Gunslinger

by Jeff Pearlman

  In Atlanta, Georgia governor Zell Miller presented White with a black No. 92 Falcons jersey, then asked him to address the state legislature. In Philadelphia, a crowd of 2,000 held a downtown rally, imploring White to stay. In Detroit, Lions coach Wayne Fontes escorted White to a Pistons game. The Jets treated White to a fancy French restaurant and a Broadway show.

  The Green Bay Packers took Reggie White to Red Lobster.

  It’s true. Holmgren and Wolf were the escorts. White—who had to be convinced by his agent to even make the trip—was picked up at nearby Austin Straubel International Airport in a normal car, by normal human beings. No flowers. No jacket. No call from Bart Starr. At his core, White was a simple man from Chattanooga, Tennessee; one who grew up attending a Baptist church with his parents and gave his first sermon at 17; one who believed in Jesus Christ with his entire heart and spoke up for the poor and suffering. White’s first impression of the Packers came as a six-year-old Cowboys fan, watching Dallas and Green Bay play in the classic 1967 NFL Championship Game at Lambeau. It was 16-below, and White felt his hands numb from sitting too close to the screen. “I used to tell my mom I’m going to be a pro football player,” White said, “but not in Green Bay.” Times changed. White’s needs were relatively straightforward. Did he want a big contract that would take care of his family for generations to come? Yes. Did he desire the coat and the flowers and the penthouse? No. During their meal together, Wolf and Holmgren talked football to a football player. They explained the potential greatness of a franchise on the brink. Afterward, they gave White a tour of Lambeau. “You can go any place you want and be a great player,” Wolf said. “You’re already a great player. But look at the names of the legends who played here. You can come here and be a legend.”

  The words resonated. People didn’t move to Green Bay for the amazing skiing, or the beachfront views. They moved to be a part of the Packers. The citizens owned the team. They were the team. “I wasn’t with him, but he called me from Green Bay and said, ‘This is it,’” said Sara White. “I’m from Cleveland and was sort of hoping for the Browns. I’d never even heard of the Packers. They weren’t in our division, I’d never been to Wisconsin, I did not like the cold. But Green Bay was his gut feeling. I trusted that.”

  There was one other factor: White couldn’t shake Brett Favre from his mind. The cockiness. The spunk. The toughness. (“Tougher than nine miles of detour,” Jets scout Joe Collins once said.) Most quarterbacks took punishment and wilted. Not Favre. He bounced back up, patted opponents on the rear ends, whispered, “Nice hit” and “Bring it harder, big boy.” White had separated Favre’s shoulder, and the quarterback returned to the field as if nothing had happened. Later on, White praised Favre as the fiercest quarterback he had ever seen. Randall Cunningham, the Eagles’ starter, was butter. Favre was steel.

  On April 7, 1993, the New York Times sports section featured the banner headline PACKERS LAND WHITE WITH $17 MILLION DEAL. The four-year contract was shocking. For years, Green Bay was the last place an African American would choose to play. Much was made of Holmgren leaving a voice message for White (“Reggie, this is God. Go to Green Bay”), but the deciding factors were money, happiness, a chance to win, and a quarterback to build around. “This,” White said, “is what I was looking for.”

  The NFL’s newest odd couple were officially a pair. Favre couldn’t believe the news. He welcomed White to Green Bay with an excited call, but was well aware there would be no pub crawls. Reggie was an ordained minister and a married father of two, and the Whites hosted Bible study in Philadelphia, as they would do in Green Bay. Brett Favre was more than welcome to attend.

  The Packers opened training camp on July 18, and the hype was palpable. Unlike most other teams, where camp is camp, in Wisconsin the start of another Packers season is akin to a religious revival. Tradition doesn’t begin with the opening weekend. No, it starts in training camp and, specifically, with a swarm of children lining up their bicycles at Lambeau Field and hoping players will choose theirs to pedal across the street to the practice facility. For jaded veterans, the ritual can become stale and burdensome. But for youngsters (and the young at heart), it’s magical. “It’s just so neat,” said Brian McDonald, a free agent wide receiver in camp in 1993. “They didn’t care who you were, as long as you had a uniform on. It was their way of getting close and personal.” Had White signed with, say, Detroit, a couple of hundred die-hard fans might attend workouts. Green Bay was a sea of spectators, day after day. “The crowd would be up against the fence,” said McDonald. “They would cheer you for good plays, even when the plays were meaningless.”

  With Majkowski now fighting to latch on with the Indianapolis Colts, Favre was king of the Packers. One year earlier, he shuffled anonymously from place to place. Now there were autograph appearances, corporate billboards, screaming fans. It’s been said that Green Bay loves its football players but worships its quarterbacks. Brett Favre was worshipped.

  He also stunk.

  It was the nonstory story of training camp; a not-so-secret secret that concealed itself with the ubiquitous Favre catchphrase “unorthodox.” Favre was unorthodox, so when his throws sailed high, or he missed targets, or he ran when he should have passed, hey, he was unorthodox. Yet Favre was a mess—drinking too much, staying out too late, behaving like a frat brother. His two backups, Ty Detmer, the second-year kid from BYU, and a left-handed rookie from the University of Washington named Mark Brunell, were woefully inexperienced. It was Favre’s offense, sink or swim.

  The 1993 season was supposed to be the year Favre established himself as a legitimate NFL star. The various season previews were clear in that regard. There was Dallas’s Troy Aikman, there was San Francisco’s Steve Young, there was Denver’s John Elway, and there would be, inevitably, Brett Favre and the rising Packers. “After years of icy disappointments,” raved the Dallas Morning News, “Green Bay is rekindling the old Title-Town fire.” The Packers opened the season in Milwaukee with a 36–6 thrashing of the Rams, and Favre was artful, completing 19 of 29 passes for 264 yards, with two touchdowns and an interception.

  The three weeks that followed, however, were the lowest of his young career. The Packers welcomed the Eagles to Green Bay and lost 20–17—a crushing blow to White, who desperately wanted to beat his old team. They then visited the Vikings and fell, 15–13, and lost to the Cowboys, 36–14. The defense was terrific, the running game solid. But Favre threw for less than 200 yards in each game and paired two touchdowns with four interceptions. At one point, during the Dallas matchup, Sharpe jogged back to the huddle and berated his quarterback for repeated awful plays. The two jawed back and forth, but the wide receiver’s message was righteous: get your game going. “They got along in the same way you get along with your mother-in-law,” said LeRoy Butler, the Packers safety. “You’re polite, but she annoys the hell out of you.”

  When times were good, Sharpe and Favre were fine. Times, though, weren’t good. Sharpe didn’t like the way Favre seemed to approach the game—casually, like a day in the sand. He didn’t moan over losses with the same emotive intensity he partied with wins. Everything seemed to be a gag to Favre; fun and shots of Jägermeister. He, Winters, and tight end Mark Chmura referred to themselves as the Three Amigos, which meant lots of beers, silly jokes, and childish pranks. Favre, who Winters and Chmura called Kid, liked to pull down pants and yank penises and pinch butts—none of which Sharpe would ever consider funny. As African American teammates were lifting weights, Favre snuck into the workout room, removed whatever hip-hop CD was playing, and slipped in some Garth Brooks or Travis Tritt. Once, on a bus ride, players were cracking on each other’s hometowns. “You’re from Kiln, huh?” said Gilbert Brown, a rookie defensive lineman. “Like the K is for Killing and the N is for niggers?”

  Favre looked over the African American Brown’s six-foot-two, 340-pound frame. “It’s OK, Gilbert,” he said. “They don’t have a strong enough tree branch to hang you from, anyhow. Plus,
you don’t have a neck.”

  Green Bay seemed lost entering its next game against 3-1 Denver. “A win over the Broncos would change things quickly,” wrote Jeff Schultz of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, “but that would require some signs of life from quarterback Brett Favre.” The Denver matchup seemed to be a contrast of what made NFL teams good versus what made them struggle. The Broncos were led by John Elway, the cool, studious veteran. Favre, on the other hand, merely seemed to be winging it. “He was a bit shaky,” said Gil Haskell, the team’s running backs coach. “It’s hard for players to change overnight, and he had a lot of learning to do.”

  On a warm Green Bay afternoon, he appeared to learn. Before the game, White held a players-only meeting, imploring his teammates to dig deep and make plays. Sharpe, never one to hold his thoughts, was livid. “You’ve got to make plays!” he screamed. “I’ve got to make plays! We’re the highest-paid guys on this football team. How many sacks do you have in the first four games?” White, owner of one and a half sacks, did not enjoy being challenged. The stars had to be separated—and the coaches loved it. Finally, some fire and spunk.

  In a 30–27 Green Bay triumph, Favre’s brilliance owned much of the day. His 66-yard touchdown pass to Jackie Harris was a throw only three or four other quarterbacks could make. He scrambled for 17 yards like a stallion galloping through a field of firecrackers, then for another 39 yards—head up, arms chugging (regrettably, the scamper was called back after a penalty). Yes, he tossed three second-half interceptions—two of which were boneheaded enough for Holmgren to pull him aside for a round of expletives. But the spectacular overshadowed the maddening. “Every once in a while he plays young,” Holmgren said afterward. “It was one of those games you just hold on to.”

  The upcoming weeks were Favre at his best, Favre at his worst. Green Bay won five of its next six games, and on occasion the quarterback play was extraordinary. Favre’s four touchdown passes to Sharpe resulted in a 37–14 win over the Buccaneers. But a week later he needed White and the defense to make up for his utter awfulness (15 of 24, 136 yards) as the Packers beat the hapless Bears, 17–3. He alternated between mastering the West Coast offense and butchering it. “Think about it,” Favre later said. “I got thrown into the toughest offense in the game as a starter at 22. Every other guy who’s played it sat for a year or two and learned. Joe Montana sat behind Steve DeBerg. Steve Young sat behind Joe. Steve Bono sat behind both of them. Ty Detmer and Mark Brunell sat behind me. That’s why it’s frustrating when people would get on me.” Holmgren referred to him as a “knucklehead,” and nobody stepped in to debate the point. “I want to hug him more than strangle him,” the coach said. “But it’s close.” Sometimes Holmgren would gaze toward Favre and embrace the future. Other times, wrote Lori Nickel of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, “he looked as if he was going to burst. The crimson would begin in his cheeks, then spread to his neck, his ears, his forehead. The headset didn’t always pinch his temples tightly enough to remain there.”

  White emerged as the locker room leader, but only in a way. There was something of a divide. Pious, serious men hung on the defensive star’s every word, action, and prayer. “Reggie was all about respect,” said Paul Hutchins, an offensive tackle. “When he spoke, you had to listen.” Younger guys hovered toward Favre’s goofiness, casualness, eagerness to seize the day. They laughed at his jokes, either because they found them funny or because he was the quarterback and they were required to find them funny. Favre could pick up baseballs with his toes and burp out long strings of words. He uttered oddball Mississippi sayings (“I was so excited I wanted to swap some spit with the guys!”) and spoke at 563 words per minute. “Being with Favre was like hanging out with an overdeveloped seventh-grader,” Ken Fuson once wrote in the Des Moines Register. “He loved pranks and practical jokes, liked dumping a bucket of cold water on a teammate when he was in a bathroom stall. His eyes glowed as he described parties that had gotten out of hand. He couldn’t have been prouder of his locker-room reputation for being able to expel gas on command.” Indeed, ever since having 30 inches of his small intestine removed as a college senior, Favre farted with the power of a bundle of dynamite and the frequency of a termite.* His fermented anal gas became the stuff of legend/tragedy in the Green Bay locker room—Favre smiling widely or announcing, “Hey, take a listen,” or pulling down his pants to expose his bare buttocks before discharging the merging of hydrogen, carbon dioxide, and methane (combined with hydrogen sulfide and ammonia) into a 12-by-15-foot meeting area. In the NFL, farting has long been considered a source of levity in a pressure-packed profession, but with a single caveat: third-string running backs and reserve linemen and rookie kickers hold it in. Stars let loose.

  Favre had yet to establish himself as a star, but inside the facility he was marquee and important. This was proven in a November 28 matchup with Tampa Bay at Lambeau. The Bucs were 3-7 and predictably bad; the Packers 6-4, fighting for a playoff spot, favored by 12½ points and destined for a letdown. Holmgren could feel it beforehand; an expectation among his players that the Buccaneers would die in the frigid cold. His instinct was correct. With seven minutes remaining, Tampa Bay scored on a 9-yard touchdown pass from Craig Erickson to Courtney Hawkins, and led 10–6. Despite the 23-degree temperature and a stiffening wind, the stadium was filled, and all fell into silence as the Bucs celebrated. Once again, Favre had spent the afternoon looking ordinary and erratic when, with 7:25 remaining, he took over on the Green Bay 25-yard line and orchestrated the drive of the year. He used 6 minutes, 19 seconds, completed 8 of 12 passes for 69 yards, and calmly marched the Packers through the Buccaneer defense. On second down and goal, he tried scrambling for the touchdown when defensive end Shawn Price and safety Barney Bussey teamed to nail him so hard that his feet rose above his head, sending him spiraling to the ground. “I thought I could run it in,” Favre said, “but I never saw the guy who hit me. Next thing I knew, I was doing a 360 in midair.” He limped off the field with a bruised thigh, but after spotting Detmer warming up on the sideline, he rubbed his leg with his right hand and said to Holmgren, “Let me finish.”

  Seconds later, after stumbling back onto the field, Favre hit Sharpe with a game-winning 2-yard touchdown pass, and Green Bay escaped, 13–10. “It’s like Jerry West, Larry Bird, Michael Jordan—the last two seconds of the game, who are you going to give the ball to,” Favre said afterward. “That’s what puts those guys on the top of the mountain.”

  The win improved the Packers to 7-4 and gave them a share of the NFC Central lead with Detroit. The rest of the regular season was typical Favre—hot and cold, hot and cold—but on December 26 the Packers destroyed the Raiders 28–0 to clinch their first playoff berth in 11 years. The win was another step forward for Green Bay’s quarterback, who survived a temperature of minus 3 and windchill of minus 22 to play well enough (14 of 28, 190 yards, one touchdown). “The field was like concrete,” Favre said. “It was so cold that I put Vaseline in places I never thought of before.” Favre took specific pleasure in destroying the Raiders, one of two teams that selected a first-round quarterback in the 1991 draft. Todd Marinovich, the USC lefthander picked 24th, had been released in training camp after failing his third drug test.

  Brett Favre and the Packers, meanwhile, were 9-6 and playoff-bound.

  On January 8, 1994, Green Bay traveled to Detroit for a wild card battle with the Lions, who beat the Packers in the season’s concluding week to clinch the division. (Typical of his up-and-down ways, Favre played abysmally in the finale, hoisting four interceptions in a 30–20 loss.) The Lions were, at 10-6, the slightly better team. They featured halfback Barry Sanders and a fleet cast of wide receivers. But three weeks earlier the San Francisco 49ers hung 55 points on coach Wayne Fontes’s defense, and Holmgren ran a nearly identical attack. The plan going in was quite simple—mercilessly attack Detroit’s flawed secondary until it caved, and force Erik Kramer, the Lions’ solid quarterback, to beat them.

  It
didn’t work.

  Before 68,479 fans in the Pontiac Silverdome, Detroit held a 24–21 fourth-quarter lead when the Packers got the ball on their own 29 with but 2:26 remaining. With a patience and calm he often lacked, Favre purposefully led the Packers—a screen to fullback Edgar Bennett for a 12-yard gain; the two-minute warning; a bullet to Ed West for 9; a Bennett 3-yard run up the middle; a time-out called by Holmgren. As Favre walked to the sideline, Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle” blared from the speakers, and his head coach reminded him to stay in control. On the next play, first and 10 from the Lions 46, Favre spotted Sharpe crossing the middle, leaned back, and hit him for a 6-yard gain. Dick Vermeil, calling the game for ABC, couldn’t contain his praise. “Great poise under pressure,” he said. “Doesn’t allow the negative play to affect him. He might come back and make a bad one. He might come back and make three good ones.” The goal, Vermeil and Brent Musburger agreed, was to get in field goal position. Touchdown? Not even discussed. “It’s funny,” Sharpe said. “We only needed the field goal to tie, which was key. But I don’t think Brett understood or realized the situation.” With 1:05 left, the ball sat on the Detroit 40. It was second down and 4. Sharpe, who had taken two shots before the game to numb the pain from torn ligaments in his right big toe, was motioning for Robert Brooks to take his place in the game. “Robert’s standing to Mike Holmgren’s left, and I’m shouting,” Sharpe said. “But he didn’t hear me.” Mark Clayton lined up in the left slot, Sharpe wide right. West was at tight end, Bennett and Darrell Thompson side by side in the backfield. Favre stepped behind center and screamed, “Red left 25! Red left 25!”—code for a double square out. The crowd noise was deafening. The Lions—participants in zero Super Bowls—had won one playoff game since 1957. This was their chance. Favre took the snap and dropped five steps. “If you draw it up on a chalkboard,” said Sharpe, “Brett plants his foot, throws a square out left to Mark Clayton for 13 or 14 yards, he steps out of bounds and stops the clock.” From the right, defensive end Robert Porcher shredded through the line and headed straight for the quarterback. Favre ran eight choppy steps to the left and readied himself to throw a screen to Thompson, who was loitering nearby. Then, in a half-second’s span, he corkscrewed his body to face the opposite corner of the end zone and, without fully stopping, hopped and cocked back his arm . . .