else we run over between now and then.” Later, pointing to an area behind a local bar called the Broke Spoke, he cracked, “Watch a woman with no teeth come running out of there.” In another one-on-one session, this time with Steve Buckley of the Boston Herald, Irv admitted he generally walks through his house only in underwear. “Hey,” he said, “I’m not a flashy person.”

  “By now,” read an MSNBC piece, “the tale of Brett Favre, Country Boy Turned Conglomerate, has been worn to a nub.” It was all kicks and giggles—only the giggles were directed at the quarterback, the region, the father. In the four days before the media tour, the Favres had 52 reporters visit their house unannounced. Most were seeking out alligators and ignorance. “It could get hurtful,” said Bonita. “You sometimes read the articles and knew they were mocking us.”

  “They thought we were dumb,” said Brandi. “It was all a joke.”

  None of this made Brett Favre particularly happy. He wasn’t a hick, and he was tired of playing a hick. He wore shoes. Had every tooth. Whizzed through crossword puzzles and lost himself in Discovery Channel features. The NFL responded to the interest by chartering two loaded busses to Hancock County for a one-day media visit, and many of the reporters stuck around to witness an enormous crawfish boil at the Broke Spoke, attended by more than 5,000 people. At one point, Favre was asked how he felt about it all. “There is no private life,” he said with a sigh. “Sometimes I wish I could change my identity.”

  By now, everybody across America knew of Favre’s Vicodin addiction, as well as his pledge not to drink alcohol for two years. Had the Super Bowl been in any other city, this would have been a relative nonissue. Yet when the Super Bowl comes to town, New Orleans turns Mardi Gras plus Carnival. Eleven years earlier, the Big Easy welcomed Super Bowl XX between Chicago and New England, and Bears quarterback Jim McMahon spent much of the week partying and drinking. Now McMahon was Favre’s backup with the Packers, and he still partied and drank. In the week leading up to the Super Bowl, McMahon was a wealth of information. He told teammates both the best places to get drunk and to see naked women dance. “He comes to meetings hung over,” Favre said with great admiration. “And then he talks during the meetings. He doesn’t give a shit about anything.”

  Nobody cared much about McMahon. But they did care about Favre. Which is why he assured everyone he wasn’t drinking—then went out and drank. Not nearly as much as he once had (the eyes of a nation were cast upon a man thought to be sober), but he seemed to be defiantly ignoring the NFL’s no-alcohol ordinance. A Green Bay Press-Gazette reporter spotted Favre imbibing and called Bus Cook, his agent, for comment. It turned out the NFL had changed Favre’s status in its substance-abuse program from “behavioral-referred” to “self-referred.” Translation: he was OK to imbibe. “The league didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” Favre said, “and neither did I.” That’s why, beginning shortly after his release from rehab (well before the NFL approved his alcohol consumption), Favre came up with a simple method to drink in public: he would have the beverage (or whatever he was consuming) placed in either a soda can or a Styrofoam cup with a lid and a straw. If he wanted a beer, he was having a beer. “It was a joke,” said one friend. “People actually thought he was always drinking Diet Pepsi.” As the game approached, though, Favre lay surprisingly low. Except for one night where he was reportedly caught out at a strip club, there were no accounts of mayhem. A handful of paparazzi trailed him through the French Quarter, but got nothing. On Thursday he came down with the chills and an accompanying 101-degree fever. That night, while others were living it up, he was shivering beneath his blankets. “I was worried,” he said. “I’d waited my whole life for this.” The fever broke, and he was fine.

  Unlike New England’s players, who had no curfew for the first three days, the Packers were required to return to their rooms at the Fairmont Hotel by 1:00 a.m. Which still allowed for plenty of wildness. Packers fans overtook the city, and no player had to pay for a drink. Dozens of Favre family members spent much of the week living the life—Irvin (beer always in hand) bragged to approximately 100,000 people he was Brett Favre’s father; Brandi—at the time a student at Southern Miss—spent one memorable night drinking three bottles of Dom Pérignon with Eagles halfback Ricky Watters at an NFL-sponsored party at the House of Blues.

  The Three Amigos (Favre, Chmura, and Winters) hopped from Bourbon Street bar to Bourbon Street bar, soaking in the love and adulation. On one of the excursions, they grabbed a taxi. The driver wanted to talk football, and raved about the toughness of that guy playing quarterback for Green Bay. “He can throw with two guys hanging on him,” he said.

  “If two guys are hanging on him,” Favre replied, “he must not get much blocking.” Chmura and Winters howled.

  “I don’t drink or smoke, but that week was the closest I came to either,” said LeRoy Butler. “There was just so much of . . . everything.”

  No player dove into the moment like Andre Rison. The team curfew meant little, as did Holmgren’s request that his men maintain low profiles. One evening, Rison took Derrick Mayes and Antonio Freeman, the two young wide receivers, to the Goorin Bros. Hat Shop in the French Quarter. “ ’Dre bought every fucking color of derby hat they had,” said Mayes. “He probably spent $1,500 just on hats. I never wore a derby hat in my life, and he even boug
ht me one. My wife took one look at it and made me get rid of the motherfucker.”

  Many of the Patriots’ workouts, held at Tulane, involved pads and physical contact—and lasted two and a half hours in the 80-degree heat. The Packers, meanwhile, usually went no longer than an hour. Holmgren eschewed pads and had his players exchange pants for shorts. When rain threatened Friday’s practice, Holmgren simply called it off. “Fuck it,” he said to Jim Lind, the linebackers coach. “They’re ready.” The Packers felt fresh, invigorated. They also watched plenty of tape on New England. On the record, it was all praise. The Patriots would be a formidable foe and blah blah blah. Behind closed doors, there was derision. “I’ve been watching them on film,” Wayne Simmons said, “and they look like crap.”

  Three hours before the 5:30 p.m. kickoff, the Packers players and coaches boarded the buses that would ferry them from the Fairmont to the Louisiana Superdome. Throughout the season, White and Favre always rode the second bus. They weren’t about to break precedent. Every man was decked out in the requisite coat and tie, save Favre, who wore his shorts/T-shirt/sandals combo. Rison bounded up the steps and, cracking the silence, shouted, “Let’s go get ’em, motherfuckers!”

  The Patriots’ locker room was quiet and stiff. The Packers’ locker room was not. There was talking, laughter, debate. Butler roamed cubby to cubby with a camcorder, enticing teammates to step toward the lens and scream, “Shit be bringin’ it, Hoss!” At one point, bored by the long wait, Favre reached for his cell phone and started making plans for the victory party. His brother Scott booked a room at Mike Anderson’s Seafood and Oyster Bar on Bourbon Street. With that task complete, Favre asked Kurt Fielding, an assistant trainer, to tape his ankles. Though not overly superstitious, Favre believed in ritual. Fielding not only taped his ankles before every game, he would take a black marker and scribble a game prediction on the tape. This time, Fielding etched a W—for win—and wrote that the quarterback would throw for four touchdowns.