Brett Favre = Stan Gable...Kind Of

Despite all the records held, and his assured (and definitely deserved) enshrinement in the Professional Football Hall of Fame I think it’s pretty much been proven what a douche Brett Favre is. Not just a douche, but a self-important, phony huckster with an ego the size of Green Bay’s collective cholesterol level that needs constant massaging douche. Perhaps your take isn’t as harsh as mine, but his track record speaks for itself; the drawn out retirement drama, jerking around Green Bay, then screwing with them by signing with the Vikings, blaming poor play on injuries, embarrassing players and coaches by putting them on blast for normal, behind-closed-doors disagreements.

Yet many sports writers and media types remain completely ignorant of these facts. More mind boggling still are the writers and media types who recognize the douchiness, and then defend it. He didn’t throw game ending interceptions in two NFC Championship games because he’s an egomaniac who has to be the hero, he did it because he’s a gritty playmaker. After he throws a touchdown pass he doesn’t run around the field like a retard who’s just been given a Snickers because he has to be the center of attention at all times, he does it because of his child-like enthusiasm for the game even at 40!!! ZOMG!!! He doesn’t jerk everyone around over his retirement because he’s a self absorbed narcissist, he does it because he’s so passionate about the game. The free passes this guy gets for his occasionally reckless and me-first play on the field, as well as his assholery off the field is astounding.

As my brother has posited before, many sports writers laud players who look most like them physically. In baseball this is known as the David Eckstein Effect. While in football you may know it as the Wes Welker Conundrum. Regardless, sports writers love gritty, undersized white guys who make the most of their limited talent and athletic ability. When you look at the numbers, at this point in his career, David Eckstein is not very good at baseball. Yet every year brings another feature detailing his heart, his guts, his toughness…all things you couldn’t possibly qualify or quantify, and therefore can’t argue against. They see their pasty, flabby selves in our undersized white friends, playing the game they love and have devoted their adult life to. It makes them feel as if, with a few twists of fate, that could have easily been them out on the playing field. I get it.

So here’s what I don’t get…Brett Favre’s not that guy. He’s been blessed with a multitude of physical gifts including a canon for an arm. He was the star quarterback of his high school football team; a team coached by his dad. As a kid, did you ever play for a team where the son of the coach wasn’t a total douche? I rest my case. He received a full scholarship to, and started all four years at quarterback (even though they wanted him to play defensive back) for Southern Mississippi. He was then drafted in the second round of the 1991 NFL Draft. This is a guy who, in high school and college, would have tortured the fat dorks who would eventually grow up to slobn’ his knobn’ in print. Or would he? That’s when it hit me…




…I’ve been thinking about this completely wrong. He totally is that guy, and that’s exactly why he gets treated the way he does. Allow me to explain; if TV has taught me anything it’s that big, dumb jocks like to give nerds wedgies, swirlies and occasionally trash their fraternity house. However, Brett Favre is not TV. Neither is he a decent human being, last time I checked. People as savvy as Brett Favre don’t dismiss their brainy bespectacled brethren, they use them. How? By throwing them some cool crumbs, making them feel down and part of the club in exchange for the things they need.

Here’s how it works; High School Brett Favre turns to High School Peter King in Sequential II Math and says “Oh bro, I’m totally gonna’ fail this test. This shit is so hard!” High School Peter King, head swirling that High School Brett Favre would even look in his general direction, let alone talk to him, retorts “Oh no, if you fail you won’t be able to play on Friday. And without your arm of molten steel and sex appeal, we’ll lose our aerial attack and become one dimensional on offense.” Having lost interest ages ago, High School Brett Favre turns and says “What? Sorry I was finger banging this girl next to me while you were talking about stuff I don’t care about. But yeah, I agree with whatever you said. This is total bullshit!” And just like that a light bulb goes off over High School Peter King’s head “Well you could just copy off of my test. That way you’d pass and still be able to play on Friday.” A falsely appreciative High School Brett Favre exclaims “Oh thanks bro! You’re the best. I owe you one.”

Of course that “one” isn’t really anything of value. High School Brett Favre isn’t going to invite him to the raging party after the game, shotgun beers with him and let him grope blind drunk cheerleaders. But who cares? High School Peter King is on cloud nine. In exchange for homework and test answers, he’ll get a casual, barely noticeable nod of recognition in the hallways, he’ll crack jokes about his weight in gym class then slap him on the back and say “Just kidding”. And maybe, just maybe, High School Brett Favre will sign his yearbook with an impossibly cool “C-Ya-When-I-C-Ya”.

Cut to twenty years later and Favre’s still playing off of these guys’ flabby man crushes. He gives them juicy sound bites and good copy. He returns their text messages. He gives them exclusive interviews full of false humility, heartland values and rugged handsomeness all wrapped up in corn fed charisma. He makes them think they’re good buddies while using them to paint the picture of Brett Favre he wants everyone to see and perpetuate his own bullshit mythos. But put a gun to his head and I bet Favre admits he’s wanted to punch Peter King in the jowls for the past 10 years.

So please Brett Favre, stay retired this time. I don’t think I can take much more. It’s not as if there’s another player entering the league poised to carry your bullshit torch.