Gunslinger

by Jeff Pearlman

  In the moments before it was time to walk through the stadium bowels and onto the field, Holmgren stood to address the team. The room went quiet. “Men, I don’t have to show you how to win this game,” he said. “I’ve already shown you how to win. You don’t need me to hold your hands. This is what we’ve worked for since that first meeting in training camp. We’re here for one reason and that’s to win the Super Bowl. It was a long, hard road. It’s why we worked so hard in training camp. It’s why we went through all the ups and downs, just to be here in this position we’re in right now. So don’t let it slip away. Enjoy yourself and remember this moment forever. Now let’s go out there and get after it!”

  Favre’s heart was pounding beneath his No. 4 jersey. His hands were sweaty. Twice he dry-heaved. He and his football brothers charged onto the field, united, nervous, excited, amplified. “It was,” he recalled, “an awesome sight.”

  The national anthem was performed by Luther Vandross, who wore an ill-fitting Super Bowl XXXI leather jacket and baggy blue jeans. His rendition was soft and elevatorish—and Rison couldn’t contain his emotions. As Favre and White and Holmgren stood stoically, tears streamed down the veteran wide receiver’s cheeks. His eyes reddened. “Just to be there,” he said. “To finally be there . . .”

  “It was just so powerful,” said Jim Lind, the assistant coach. “I was in the box above, looking down with binoculars at my family, thinking about all the hard work and the setbacks and the disappointment. It hits you hard in that moment.”

  The Patriots won the coin toss and elected to receive. Immediately before kickoff, Bill Maas, a Fox Sports sideline reporter, wanted Parcells to divulge what he’d said to his players. His response was predictably bland and clichéd. Then Ron Pitts, standing alongside Holmgren, asked about the keys to the game. The Packers coach, too, blathered for a moment before turning surprisingly serious. “Which quarterback plays the best today,” Holmgren said, “that team is gonna win.”

  New England’s opening series went five plays before Tom Tupa’s 51-yard punt was returned 32 yards by Howard. With 12:19 remaining in the quarter, Brett Favre made his Super Bowl debut. He sauntered onto the field after conferring with Holmgren. The Packers wore green jerseys and gold pants. Favre had narrow white wristbands on both arms, and a white towel dangling from his waist. On first down and 10 from the Green Bay 45, he handed the ball to Edgar Bennett for a 1-yard gain. It was now second and 9.

  The Packers’ first 15 offensive plays had been predetermined by Holmgren and Sherman Lewis, the offensive coordinator, one day earlier. They knew Bennett’s handoff would open things, and they knew, on second down, Favre would run 322 Y Stick, a 4-yard out to Chmura. Now, however, as both teams approached the line of scrimmage, New England was doing something . . . funky. Willie Clay and Lawyer Malloy, the two safeties, were creeping forward and suggesting some sort of blitz. Parcells was an aggressive defensive coach, but it was early in the game for a move like this. Were they blitzing? Were they faking? Favre wasn’t sure, and accidentally blurted out, “Oh, shit!” as he stared at the pass rushers.

  So he guessed.

  The audible was called Black 78 Razor—a seldom-used play where Rison lines up wide left and Freeman slides to the slot on the same side of the field. When Favre barked out the signal, his teammates all responded correctly. “Black meant we’re changing it,” Favre explained. “Seventy-eight was the protection. It was a two-man route. Razor means Z (flanker) runs a post and X (split end) runs a shake.” Rison was now standing across from Otis Smith, a journeyman cornerback of whom the New York Times once wrote, “For so many offensive coordinators, quarterbacks and wide receivers, Smith’s No. 45 is a neon sign that flashes: ‘Throw Here.’” When the ball was snapped, Rison sprinted seven steps forward, then sliced inside of Smith while continuing to dart down the center of the field. The cornerback lacked the speed to keep up, and Favre’s pass hit Rison in stride as he crossed the New England 22 and strutted, all alone, into the red-painted end zone. While Rison performed a jubilant ode to the chicken dance, Favre ripped his helmet off and sprinted toward McMahon on the sideline, hollering with glee. In one of the stadium luxury boxes, Scott and Jeff Favre leapt from their seats. “We both hit our heads on the ceiling,” said Jeff. “It was unforgettable.” From the television booth John Madden, a Super Bowl–winning coach who called the game for Fox, noted, “When you have a strong-armed guy and he’s anxious, throw a deep one.”

  The Packers forced Bledsoe into an interception on the next series, and Chris Jacke’s 37-yard field goal handed Green Bay a 10–0 lead with 8:42 still left in the first quarter. Yet any thoughts of a blowout were suspended when Bledsoe threw back-to-back touchdown passes on New England’s next two offensive series. Fritz Shurmur, the Packers’ defensive coordinator, was livid. He called Butler, White, and a handful of other players into a circle and let loose. “Pull your head out of your asses and go do what you’re supposed to do!” he screamed. “Go get Bledsoe! Do whatever it takes!” When the first quarter came to an end, the Patriots were actually leading, 14–10. “We had momentum,” said Ty Law, the New England cornerback. “People don’t talk about this, but we pretty much outplayed the Packers most of the game. But a Super Bowl is a thing of big singular plays adding up. And they had some big singular plays.”

  The Packers and Patriots exchanged scoreless possessions to begin the second quarter, and with 14:14 left, Green Bay received the football on its own 19. Earlier in the game Freeman, the second-year wide receiver from Virginia Tech, stood alongside Law after a play and said, “You ain’t gonna get no balls today.” The Patriots cornerback, who would go on to play in five Pro Bowls, didn’t know whether he was being set up, or if Favre truly planned to avoid him. “You never know for sure,” Law said.

  As he stepped to the line, the quarterback looked toward his right and saw Don Beebe in the slot, facing Law, while Freeman—a stone’s throw from the sideline—was covered by Milloy, the bulky strong safety. “I started licking my chops,” Freeman said. Since being selected in the third round out of Virginia Tech, Freeman had both impressed and infuriated teammates and coaches. As a rookie he was used almost exclusively as a punt returner, but Haskell, the receivers coach, urged Holmgren to give him a chance. “When he caught the ball he was exceptional at making the first guy miss,” said Haskell. “And he was always running for a touchdown. It wasn’t about a first down for Freeman. He wanted to score.” But Freeman was sometimes considered lazy and absentminded. He’d go hard for three plays, then take a fourth off. “He was phenomenal,” said Allen DeGraffenreid, a free agent receiver in camp in 1996. “But if he’d worked harder he’d be much more impressive.” Despite the criticisms, Favre took an immediate liking to the kid from inner-city Baltimore, who picked up the playbook quickly. “I was in heaven with Brett,” Freeman said. “As a wide receiver, it’s all about having a quarterback who can get you the ball. Well, Brett didn’t have a problem with that.”

  Now, Favre glanced toward Freeman, glanced toward Milloy, and knew where the ball would wind up. He dropped back and looked right. Milloy was supposed to jam Freeman at the line, but whiffed. The wide receiver scampered past and Favre hit him in stride near midfield. “Once I caught the ball,” Freeman said, “all I thought about was quieting all the critics who said I wasn’t fast enough when I came out of college, who said I didn’t have the heart to go across the middle. I knew the whole world was watching and it was my opportunity to quiet those critics.” Freeman burst down the sideline past Milloy and Clay (who had talked much trash about Favre during the week) for an 81-yard touchdown, the longest in Super Bowl history. He jogged into the end zone, dunked the ball over the goalpost, and did a boogie with Rison. The Packers were back on top, 17–14, and added a field goal and a 2-yard Favre touchdown run to carry a 27–14 lead into the halftime break. “Even though the Patriots still had some fight left in ’em,” Favre recalled, “I was pretty sure the game was ours.”

  The halftime
locker room was jovial, almost festive. One player, however, wasn’t happy. Howard, the marvelous kick returner, had been the 1991 Heisman Trophy winner at Michigan, then the fourth overall pick in the 1992 NFL draft, by Washington. Joe Gibbs, the Redskins coach, raved, “This guy doesn’t have any flaws,” then uncovered the flaws. Howard’s hands were bad. His routes sloppy. He worked, but not especially hard. He was one of the first NFL players to own his own cell phone, and—for some odd reason—it irked the organization. The Redskins left Howard unprotected in the 1995 expansion draft, and after a bad year in Jacksonville, Howard wound up in Green Bay. Barely. “The idea was we’d cut him after the fourth preseason game,” said Haskell. “But guys kept getting hurt, and in that fourth preseason game he took a kickoff and returned it for a touchdown. That took care of that. He didn’t really see himself as a receiver. He was a returner, and proud to be one.”

  Now, in the locker room, Howard was incredulous. New England’s players had been barking at him throughout the first half (“Nothing for you today!” one said. “We’re gonna shut you down!”) and enough was enough. Standing next to Favre, he said, “Brett, I’m gonna take one of these kicks back. It’s only a matter of time.”

  New England scored late in the third quarter on Curtis Martin’s 18-yard touchdown run, and with the extra point the Packer lead shrank to 27–21. The kickoff that followed was a long one—the Patriots’ Adam Vinatieri had one of the league’s strongest legs, and he booted a ball that sent Howard back to the 1. He caught it, sprinted down the middle of the field through an ocean of green and white jerseys, past Vinatieri and defensive back Michael McGruder and into the end zone. The 99-yard return was another NFL record, and Howard pounded his chest and barked deliriously toward the Patriot players as they retreated from the field.

  “That was the moment when everything unraveled for New England,” said Darius Holland, the Packers’ defensive tackle. “Any momentum, any hope—it died for them right there.”

  “It was a dagger that put us away,” said Vinatieri. “We just could not come back from that.”

  The 35–21 score held up, and Howard—he of 244 combined return yards—was named Super Bowl MVP. The Packers’ offense had possession for the final 50 seconds of the game, and Favre took the last snap and fell to his right knee. As the last ticks rolled off the clock, Beebe approached from behind. The 32-year-old was an improbable NFL success story. He’d played at three small colleges (Western Illinois, Aurora, and Chadron State) before the Bills selected him with the 82nd pick in the 1989 draft. Beebe lost four Super Bowls in six years in Buffalo, and came to Green Bay as a free agent because he desperately craved victory. Now he asked Favre for a favor. “Brett,” he said, “any chance I can have that ball?”

  Favre didn’t hesitate. “Beebs,” he said, “no one deserves this more than you.” Beebe walked off the field with his son Chad in one arm, his daughter Amanda in the other, and a ball—the ball—tucked beneath an elbow. Favre, meanwhile, hugged everyone in sight. His numbers were merely OK (14 for 27 passes, 246 yards, two touchdowns, no turnovers), but Bledsoe’s four interceptions provided a striking contrast. Holmgren had been right: the better quarterbacking won.

  In the locker room, Favre hugged the Vince Lombardi Trophy. “I’ve done everything I possibly can,” he said. “I hope too many people didn’t bet against me, because they’re broke right now.”

  Eight months earlier, he’d flown to Topeka as the NFL’s drug-addict quarterback.

  Now he was a Super Bowl champion.

  17

  Low

  * * *

  THE CURSE OF REACHING an immeasurable high is the inevitable plummet.

  That night in New Orleans, following the Packers’ Super Bowl win, Brett Favre and his friends and family members partied like the biggest rock stars who ever lived. They prowled Bourbon Street and drank into the wee hours of the morning. Even those who wondered whether Favre was wise to imbibe were willing to make an exception. The toughest stretch of his life concluded with a Super Bowl crown. Cut the guy some slack.

  The fall began but a day later, when the Packers flew back from New Orleans to Green Bay for a victory parade. As soon as the plane landed at Austin Straubel International Airport, the players and coaches loaded onto five buses and drove through the city toward Lambeau Field.

  It was awful.

  Actually, scratch that. Awful is having your leg gnawed off by a shark. Or Mike Tyson punching you in the gut. Awful is the smell of old salmon, the taste of castor oil, the musical stylings of Rick Astley. This was significantly worse.

  The temperature was 20. With the windchill, it felt 10 below. Snow covered the ground. The air was dry and bitter. Breathing burned. The Packers’ marketing department planned the entire day, including the three-hour trek from the airport to the stadium, including the players and officials who would speak at Lambeau, including the bus’s open windows.

  Yes, the windows were locked in the open position, so the fans could feel closer to the players. Which would have been digestible had the Packers been warned, or had winter jackets been provided. “I would say it was freezing,” said Don Beebe, “but that doesn’t do it justice.”

  “We’re all in suits,” said John Michels, the offensive lineman. “Suits! Not prepared at all.”

  Reggie White was the first to board a bus, and he cradled the Lombardi Trophy in his arms. The driver popped in a CD, Queen’s Greatest Hits, and blasted “We Are The Champions.” Tremendous choice. “That was great,” Bob Kuberski, a defensive tackle. “But when we’re moving, the cold cuts through your body like a friggin’ knife.” Reebok had gifted the players with purple Super Bowl XXXI athletic suits, and before long everyone was slicing open the packets and draping the clothing over their outfits. “I’m leaning out the window, and this kid reaches out his hand,” said Kuberski. “He has a glove on, and I take it off his hand. He’s yelling at me, ‘Hey! My glove! My glove!’ Sorry, kid.”

  Approximately 60,000 fans filled Lambeau Field. The ground was brick-hard and covered by six inches of snow, and the players were in dress shoes. Favre—warmed by several beers—said a few words, as did White, Mike Holmgren, and Ron Wolf. “Whoever planned that thing should have been canned,” said Wolf. “When Mike and I talked, we both sounded like we were drunk. A doctor later explained to me it was from the cold. It was just awful.”

  “I just wanted to fucking go home,” said Derrick Mayes. “It was like, ‘OK, we won. Awesome. Now I want to be warm.’”

  In the aftermath of the Super Bowl and the parade and Favre’s fourth Pro Bowl appearance, the predictable onslaught of Packer- and Favre-related books hit the shelves. There was Brett Favre: Huck Finn Grows Up by Steve Cameron.* There was Titletown Again by Chuck Carlson. There was A Year of Champions by Gilbert Brown. The one that most stood out—and appeared on multiple national best-seller lists—was Favre: For the Record, which he wrote with a local media personality named Chris Havel. Reading the autobiography, one comes away thinking the superstar had found his inner goodness and learned how to be a devoted spouse and worthy role model. Around the time of the release, Favre’s hometown newspaper, the Biloxi Sun-Herald, ran a piece on the Brett-Deanna marriage that included this gem: “But to [Deanna], Brett Favre is the perfect husband and father, not the famous quarterback.”

  Um . . .

  Despite Deanna’s outward optimism (“Brett hasn’t changed as a person. He’s just matured as a person and grew up”), her husband was drowning—and she surely knew it. The hope of reformation that emerged post-rehab had long since died. The image of a perfect marriage was pure mirage. Favre was drinking more than ever; partying more than ever; sleeping around more than ever. Because Green Bay protects its icons, and the Packers built a Plexiglas shield around their superstar, few spoke of Favre’s indiscretions. (Said Jerry Watson, owner of the Stadium View bar: “If you ever hear of anything going on here, you missed 90 percent of what didn’t get reported.”) But they were numerous, and they
were ugly. Through the years, he had a regular hookup in California whom he would see on West Coast swings. There was a another woman in Green Bay—young, pretty, somewhat eccentric—who fooled around with Favre, then told everyone who would listen that her son belonged to the quarterback (it turns out he did not). He did a growing number of autograph signings in Green Bay, and afterward was often picked up by a breathtaking woman who would drive him off to who knows where. “Every girl around here was throwing themselves at Brett,” said Watson. “That’s the truth.”

  A woman Favre had allegedly engaged with in an improper relationship began stalking the family. One day she showed up at the house and knocked on the door. Only Brittany and the family babysitter were home. “She was coming to Brett’s [steakhouse, which opened in 1998 near Lambeau Field], telling people she had an affair with Brett, that she had Brett’s illegitimate child,” said Maggie Mahoney, the steakhouse manager. “It got so ugly that Deanna called me to ask she not be allowed in the restaurant.”

  Mahoney, who loved working with Favre and genuinely liked him as a person, recalled Brett in the steakhouse’s banquet room, shouting, “Show me your tits!” to female visitors. “He was drinking, and I told him he shouldn’t do that,” Mahoney recalled.