Favre nodded, said all the right things, promised it wouldn’t happen again. A mere three days later, it sort of happened again. Favre and some teammates went out for dinner at a Mexican restaurant, then headed to McSwiggin’s, a pub on the east side of the city. Rich Moran, a Green Bay offensive lineman, was minding his own business when a bar patron started to pester him. “Next thing you know,” Moran said, “Brett flew over my shoulder, grabbed the guy and pinned him against the wall. It was unbelievable, because I really didn’t even know Brett yet.”
“He was willing to mix it up for his teammates,” said Ruettgers. “That showed us something.”
Favre was able to ease doubts about his maturity by showing off an arm that, according to a Sporting News report, “is far better than anyone on the team.” His first Wisconsin-based broken-finger victim was Orlando McKay, the fifth-round pick out of the University of Washington. “I was 6 yards away,” said McKay of the minicamp route, “and he just lit me up with the ball. Pop!”
Unlike Majkowski, Favre (who was making $310,000) was easily embraceable. Although he knew nobody in the locker room, he quickly established himself as the team prankster—shaving cream in shoes, talcum powder in jocks. “You’d just look at his face and laugh,” said Paul McJulien, the Green Bay punter. “It was like a little kid hiding something.” Favre formed a particularly tight bond with Esera Tuaolo, a second-year defensive tackle who was born and raised in Hawaii, then played collegiately at Oregon State. When Favre and Tuaolo weren’t on the minicamp field or in the locker room, they were exploring Wisconsin bars and their myriad beer offerings. “We connected well because we’re both from small towns,” Tuaolo said. “It was one of those things where we met and just clicked.”
A couple of weeks before the start of training camp, Favre invited Tuaolo down to Mississippi for some relaxation on Irvin Farve Road. It was, for the six-foot-two, 281-pound Polynesian, among the greatest (and strangest) experiences of his life. “I was introduced to a crawfish boil,” he said. “When I was little in Hawaii, we’d catch crawfish in streams, but I never thought I’d eat them. Well, I go down and Brett’s family is boiling giant pots of crawfish, throwing them onto the middle of the table, everyone’s eating this weird food.” Tuaolo was astonished by the love and warmth of Favre’s family members and friends. Life was a never-ending party, and free time existed to get drunk.
On the night of June 23, 1992, Favre and Deanna, his younger brother Jeff, Tuaolo, and two pickup trucks filled with friends traveled the 1 hour, 15 minutes to Hattiesburg for an evening of wildness at Ropers nightclub, a popular hangout for Southern Miss students. As soon as they entered, Tuaolo knew there might be trouble. “We walk in, and there’s a bunch of . . . um, country folk,” said Tuaolo. “We’re drinking, having a good time, minding our own business.” According to police reports, Brett and Deanna started screaming at each other, and a patron attempted to intervene.
This is what, according to a Favre representative, happened next:
When Favre told the man to get lost, the man charged him and the two began wrestling. While Favre tried to throw the man off him, another man snuck up on him and punched him three times in the nose, eye, and ear. The fight was broken up without Favre throwing a single punch. The police arrived a short time later and Favre tried to have them arrest the man who punched him. The police told him they did not have any evidence to arrest anybody and ordered him to leave immediately or face arrest. Favre argued but then left with Tuaolo and drove around for 20 minutes before returning to pick up Favre’s girlfriend. When they pulled into the parking lot, Favre saw his girlfriend and began yelling for her. The police saw him, ran to the car, pulled him out, and put him in handcuffs. Favre said he argued briefly with the police, especially when they told him they were arresting him for public drunkenness.
That take, said Tuaolo, is only partially true. After someone sucker punched Favre, Tuaolo said he jumped in and slammed the man to the ground. “Brett gets up, we both start hitting him,” Tuaolo said. “We finally got up to run but by the time we reached the door the cops were there.” Favre’s face was covered in blood and both eyes were black-and-blue. After initially being released with a warning, Favre and Co. returned to the Ropers parking lot looking for more action. That’s when they were arrested and sent to the local jail. Favre was charged with public drunkenness, disorderly conduct, and profanity. Tuaolo was charged with disorderly conduct. Jeff was cited for interfering with a police officer, and Deanna was charged with profanity and interfering with an officer. En route to the holding facility, Favre—intoxicated, bloodied, furious—barked at the officer driving the car, “Why don’t you just pull over and drop your gun? We’ll take these cuffs off, step out of the car, and I’ll whup your ass.”
The policeman paid him no mind as he made the drop-off. Tuaolo was mortified, and wondered whether he’d still have an NFL job come morning. “They put us in a cell with a bunch of African American guys,” Tuaolo recalled. “I remember walking in there, he’s drunk, I’m drunk, and he’s yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘This is my boy from Hawaii!’ I was like, ‘Shut up, Brett. Just shut up.’” After a few hours Tuaolo was released from his cell and was greeted by a surprisingly warm law enforcement official. “Don’t worry about this, kid,” the man said. “When he was in college this was Brett’s second home.”
Tuaolo thinks he was kidding. Maybe. Four hours later they were bailed out by Bus Cook, Brett’s agent. The mayhem was all over the next day’s national news circuit, and generated front-page placement in Wisconsin.
For Favre, the worst moment came when he spoke via phone with Holmgren, who was vacationing with his family in California. “We just can’t have this,” the coach said. “You can’t play for me and do all the things you did all your life.” Holmgren was well versed in Favre’s résumé as a hell raiser, and he didn’t like it. What was he supposed to do with a 22-year-old kid who seemed determined to drink himself out of football?
He had no idea.
Much like major-league baseball’s annual spring awakening, the opening of NFL training camp serves as a renewal of optimism and hope. Whether a team went 0-16 the previous season, or lost its best running back to free agency, or suffered the death of a head coach, there’s always reason to believe, once the grass is watered and the whistles blow.
This seemed especially true in Green Bay, where on July 14 the Packers kicked off camp at the team training facilities. After a solid 25 years of mostly subpar football, there was a new sense of optimism in the air, only it had nothing to do with the drunkard second-year quarterback. No, this was all about Holmgren, who arrived with a bold walk, bold talk, and stated expectations of excellence. The Green Bay Packers weren’t here to win eight or nine games. They were here to win Super Bowls.
“It was different,” said Sharpe. “I knew Mike would be great beginning with our first meeting in camp. He told me, ‘We don’t have a lot of pieces, so we can only be as great as you take us. But I think you’re gonna like this offense, because we’ll stay out of long yardage, keep our offense on the field, and allow us to move the ball.’ He just had a confidence that made you believe.”
Holmgren was 44 and shared little in common with those he coached. Professional sports tend to draw athletes who have a singular focus. One doesn’t merely play football, one lives football. Holmgren, however, was a Renaissance man among Neanderthals. He grew up in San Francisco’s West Portal neighborhood, one of the six kids of Linc Holmgren (a real estate executive who helped found Century 21) and his wife, Barbara (a nurse). At Lincoln High School, Mike Holmgren played center in basketball, quarterback in football, and served as the student body president. At six feet five and 220 pounds, he was a sturdy kid who agreed to attend the University of Southern California on a football scholarship, then spent four years as a backup to Steve Sogge and Jimmy Jones. He completed eight collegiate passes.
In 1971 Holmgren served as a substitute history teacher and part-time football
coach at Lincoln High. The following year he became a full-time football coach at San Francisco’s Sacred Heart Cathedral Prep. A decade after beginning his career, he was named the offensive coordinator at San Francisco State, and a year later joined LaVell Edwards as the quarterbacks coach at Brigham Young University. It was here, in Provo, Utah, where Holmgren morphed from offensive thinker to budding offensive mastermind. The Cougars were known for throwing and throwing and throwing some more, and Holmgren specialized in developing routes and formations that had opposing defenses pleading for mercy. Bill Walsh, the 49ers’ head coach, referred to BYU’s attack as, “the most sophisticated passing offense in college football,” and when he needed a quarterbacks coach heading into the 1986 season, he knew where to turn. “He had a better feel for football than anyone I knew,” Walsh raved of Holmgren. “He was obviously the man.”
If BYU was a master class in offensive football, Walsh and the 49ers comprised an Einsteinian think tank. In six years by the Bay, Holmgren absorbed an eternity of knowledge about football and leadership. Perhaps the number one thing that prepared him for the Green Bay job was Walsh’s oft-stated organizational philosophy. Writes David Harris in his excellent Walsh biography, The Genius: “The premise was that all the components of the Forty Niners’ structure had to be a single unitary construction, all pointed toward the same direction, all generating the same energy, independent in the goal of creating a great football team, from the janitors on up. Everything it did would be funneled toward advancing the Niners to the Super Bowl, the team a seamless extension of the organization that supported it.”
Holmgren carried this idea to Green Bay, and Wolf seconded it. But it required commitment and adherence, two things they worried Favre might lack. That’s why, of the five passers who attended training camp, Favre was one of the least likely to emerge as the starter for the September 6 opener against Minnesota. Officially, Majkowski was listed as No. 1, followed by Favre, backup Mike Tomczak (who was holding out in a contract dispute, but expected to report), Ty Detmer, the Heisman Trophy winner from Brigham Young, and Jeff Bridewell, a free agent from Cal–Davis.
“There are always a lot of quarterbacks in training camp, and it’s easy for guys to get lost in the shuffle,” said Greg Bell, a veteran halfback who was trying to make the Packers as a free agent. “I watched Brett from a distance at first, and there was something special about him. I played with Jim Kelly in Buffalo. I’d worked out with Dan Marino. But when Brett threw the ball—whew. Different.”
When he entered the league with Atlanta, Favre struggled to grasp the complexities of NFL offenses, both because he was intoxicated 50 percent of the time and because June Jones’s red-gun system was dizzying for the young mind. In Green Bay, Holmgren installed the West Coast offense, which involved quick drops and quick reads, and it fit Favre well. “It was quicker for Brett than you might think,” said Kitrick Taylor, a fifth-year wide receiver. “He was a coach’s son. Smart. I remember, very early in training camp, Sterling Sharpe warning me to be ready when Brett was throwing, to snap my head around quick. So I ran my first route with him, and I didn’t get my hands up quickly enough and he jammed my left pinky. Ever since that moment, I’ve had a crooked pinky top. He threw the ball so hard, with such power . . .”
Majkowski treated Favre as a veteran might treat a new threat. Hello. Goodbye. Nice throw. See you later. Nothing intimate, nothing overly jerky. “You could see he had a tremendous arm,” Majkowski said years later. “But . . . he was immature and very green.” Unlike Atlanta, where the inmates ran the asylum, Holmgren insisted there would be no hazing and no deliberate hostilities. He also made clear that Majkowski was the No. 1 quarterback and would receive the majority of the reps in practice. Which allowed teammates to see his limitations. “I was shocked at Don’s lack of arm strength,” said George Koonce, a Green Bay linebacker. “There was no comparison between him and Brett. None.”
“Don had taken a lot of shots, had been beaten up pretty good,” said Darrell Thompson, a Packers halfback. “Now along comes Brett and he’s throwing the ball hard. Like balls shooting from a JUGS machine. He wasn’t satisfied being there; he wanted to play.” During one practice, Thompson was standing near Favre when he completed a pass that wound up breaking the receiver’s finger. He was shocked—yet oddly pleased—when Favre snickered and said, “Add it to the collection.”
Majkowski felt stale. Favre felt like a birthday party. Mariucci, the quarterbacks coach, and Andy Reid, the tight end coach, encouraged the receivers to use the young quarterback as a hand-strength test. “They’d start off standing far away, and they’d walk closer and closer as Brett threw rockets at them,” said Andrew Oberg, an offensive tackle and 10th-round draft choice from North Carolina. “The goal was to not get hit, and it was insane to watch.” The other thing Favre did was throw underhand behind-the-back spirals with perfect placement. “I’ve never seen anyone do that,” Oberg said. “Before or since.”
The Packers kicked off their exhibition schedule by hosting the Chiefs at Lambeau Field. In the local newspapers, the game was billed as the genius head coach’s debut and the veteran quarterback’s return to possible stardom, and both narratives took early beatings. On Green Bay’s very first offensive play, Majkowski was intercepted by Albert Lewis. His next two series were also failures. Favre was inserted to begin the second half, and the anticipation inside Lambeau was nonexistent. He was an unknown quantity with an unknown skill set. But after methodically guiding the Packers down the field in the fourth quarter, he hit Dexter McNabb, the rookie fullback, for a 9-yard completion, followed with an 8-yard scramble up the middle, then found free agent tight end Jerry Evans for a 5-yard score and his first touchdown pass as a Packer. “He was loose, carefree, relaxed,” said McNabb. “Even then, as a kid starting out, he had a way of guiding a team.”
Green Bay’s 1992 season would officially open at home against the Minnesota Vikings, and while everyone agreed Brett Favre was the most talented quarterback in camp, Holmgren did not consider him ready. His passer rating for the exhibition run was 45.96. His one touchdown pass was coupled with six interceptions. So when Majkowski jogged onto the field for the noon start, he received a standing ovation from the sellout crowd of 58,617.
The Vikings were the far-superior team, but Majkowski played fairly well, completing 13 straight passes in Minnesota’s 23–20 win. One week later Green Bay went to Florida to face the lowly Tampa Bay Buccaneers, and the second game of Holmgren’s Packers career was also the worst. Losing 31–3 was bad. But losing 31–3 to Tampa Bay (with a flu-stricken Vinny Testaverde at quarterback) was unforgivable. “After the Bucs dominated them,” Chris Havel wrote in the Green Bay Press-Gazette, “the Packers somehow resisted any temptation to wrestle the gun away from the referee and put it to their heads.”
From a mere statistical viewpoint, Majkowski was OK. He completed 10 of 15 passes for 75 yards. But he couldn’t orchestrate any drives, and after Tampa Bay jumped out to a 17–0 halftime lead, Holmgren and Mariucci conferred in the locker room about giving Favre some action in the second half. What was the risk?
That’s why, with the opening of the second half, Favre jogged onto the field to make his Green Bay Packers debut. The name meant nothing to the majority of Tampa’s players. Keith McCants, the star defensive end, however, shuddered slightly. He had played against Southern Miss as an All-American at Alabama. “I immediately told the guys, ‘Hey, Brett Favre is a hell of a lot better than Don Majkowski,’” he said. “The game plan was normally to get the starter out. But I did not want to see Brett Favre again. Not after what he did to my college team.”
On the first official play of his Packers career, Favre stepped to the line on Green Bay’s 17. Matt Millen, calling the game for CBS, sounded baffled. “Maybe Majkowski got dinged or something,” he said, “or maybe they just want another look.” Favre took the snap, faked a handoff to halfback Edgar Bennett, and rolled to his right. He was approached by Ray Seals, the six-foot-
three, 296-pound defensive end, and drew back his arm to throw to fullback Harry Sydney. As Favre released the ball, Seals leapt and batted it high into the air. Favre looked up, plucked it, and ran 2 yards up the field before Seals and linebacker Broderick Thomas brought him down. “This is what’s gonna make Brett Favre a good player,” Millen said. “See, he never stopped. Very competitive. He doesn’t wanna go down. He’s gonna make something happen. The book on Brett Favre—he has a rocket for an arm. He’s gotta learn some touch.”
Lost in Millen’s praise was the fact that Brett Favre’s first NFL completion went minus-7 yards, and to himself.
He didn’t play poorly the rest of the day, completing 8 of 14 passes for 73 yards and an interception. Afterward, Majkowski was livid, and went off in front of the assembled media. “[Holmgren] said he wanted to experiment,” he said. “I’m obviously not happy about it. I didn’t think he was the kind of coach that would have an early hook. I’ve come back from more than 17 points down in the second half. The decision that he made, it didn’t make a difference. I’m angry.”
12
A Packer Emerges
* * *
WHEN THE CINCINNATI BENGALS used the 276th pick in the 1983 NFL draft on a slow, undersized University of Wisconsin defensive lineman, they presumed—best-case scenario—he would stick around a year or two before fading in favor of stronger, faster players.
It’s the way the league generally works. Less talented guys might plug a hole for a spell, but ultimately talent and prestige win out.
Gunslinger Page 20
