Gunslinger

by Jeff Pearlman

  “People thought Mike came in and let Brett do whatever he wanted,” said LeRoy Butler. “That’s bullshit. Mike had high standards.”

  Much like the Ray Rhodes Packers, the Mike Sherman Packers were sloppy, disorganized, subpar. They opened with losses to the Jets and Bills, followed by winning two of three before coming to Detroit for an October 8 game against the perennially mediocre Lions. By late in the third quarter Detroit was ahead 31–9, and Favre threw three interceptions and fumbled twice, noting afterward, with a hapless sigh, “It may be like this all year. Who knows?” Much of the blame fell upon tackles Mike Wahle and Mark Tauscher, who allowed Detroit’s standout defensive ends, Tracy Scoggins and Robert Porcher, to repeatedly hit Favre. But the quarterback seemed befuddled, confused. The Lions followed the Denver game plan to a tee, and it worked. Favre had two fourth-quarter touchdown throws to cut the score to 31–24, but with 1:37 remaining tossed a perfect pass to Lions safety Kurt Schulz. Wrote Mitch Albom in the Detroit Free Press: “Because I like Brett Favre, as a guy and as a quarterback, I almost felt bad for him at the end of Sunday’s game, surrounded by Lions, looking desperately downfield, forcing a bad pass and watching it land in the arms of the wrong guy to choke a would-be miracle. Well, I said ‘almost.’ In the end, I choose to feel about Favre’s fate the way I did about eating crocodile down in Australia: It’s payback. Eat or be eaten.”

  Favre never fully took to Sherman’s plan, but—even as a year of hope turned ugly—he maintained his sense of humor. Late in the season, with the playoffs a longshot and morale low, the Packers traveled to Minnesota to battle the Vikings at the Metrodome. In the week leading up to the game, Darrell Bevell, the quarterbacks coach, impressed upon Favre the importance of ball control and limited turnovers. “During the quarterback meetings Brett would chew tobacco,” said Danny Wuerffel, the former Heisman Trophy winner who spent the season as the third-stringer behind Favre and Matt Hasselbeck. “He always asked me if I wanted some, and I never took him up on it.” Before kickoff Wuerffel told Favre, “If you throw more touchdowns than interceptions, I’ll dip with you Monday.”

  Favre cackled, and even told members of the media about the deal. “So the game’s going on,” said Wuerffel, “and they talk about Danny Wuerffel possibly dipping tobacco.” His wife, Jessica, was watching at home. “I had a lot to answer for,” he said. The Packers won, 33–28, and Favre passed for three touchdowns . . . and no interceptions.

  “I dipped,” Wuerffel said. “Brett loved it.”

  Green Bay finished 9-7 and missed the playoffs for the second straight season, and much blame went to Favre. His interceptions fell to 16, but his touchdown passes also dropped, to a mere 20. Along with the sophistication of opposing defenses, some of the statistical passing decline had to do with the emergence of Ahman Green, the third-year halfback who compiled 1,175 rushing yards and 13 total touchdowns. It hardly helped that his wide receiver corps was, by NFL standards, subpar. “He played with a bunch of No. 2 and No. 3 wideouts,” said Teerlinck. “He fooled people into thinking they were better than they actually were.”

  What went unspoken (and, for many, unknown) was that, yet again, Favre was playing when other men would have sat. In the third quarter of the November 12 game at Tampa Bay, he was plowed into the turf by Warren Sapp, the powerful defensive tackle. Favre’s left ankle made a crunching sound, and both tackler and victim presumed it to be broken. He was replaced by Hasselbeck, and everyone on the Green Bay staff figured he would miss at least one Sunday, and perhaps the remainder of the season. So much for his consecutive-start streak, now at 135 games. So much for indestructability. So much for . . .

  He started the next week against Indianapolis.

  “His ankle was red and blue,” said Frank Novak, the special teams coach. “On the plane the team doctor told us not to count on him that week. OK, so Hasselbeck takes snaps with the first team. On Wednesday, Brett jogged out to the field, moved Hasselbeck out of the huddle, and took the snaps.” For the new staff, it was Jesus walking across water. Name an NFL quarterback—any NFL quarterback—and he would not have even attempted such a return. Jeff Garcia of the 49ers? No way. Troy Aikman in Dallas? Unlikely. The Vikings’ Daunte Culpepper? The Redskins’ Brad Johnson? The Rams’ Kurt Warner? No, no, no. Favre was no longer using Vicodin, so the pain that once vanished beneath a large dosage of pills lingered for hours, days, weeks. But he was forever his father’s son—the kid who wasn’t allowed to cry or moan or lie on the ground after absorbing a big hit. You got up and played. You always got up and played. This was not merely a self-expectation. Favre demanded ruggedness from others. Novak fondly recalled a game against the Broncos when Bill Romanowski, the famously dirty and vocal linebacker, took a bad hit and struggled to rise off the field. “Brett’s screaming at him—‘Hey, you big pussy! Stay in the fucking game! What kind of leader are you!’” Novak said. “I mean, sweet Jesus, he was tough.

  “People didn’t get it that year. We were not a very good team. We were in transition. They blamed Brett. Blame Brett? He was the only reason we were able to go 9-7. Without him, we win five, maybe six.

  “He was everything to us.”

  20

  Big Irv

  * * *

  ALTHOUGH MIKE SHERMAN’S debut as the Green Bay head coach was a disappointment, his next two years—back-to-back 12-4 seasons—restored glory to the franchise.

  This was wonderful for Brett Favre.

  This was even more wonderful for Irv Favre.

  From the time his son debuted with the Packers in 1992, Big Irv was a regular presence around the team. Much of this was due to Mark Kelly, a Pewaukee, Wisconsin–based financial consultant and die-hard Green Bay fan. One time, early in Brett’s career, Kelly found himself alone at the lobby bar of the Packers’ team hotel. He turned to a man sitting nearby to ask, “Hey, what are you doing here?”

  “My son plays for the Packers,” he replied.

  “Well,” replied Kelly, “who’s your son?”

  “Brett Favre,” Irv said. “The quarterback.”

  They talked for a bit, parted ways, but ran into one another at various games. Phone numbers were exchanged, and before the 1995 season Kelly called to ask if he would be seeing Irv at the opener—Rams vs. Packers at Lambeau Field. “Nah,” said Irv. “I don’t have enough money for the airfare.”

  “You don’t have enough money?” Kelly said. “Isn’t Brett your son?”

  Irv explained that he hated asking for favors or handouts. The next day, Kelly called again. He had accumulated thousands of frequent-flier miles and wanted to fly Irv and Bonita from Mississippi to Wisconsin for the game. That Sunday, Kelly’s cell phone rang as he was driving to the stadium.

  “Hey, it’s Irv. Where are you gonna be watching from?”

  “From my seats,” he said. “That’s what people do.”

  Irv wouldn’t have it. “I talked to Brett, and you’re gonna watch the game from the suite with us,” he said. “I insist.”

  From that day forward, Irv Favre and Mark Kelly were inseparable. Kelly would pick Irv up at Milwaukee’s General Mitchell International Airport on a Saturday afternoon and take him to Brett Favre’s Steakhouse. They’d eat and drink for hours, then Kelly drove Irv to his son’s home in Green Bay. The next morning Irv and Kelly would join Brett at the Packers’ team chapel service and drive with him to the stadium. “We’d enter where the players enter, go up the elevator, go to our suite,” Kelly said. “I like to think Irv was my best friend, and he was mine.”

  Many of the players’ parents attended games. None were Irv Favre. First, he was easily recognizable, what with his large head, his gruff voice, his flattop, his guffaw, his swagger. Second, he went places others weren’t allowed. He was the only father to spend considerable time inside the Packers’ locker room, the only parent all the players knew by name. Third, he became a celebrity, not nearly as famous as his son, but far more recognizable than, say, Tyrone Davis or Tony Fisher. He did local com
mercials, and signed an endorsement deal with Ticket King, a ticket brokerage firm in Milwaukee. “Irv was everywhere,” wrote Les Carpenter of the Seattle Times. “Irv was at the Packers’ bus when it arrived at games, his No. 4 jersey stretching wide across the waist. Irv was at the hotels, in the hallways, outside pregame dinners. When Green Bay got Brett Favre, it got his father, too.” As the years passed, Irv Favre spent an increased amount of time in Green Bay during the season. Sometimes Bonita would come, sometimes she wouldn’t. He would often stay at the Hilton, just down the block from Lambeau, and if one wanted to meet him, to hear stories and down beers, all they had to do was wander from one Green Bay bar to the other. If Irv wasn’t at the Stadium View, he was at the Sideline Sports Bar. Or the local Brett Favre’s Steakhouse. Or wherever the drinks were cold and the audiences large. “Irv liked his Budweiser,” said Jerry Watson, the Stadium View owner. “He would be here any time, day or night. He loved being Irv Favre. But what he really loved was being Brett Favre’s father.”

  When Irv Favre entered a bar or restaurant, he made it clear to anyone within earshot that his son was—oh, you might have heard of him—Brett Favre. He held court, counted the attendees, answered question after question with a child’s enthusiasm, be it asked the first time or the 10,000th time. “He lathered it in,” said Maggie Mahoney, the manager of Brett Favre’s Steakhouse. “Fans wanted access to Brett. His dad was access.” Irv also wanted you to buy him a beer. Or 12. Bottle, please. “Irv sold a lot of Budweiser for me,” said Watson. “But he wasn’t paying for it.” Back in 1997, 11 months after the Packers won Super Bowl XXXI, Irv called Kelly on Christmas morning, his voice overcome by glee. “You’re never gonna guess what Brett got me as a present,” he said. “It’s a real Super Bowl ring, just like the players have!” On the inner portion of the ring Brett had THANKS DAD engraved. Irv Favre wore the diamond-encrusted jewelry piece like a peacock wears its feathers. For years, he had been a big fish in a small pond—Mississippi high school coach and teacher. Ho-hum. Now, he was important. Mark and Irv liked the hamburgers and French fries at the Penguin Drive-In in Manitowoc, Wisconsin, and stopped there often. One time the friends were sitting at the counter when Mark spotted two men staring at Irv’s ring and chatting amongst themselves. Finally . . .

  That’s a nice ring.

  “Thanks,” Irv said.

  Is it a Super Bowl ring?

  “Aw, yeah,” Irv said. “It is.”

  Did you play?

  “No, my son plays.”

  Cool. Who’s your son?

  “Brett Favre, the quarterback.”

  WHAT!?!? Your son is . . .

  “He tried appearing modest, and he was always friendly,” said Kelly. “But Irv definitely lived his life through Brett. I remember another time we were somewhere, about to leave, kind of bored, and the person on the PA said, ‘We want to welcome Brett Favre’s father, who is here with us today!’ Irv looked at me, kind of smiled and said, ‘Maybe we should stay . . . ’”

  In 1999, Bill Michaels, a Cincinnati-based radio personality, was hired by Milwaukee’s WTMJ to come to Wisconsin and handle the pre- and postgame Packer shows for the station. He had never been to Green Bay, and didn’t fully appreciate the fierce protectionism of the fan base until, during an early broadcast, he mildly criticized Brett Favre. The reaction was intense: Who the hell was this outsider to rip No. 4? What did he know? Go back to Cincinnati! To Michaels’s surprise, the Packer loyalist who had no problem with the take was Irv. “He never was one who would pick and choose words,” said Michaels. “If Brett threw a bad pass he’d say, ‘That pass sucked. He shouldn’t have thrown it.’ There was no agenda. He didn’t care what people would think, or even what Brett thought.”

  Michaels’s on-air partner was Brian Noble, the former Green Bay linebacker, and one day he invited Irv to sit in on a segment during the postgame show. He was funny, folksy, smart. “He pulled no punches,” Michaels said. “People ate it up.”

  Irv was asked to return for the next home game and, again, it went over magnificently. He soon became a regular, and in 2001 was formally named a cohost for the postgame show. For nearly three seasons he brought a unique perspective to broadcasts. Sometimes he said things that irritated the Packers and/or his son (“Nobody in that locker room wants Cris Carter,” he suggested when there was talk of adding the wide receiver), oftentimes he was insightful, relying upon the knowledge gleaned from decades on a sideline. He was always either tipsy or fully intoxicated. “Irv loved Budweiser, but Lambeau Field served Miller,” said Michaels. “So he would have Budweiser brought in, and he would have a couple. And if the game was going bad he would have more than a couple.”

  The radio station enforced some rules. First, Irv could not start drinking until the second half. Second, Irv was not allowed to place his beer bottles on the table, which was visible to those passing by. The station forked over the $5 to buy Irv an enormous coffee mug, into which he would pour his beer. “We had a girl named Paula who worked for us for years, and she was our server,” said Michaels. “She always knew what we drank—she got me Sprite, Brian tea or water, and Irv his mug of beer.” One season, close to Christmas, Paula traveled to see family, and a temporary assistant filled in. “I heard everyone gets a drink!” she said to the hosts, then handed off the Sprite, the tea, the mug.

  The countdown to the show began. The intro music started to play. The engineer shouted, “Mics are hot!” Michaels spoke—“Good evening. The Green Bay Packers got a win . . .”

  “Who put this goddamn coffee in my coffee!” Irv shouted.

  “The whole broadcast stopped,” said Michaels. “Everyone in the live audience is looking at Irv. He’s smiling. Brian has just lost it—he’s cracking up. I’m cracking up.”

  “I swear to God, every time he was on the radio he was hammered from a day of drinking,” said Rob Reischel of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. “He’d slam Brett and it’d be so funny.”

  The 2001 and 2002 Packers were Irv Favre’s glory years. His son was the rejuvenated hero, back from the near-dead and throwing the deep ball better than anyone in the league. He tossed 32 touchdowns in 2001, another 27 in 2002, and led his team to the playoffs both seasons. Some of what Sherman said sunk in—he was making smarter decisions, willing to let a play go. Some of it was an improved cast of characters—Donald Driver, a seventh-round draft pick out of Alcorn State in 1999, emerged as a legitimate No. 1 target; Ahman Green continued to slice through defenses; Bubba Franks was a top-tier tight end. Much of it was simply an elite quarterback playing great football.

  The better his son played, the bigger Irv Favre became. When the postgame show wrapped, he would sign autographs by the dozens. Often fans waited to share a moment of his time. To offer a word. To pick his brain. A persona was created, and Wisconsin bought in: Irv Favre, the lovable lug with the heart of gold. Irv Favre, the good ol’ Mississippi boy who created a football legend. Irv Favre, the man Brett Favre was fortunate enough to call Dad. Everyone could use a father like Big Irv, gruff yet supportive, quirky yet indispensible.

  It was true, too. Some of it. Sort of. Irvin Favre was, indeed, a lug from Mississippi, and Kelly vividly recalled the quarterback and his father engaging in vicious fart battles during long drives. “Two funny, cool guys,” Kelly said. “They didn’t take themselves too seriously.” But, as is the case with most people, a complexity lingered beneath the surface. The son was the father and the father was the son. Though Irv was never diagnosed as an alcoholic, he was an unrepentant drinker whose dependence on alcohol went far beyond the occasional beer. Stories abound of an intoxicated Irv Favre falling asleep with his head slumped atop a wood bar; of him saying inappropriate things, doing inappropriate things. This, too, was a commonality between Green Bay’s two favorite Favres. While Irv passed himself off as cuddly, he was a prolific womanizer who, by the time Brett reached NFL stardom, treated his marriage to Bonita as much mutual living arrangement as a bond forged by commitment. His chi
ldren respected their father, but bristled at the way their mother (a remarkable woman who held the family together during hard times) was treated as a side dish. To Irv, young women weren’t merely young women. They were sweetie, honey, sugar, babe. And they were potential (though, with his age and looks, unlikely) sexual partners. “He was a pinch-the-ass type, absolutely,” said Mahoney. “One time he was at the bar and these two girls were hanging all over him—‘Oh, that’s Brett’s dad!’ And Bonita was four stools down from him and Brandi was sitting next to Bonita. And Irv had plenty to drink and he said to one of the girls, ‘Think you can give me a blowjob?’ The girls giggled and Brandi piped in and said, ‘Daddy, Mommy’s right here!’ I don’t think Bonita gave a shit. She just looked the other way, like, ‘I don’t care.’”

  A waitress at one of the more popular Green Bay bars recalled the evening Irv offered her $100 for sex. When she declined, he upped the ante to $200. “He tried to pay me off, right there,” she said. “I said, ‘Do I have w-h-o-r-e written across my forehead?’”

  One time, when the Packers played in San Francisco, Irv was in Brett’s hotel room when the phone rang. His son had stepped out, so Irv answered. A young woman was on the line, searching for the quarterback. “This is his daddy,” Irv said. “I taught him everything he knows. You bring that sweet little pussy over to the apartment and I’ll fuck it real good.”