You can’t say a bad word about Peyton Manning. The very model of the modern managerial quarterback is as heroically cool as the statue of him that the Hoosiers will no doubt erect in front of their football palace the day after he retires. But Manning, like Joe Montana, like Bob Griese, is the kind of quarterback whose greatness leaves me cold. He is all excellence and no drama, all precision and no agony. I much prefer the emotional field generals, the divas, the desperadoes, the gunslingers–-Ken Stabler, John Elway, Phil Simms, Ben Roethlesberger, Terry Bradshaw on fourth and ten heaving what turns into the Immaculate Reception, Eli Manning eluding the grasping Patriots to stick the ball onto David Tyree’s head. And of these desperate Come Back With Your Shield Or On It quarterbacks, none is a better model than Brett Favre.
Over the last two decades, Favre has been the most charismatic player in the game, the one player who always made it worthwhile to go out of your way, to stay up late, to pay money to watch. It seems like he always gives you something special, a lagniappe that brings you back for more–an improvision, an underhand toss, a mighty heave, a block, a tackle, and always the promise that the game can always be won. As a quarterback, he is more of an artist than any man who played the game–capable of innovation, imagination and creativity as he authors a new performance in the company of 21 collaborators who can either help or hurt. Often the results are brilliant–a Monday night against Denver that Green Bay wins when Favre throws a bomb on the first play of overtime, and that amazing Monday Night game against Oakland that he played right after his father died, where he racked up yardage and points as though in doing so he could his father back to life. Of course, there were all those interceptions, those stupid, gambling, ill-advised picks that he threw trying to write magical endings and that instead delivered ruination.
On Sunday Favre was poised to write what might have been the most glorious chapter of his career. Already feeling his age, he was battered by the Saints almost into Y.A. Titledom. Once he had to be lifted up. Once he had to be carried off. On the sidelines, he had to be unwrapped and rewrapped like an Elgin Marble about to go on tour. And yet twice he brought the Vikings back to tie the game, and with half a minute left, he had them poised to win with a kick by the providentially named kicker Ryan Longwell. And then came a penalty that moved the Vikes out of field goal range. And then came the final play, a roll out that left an open space in front of Favre. All he needed to do was run into it, and Longwell would be back in business. Instead he heaved the ball across his body, across the filed, into the middle of the field, into the arms of a Saints defender. Troy Aikman, a three-time Super Bowl winner of the managerial type, murmured in sorry befuddlement, “That’s the first thing they teach you not to do.” Oh well. As Shelby Foote wrote of the catastrophe Pickett’s Charge, “That was the price the South paid for having Robert E. Lee.” That interception was the price Minnesota paid for having Favre lead them to the title game.
And thus his legacy. Brett Favre: Artist. Legend. Idiot.
Before I begin my discourse on the legend of Brett Favre, I must disclose that I have been a diehard fan of the mighty Green Bay Packahs (as Vince Lombardi would say) since the age of ten (1969). Brett Favre has played a pivotal role in returning this storied football franchise to glory, something I will be forever thankful for.
But the Minnesota game represents in my mind the third such critical playoff game that a knucklehead pass by Favre cost his team a victory.
The first would be the Packers’ 20-17 overtime loss to the Philadelphia Eagles in 2004. It was bad enough that Packers’ defense let the Eagles convert a fourth-and-26 situation, which kept the Eagles’ hopes alive. Two plays later, the Eagles kicked the tying field goal. But when offense took the field during overtime, Favre couldn’t be satisfied with methodically moving the ball down the field like John Elway. Instead, he threw one of his classic ill-advised passes into hands of an Eagle defender. As it would turn out, Favre would blow the best chance the Packers would have to return to a NFC championship game under Head Coach Mike Sherman.
The second came during overtime in the NFC championship game against the New York Giants. It was far and away the coldest Packer home game I have ever attended, and one of hardest fought. When the Giants kicker Lawrence Tynes missed a late fourth quarter field goal, all the Packer fans breathed a collective sigh of relief: the game would be forced into overtime. Bart Starr’s masterful dink and dunk drive toward the Cowboys’ goal line in the Ice Bowl raced through my mind. This was Favre’s chance to duplicate one of the greatest drives in the history of pro football. It would be his crowning achievement to an already brilliant and Hall-of-Fame career. All Brett had to do was take his time and move the ball methodically. No all or nothing passes like in the Philadephia game.
The Packers’ luck continued with the coin toss and they secured the opening possession. Unfortunately on that first drive, Favre would again throw one of his classic wayward passes, which was picked off by Giant DB Corey Webster. Three plays later, the Giants were in position to kick the winning field—and did.
If Brett Favre hadn’t played for the Vikings this season, the team wouldn’t have finished 12-4. At best, they would have been 9-7, fighting the Bears for second-place. Favre elevated everyone on the Vikings to play their A-game.