Gunslinger

by Jeff Pearlman

  Now, for the first time, football didn’t call. So, along with the exercising, he did what people do when they own a rural 465-acre estate. He mowed the lawn, pulled out the shrubs, took care of the house, raked the sand volleyball court. He would hunt a bit, fish a bit, golf a bit. He planned family vacations and traveled with Deanna as she competed in myriad triathlons. “He’s a very good husband now,” said David Thomason, Favre’s longtime colleague. “I think Brett learned a lot about being a good family guy from all those years away. He wants to make these days count.”

  On the opening Sunday of the 2011 NFL season, the Vikings were playing at San Diego. Donovan McNabb, the longtime Philadelphia Eagle, was the new starting quarterback. Favre was outside when Deanna called him in for kickoff. He sat in front of a large flat-screen television and watched, more bored than engrossed. When it ended he returned to what he had been doing. Ho-hum. No biggie. Wrote Greg Bishop in Sports Illustrated, “He woke up Monday morning free of soreness.” It was, Favre had to admit, absolutely delightful. He didn’t miss the game one iota.

  Then, in the summer of 2013, a strange twist. Favre lives down the road from Oak Grove High, the school both his daughters attended. In fact, throughout the final years of his playing career, he would prepare for training camp by working out with the varsity football team. The head coach, an affable man named Nevil Barr, loved having Favre around. Now, with the season but a few months away, Barr was in a pickle. His offensive coordinator, Tim Held, and the offensive line coach, Bob Bird, shared the Warriors’ play-calling duties, but both recently left. On a whim, Barr called Favre and asked if he would consider joining the staff.

  “I think I could maybe do that,” he replied.

  “Oh, I know you could,” said Barr.

  “Well, what’s my salary gonna be?” Favre said with a chuckle.

  “We’ll pay you absolutely nothing,” Barr said.

  “Lemme get this straight,” Favre said. “You want me to come every day for no pay and come in on Sundays for film work?”

  “Yeah,” Barr replied.

  “OK,” Favre said. “I’ll do it.”

  “He was fantastic,” said Barr. “He obviously knows more about football than most of us can dream of, but that wasn’t it. It was how he related with the kids, and got to know them. It was special.”

  Barr insists it’s no coincidence that the 13-1 Warriors had one of the state’s highest-scoring offenses, and wound up winning the Mississippi Class 6A championship game. Favre showed up for work every day, never made a big deal about himself, flashed nary an ounce of ego or entitlement. He was “Brett” or “Coach”—never “Mr. Favre”—and his play calling was inventive and funky. Whereas once there was Antonio Freeman and Ahman Green, now there were spindly high school kids with pimply faces and cracking voices. He loved it.

  “There was one game where we were playing another team and he said to me, ‘Take the snap, look that way, and [wide receiver] Logan Scott is gonna be wide open and all alone,’” said Kirk McCarty, the Oak Grove quarterback. “I probably didn’t believe him, but I got the ball, looked at Logan—and there he was, uncovered. Brett just knew this stuff, and he communicated it.”

  That October, midway through the Warriors’ schedule, the St. Louis Rams lost Sam Bradford, their starting quarterback, to season-ending knee surgery. The team reached out to Bus Cook to see if Favre would consider coming out of retirement. The offer was relayed, and the old quarterback greeted it with derisive laughter. “It’s flattering,” Favre said. “But you know there’s no way I’m going to do that.”

  He continued to coach, devoting two seasons to the school before deciding enough was enough. Breleigh was traveling more and more for volleyball, and he wanted to watch as much as possible. “That’s hard to argue with,” said Barr. “Brett just needed to be a dad.”

  Because Favre was rarely heard from on a national level (save for the random TV commercial), it was during his high school coaching run that word began to circulate about his declining health and, specifically, potentially impaired memory. The NFL was in the midst of what seemed to be a concussion epidemic, and a nonstop stream of former players were suing the league for damages. Though unspoken, the feelings on Brett Favre could be stated in a single sentence: What man took more hits? During a 2013 radio interview Favre was asked about his memory, and the response made instant headlines. “I don’t remember my daughter playing soccer, youth soccer, one summer,” he said. “I don’t remember that.” He went on to admit that he was terrified by how his brain might function years down the road, and added that he was uncertain whether he’d want his grandchildren to play football. Favre told Sports Illustrated that, at times, he misplaced his keys, or couldn’t remember where he left his sunglasses.

  Favre has not undergone any sort of testing, and since the interview has felt no noticeable decline in memory capacity. In fact, those who deal with Favre on a regular basis insist he is sharp and lucid. Thomason said he sees little change. “Brett’s still very quick,” he said. “I’m not saying the hits haven’t impacted him. Maybe they have. But I can’t always remember where I left my keys, either.”

  The one thing that has perplexed many colleagues (and former colleagues) is his major post-NFL business move. During his heyday, Favre relied on Cook’s savvy and decision-making abilities to steer him in the right direction. And, indeed, even those who dislike the pushy Mississippi agent (there are many) concede he genuinely served his client well. Favre earned millions in endorsement opportunities, including a long-standing relationship with Wrangler that made him the face of the blue jeans manufacturer. (Favre practiced good money management and remains quite wealthy.)

  Three years ago, however, in a decision that left friends and family members scratching their heads, Favre joined the board of directors of Sqor Sports, a Twitter-like social media site created to connect athletes with fans. “The success to date has been awesome, and I think the sky is the limit with Sqor,” Favre said at the time. “I am excited to be joining the Board of Directors and looking forward to contributing in any way that I can to help the company succeed.” Before long, Sqor was handling Favre’s Twitter account (and botching basic football facts), peddling bewildering T-shirts and glossy photographs (featuring a bearded Brett Favre looking like a cross between Santa Claus and Charles Manson) and helping arrange his endorsements. Cook, once the puppeteer behind Favre, Inc., found himself in the cold as his star client began popping up in cheesy low-rent TV advertisements for items like nasal-hair extractors and knee supports. Hey, I’m Brett Favre! And I got my groom back with Micro Touch! One of the products he promoted was a topical pain cream called Rx Pro. Favre also invested in the parent company, World Health Industries. “I can speak volumes on pain and narcotics use,” Favre raved to SiriusXM’s Bruce Murray in 2013. Rx Pro, he added, “is a safe way to treat some of your ailments. It even works with cramps, stomach pain . . . It’s just endless what will happen with this product and this company.” The ointment, he insisted, would “revolutionize” sports recovery.

  By 2016, years after Favre’s initial investment, World Health Industries was being investigated by the Justice Department for alleged healthcare fraud. The cream apparently did nothing.

  Much of his postretirement revenue went to Sqor. In interviews, he would almost always wear a Sqor T-shirt, yet never seemed to be able to explain what, exactly, Sqor does. As of early 2016, Sqor Sports had a mere 13,900 Twitter followers and was not making inroads into the sports media landscape. “I think Brett wanted to do something on his own, and that’s commendable,” said a friend. “But nobody has been able to figure this one out. He hasn’t made money from Sqor, they control his image, and Bus doesn’t understand why he stopped listening to him. It’s a head-scratcher, but he thinks it’s going to make him billions of dollars.

  “He already has millions, so, really, there’s no big harm. But it’s kind of fucked up.”

  On the evening of June 20, 2015, nearly five y
ears after Brett Favre took his final NFL snap, Kenny Chesney and Jason Aldean held a concert at Lambeau Field.

  For a neck of the woods that loves country music and lacks nonfootball excitement, this was a huge deal. A sellout crowd of nearly 53,000 people packed the stadium, and stayed for four hours as three opening acts, then the co-headliners, brought forth one song after another. It was, Piet Levy of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel wrote, “almost as good as a Packers Super Bowl victory.” Everyone seemed to win. The fans experienced musical bliss, the city’s restaurants and hotels filled up, the Packers generated $1 million to host the gig.

  There was just one problem: the following day, the once-pristine field looked as if it had been attacked by a ruthless swarm of mutant grass-eating pig monsters. Where once there was green, now there was mud. Some team officials were so horrified they insisted Lambeau would never again be home to a concert.

  One month later, the Packers hosted Favre’s highly anticipated return to Green Bay. Ever since the trade to the Jets, relations between the quarterback and the organization had been, at best, hostile. Favre still resented the Packers for not allowing him to return and fight Aaron Rodgers for the job. The Packers resented Favre for retiring 106 times and turning what should have been a smooth resolution into war. Now, though, with the passing of years, the organization—as well as local fans—seemed willing to forgive the greatest player in franchise history for the crime of ending his career as a Minnesota Viking. Over the weekend days of July 18 and 19, Favre was celebrated with the retiring of his No. 4 and an induction into the team’s Hall of Fame. There was a signing at a local bar, a heavily attended press conference, a magnificent banquet inside the Lambeau Field Atrium (tickets, which went for $180, sold out quickly). Bonita Favre was in attendance, as were about 30 former Packer teammates. In a moment that will go down in city lore, Favre excused himself from the event to walk out into the stadium, where 67,000 fans paid $4 a pop to watch on the large screen. As soon as the icon appeared, everyone rose and gave him a standing ovation. Favre—joined by his family—was overcome by emotion and reduced to tears. “One of the coolest things I’ve ever seen,” said Lance Allan, a Milwaukee sports anchor who conducted a quick Q&A with Favre on the field. “If you didn’t have chills, you’re not human.”

  It was outstanding and magical and wonderful and as memorable as anything many had ever witnessed. But for the Favre family (and specifically Brett and Deanna), it was tainted. On the following afternoon Favre would play in Brett Favre’s Legends Game, a flag football showdown between a team of former Packers stars and a squad of onetime NFL “greats.” (Sage Rosenfels was one of the quarterbacks. “Greats” was pushing it.) The beauty, as Brett had envisioned things, was that it would allow Green Bay’s cherished quarterback to throw his final passes inside Lambeau Field while rightly wearing the green and gold. Then, finally, he could walk off into the sunset as a Packer, and all would be right.

  Or not.

  According to the Packers, the Chesney-Aldean concert was enough for fragile Lambeau to handle, and a flag football game (even one played a full month later) would really be enough. So, magical moments be damned, Favre was told he and his pals would have to do their thing 135 miles to the south at Camp Randall Stadium, home to the Wisconsin Badgers. A group of Favre family friends committed themselves to making sure the game would wind up sold out—“to show the Packers how dumb they were,” one said. Tickets ran between $34 and $55. On the big day, the 80,321-seat stadium was about 70 percent empty, and while it was somewhat amusing (and even a bit nostalgic) watching Favre once again launch passes to Javon Walker and Andre Rison, one could hear the grunts of has-been heroes echoing off vacant plastic seats.

  It was the sound of old men playing a young man’s sport.

  It was also the sound of one last slap to Brett Favre’s face.

  On the afternoon of Saturday, February 6, 2016, the 46 members of the Pro Football Hall of Fame committee gathered inside a room in San Francisco to determine the worthiness of 15 modern-era finalists. As is often the case, the debating—oft-heated, oft-exasperating—went on interminably. For example, in regards to Eddie DeBartolo Jr., the former San Francisco 49ers’ owner, committee members argued for 50 minutes and 33 seconds about whether he was great for the game, good for the game, or awful for the game. There were shouts, squeals, supportive exclamations, and dismissive shrugs. Finally, because life must go on and bathroom breaks taken, DeBartolo was granted a spot in Canton. Even those opposed were relieved to reach a resolution.

  Because Hall of Fame enshrinement is an inexact art, few sail in smoothly. With 15,934 receiving yards and 153 touchdowns, Terrell Owens, the former 49ers and Cowboys pass catcher, was a statistical no-brainer to reach the Hall on his first try. Instead, he was rejected. Kevin Greene, a pass-rushing linebacker who last played in 1999, seemed forgotten by time and a near certainty to be rejected. He was voted in.

  Such is how it went. One name after another came to the floor, and one name after another was argued and argued and argued and argued and . . .

  Save Brett Favre.

  When the legendary quarterback’s name was brought forth, the debate lasted for either six or nine seconds (depending on whom you believe). Actually, there was no debate. Literally none. Just as, one month earlier, Ken Griffey Jr. had entered the Baseball Hall of Fame sans issue, Favre was perhaps the easiest choice the committee ever faced. Was he a winner? Yes—two Super Bowl appearances. Was he a good teammate? For most of his career, the best. A leader? Undeniably. Talented? Exceptionally so. Statistically successful? Pre–Peyton Manning, Favre was the NFL’s all-time leader in passing yards and touchdowns. Durable? Well, 321 straight starts don’t lie. Sure, he stuck around too long. And sure, he had an ego. But were those true crimes, most of America’s sports superstars would never sniff a Hall of Fame.

  What Brett Favre offered, more than anything, was a never-before-seen merging of toughness, recklessness, skill, and joy. Without much debate, there have been better quarterbacks in NFL history. Joe Montana and Terry Bradshaw were bigger winners; Johnny Unitas and John Elway were more savvy; Roger Staubach and Steve Young were more mobile. Even though he has only been the Packers starter since 2008, Aaron Rodgers is—in many measures—a far superior player to Favre. He’s more accurate, a better decision maker. Rodgers rarely throws into double coverage; never throws into triple coverage. If you had to pick the man who represents the perfectly groomed and modeled modern quarterback, and the choice was either Favre or Rodgers, well, there’s no choice at all. Rodgers wins.

  But that’s just it—Favre was never perfect. He mangled plays, threw off the wrong foot, made the sloppy read, misjudged, and miscalculated. He brought Packers fans to tears nearly as often as he brought them to euphoria. He was a show—drama, comedy, heartbreak, giddiness. You wanted to watch, but you couldn’t watch. At least not without peeking through your fingers, afraid of what might unfold.

  Ultimately, that unpredictability will be Brett Favre’s lasting legacy, long after the numbers have faded and the Hall of Fame bust has collected dust. For all the importance we place upon athletic events, they are—come day’s end—mere entertainment. In Green Bay, Wisconsin, where the winters are long and the snow piles are deep and the values of hard work and doggedness are treasured, who was ever more entertaining than Brett Favre? He was neither pretty nor predictable, flawless nor family-friendly. He was an addict, he was an alcoholic, he was a womanizer, selfish, unfaithful to his wife, unfaithful to his most loyal fans. In short, he was flawed. Just as you’re flawed. Just as I’m flawed.

  But, on those magical moments atop an ice-coated field, he could throw the football far into the Wisconsin sky . . .

  . . . and you never quite knew where it would wind up.

  Acknowledgments

  On a muggy Mississippi evening in the summer of 2014, I was driving along the backroads from Kiln to Diamondhead when, out of giddiness, I called my wife.

  “I had such a
great day,” I told her. “I just spent four hours with Brett Favre’s mom and sister.”

  “You what?” the wife asked.

  “I was at their house,” I said. “They’re just the friendliest people imaginable. I was even given some scrapbooks to borrow.”

  A pause.

  “Don’t you think that’s weird?” the wife said.

  “How so?” I replied.

  “Brett Favre hasn’t talked to you,” she said. “But his family has?”

  “No,” I said. “That’s not weird at all.”

  “Really?” she said

  “Really,” I said.

  “OK,” she said. “Imagine someone is doing a book on you, and you don’t talk. Wouldn’t you find it strange if your parents and brothers then spent time with the author?”

  Eh, she had a point. She also didn’t have a point. Because unless you know the Favres, and know Hancock County, Mississippi, it’s hard to grasp the idea of people being so open, so welcoming, so accommodating—circumstances be damned. But that’s Bonita Favre, as well as her children, her cousins, her friends. You talk because someone took the time to show up and ask questions. You talk because you have stories to tell and anecdotes to share.

  You talk because you like to talk.

  I cannot overstate my affection for the Favre family. They knew from the start that I wasn’t visiting to write an ode to Brett, but an explanation of Brett. I hope this book validates their willingness to share.

  Writing a book is a nightmare. This is my seventh published work, and each one includes that six-word sentence. You rarely sleep, you dig, you chase, you face great rejection, you doubt, then doubt again and again. I shouldn’t complain, because being a full-time author is actually the best gig in the world. But it can—and has—driven a guy quite insane.