A Fond Farewell to No. 4

A number eternal.

By now it’s a catchphrase: “Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, Favre.” So I’m fully well aware that by the end of training camp – by tomorrow morning even – this farewell letter could look pretty silly. Even the people in the know are hesitant to call the time. “A Final Goodbye?” asks ESPN, an entity burned more times by Favre speculation than an overzealous corner by Sterling Sharpe.

The Vikings call it “a fluid situation.” Skepticism carries the day. Coach Brad Childress talks like a man whose pre-teen daughter just threatened to move out.

Right.

I’m gonna push on, though, because if this is indeed the end, I want to be here to tell you how I feel about Favre – how he’s a legend, a childhood hero, a trainwreck, a walking contradiction, appointment viewing, Mark Schlereth’s reason to live. I want to tell you that No. 4 is everything that I love about sports, even if he’s, too, a tiny part of what I don’t.

ESPN’s Mike Golic is wearing jeans on TV. He says he’s shocked. I’m not shocked. It’s not shocking that a soon-to-be 41-year-old with the body of a pulped lemon quits a game meant for guys half his age. It’s not shocking that a man who’s caught a million defenders napping pulls one over on us on a sleepy Tuesday. And it’s not shocking that he did it by text message – Favre did for the smartphone what Al Gore did for the Internet.

It feels to me like this is the right time because it’s not the right time. Brett Favre caught me off guard. What else is new?

I guess this is goodbye.

So it wouldn’t be right for the The Big Announcement to come from a podium. We’ve seen how that scenario plays out – with lots of tears, with lots of “Is this really its?”, with lots of mikes hunting for a gotchya quote when he inevitably changes his mind.

I want speculation because I want Brett around as long as possible. I want to talk about him some more. I want him to come back. I want not for there to be a big hole under center in Minneapolis or a smaller hole in my heart on Sundays. I want this year to be like the last 19. I want just 60 or so more hours glued to my couch, waiting for something spectacular or something spectacularly stupid.

I want Brett Favre to play forever.

I don’t know football without No. 4. He’s an American institution – like Coke or Pearl Jam. He’s a vestige of my childhood, a touchstone to which my memories are tied… Age five. Atlanta. Packers-Falcons. First football game… Age 10. West Palm Beach. Brett wins his title. Coach-pitch team dominates winter league… Age 15. Chicago. Family vacation. Make the trek to Lambeau. See Favre in person… Age 20. Dorm room. Favre/Jennings. Overtime. For once, I’m the guy waking up the roommates.

Somebody recently pointed out during one of my LeBron-inspired meltdowns that irrational hero worship is the whole point of sports – that Tiger/LeBron disillusion would pass, that I would be sucked back in by the inexorable pull of guys like Favre. On days like today – days when I comb back over two decades of incendiary successes and heart-wrenching failures – I can’t help but accept the truth of that statement.

I love the ass-slapping, the pants on the ground, the Sapp rivalry, the 4-TD game against Oakland, the way that fate chose Favre’s right arm, how “putting guys on his back” wasn’t just a metaphor. I love that he was magic at 25, magic at 30, magic at 40, that he was the NFL’s all-time iron man, that he put Hattiesburg on the map, that my ‘Noles friends still talk about “The Brett Favre game.”

Putting teams on his shoulders.

I love that I could go on like this forever – that writing about Brett Favre is like playing guitar in a rock ‘n roll band. Just feels right. Love the underhanded throws, the gray hair, the reckless abandon, the vulnerability, the imperfection. I love that if I said, “Greg Jennings. Monday Night. Denver,” you’d know exactly what I meant. And I love, too, that you can always end the argument with “Yeah, but he holds every single record.”

Brett Favre told you what was on his mind. Always – through death, through cancer, through drug addiction, through less important stuff, like football. Brett Favre was real, but his career played out like a Hollywood epic – his time in Minnesota like the final scene in “The Unforgiven.”

The old gunslinger’s still got it.

Is he a flake? Sure he’s a flake. I wouldn’t have many friends without flakes. I hope this isn’t really it. I hope I hear “childlike enthusiasm” again, even if this time it really does make me sick. Still, if Brett Favre never plays another down, he’ll go back to his tractor having given his fans everything they could’ve ever wanted in a star athlete.

Just wanted to tell you, No. 4 – I am truly grateful.

- Robbie