Professional athletes tend to be walled off from the real world, and Favre was no exception. His life was all about Sunday football games and parties. Now he was meeting crack addicts, sex addicts, heroin addicts. Their stories moved him, and aroused emotions that had been dulled by fame and glory. Back when he was playing football in high school and college, Brett regularly visited his mother’s special education classes and talked with the kids. They were reminders of how fortunate he was, and how much he had. Now, hearing things like, “I saw my mom blow her boyfriend’s head off with a shotgun,” he was forced to reevaluate his life.
From time to time, Favre received visitors. He was allowed to play golf with Frank Winters, who spent offseasons in nearby Kansas City. His parents came. So, on multiple occasions, did Deanna. Every time she arrived, Brett proposed. Every time Brett proposed, Deanna brushed the words aside. “We’ve got a lot of wrinkles to iron out,” she’d say. When they spoke via phone, it was more of the same. “Let’s get married this summer before the season,” he pleaded. Deanna was skeptical, and rightly so. Her man was a habitual cheater. Would he truly commit and settle down?
On June 28, a private plane flew to Topeka to retrieve Brett and return him to Mississippi. Deanna removed all the alcohol from their home, and pledged to stop drinking as a measure of solidarity. Everything about Brett seemed to be changed. He was leaner and more muscular; spoke positively of the lessons he learned; seemed upbeat about their relationship. This, at long last, was the Brett Favre Deanna fell in love with. He was back.
When the plane touched down at Stennis International Airport in Kiln, Mississippi, Favre was greeted by five friends, who welcomed him with hugs and handshakes. “Then they all went out drinking,” said a person there for the landing. “Deanna was close to tears.”
In other words, on the day he returned home from rehab, Favre partied. A few weeks later, in his first session with the media, Favre publicly committed himself to giving up alcohol, which he was required to do for two years under the bylaws of the NFL’s substance-abuse policy. “I realize that while I am in this program I must abstain from alcohol,” he said. “When I was growing up I thought an alcoholic was just a bum on the street. I thought someone who was addicted to drugs was just some bum who was a loser. It’s totally the opposite.
“We’ve had a lot of fun in the past and probably will again,” Favre said, alluding to Winters and Mark Chmura. “But as they said, Coke and pizza after the game. And that’ll be fine with me.”
Favre was either hopelessly optimistic, delusional, or lying, because he was already back to drinking. Deanna was torn. A devout Catholic who was raised in the church, she believed the power of prayer could touch someone’s heart and change his soul. But was Brett capable of change? He again asked for her hand in marriage, and she again paused. “For the first time in a long time, I began to see his willingness to make our relationship work,” Deanna recalled (somewhat delusionally). “I began to see a change in him. Instead of just going out the door to do whatever he wanted to do, he’d discuss it with me or ask if I thought it was a good idea. I began to feel like a partner instead of his caretaker. I began to feel loved again.”
On July 4, 1996, Jim Biever, the Packers’ team photographer, received a call from one of the team’s public relations officials, asking if he’d ever worked a wedding. “Oh, I’ve shot a lot,” he said, failing to mention the last one was decades ago.
“Great,” the man replied. “Brett wants you to shoot his.”
Ten days later, Biever and 11 other people gathered at St. Agnes Parish Catholic Church in Green Bay for the tiny wedding of Brett Favre and Deanna Tynes. Kent Johnson, the team’s strength coach, was the best man. His wife, Pam, was the matron on honor. Brett wore a gray suit, black shoes, and a floral corsage attached to his lapel. Deanna looked lovely in a short-cut white dress, white stockings, and white high heels. Brittany, giddiness personified, served as the flower girl. En route to the church, the 7-year-old looked at her mother and squealed, “This makes me so happy!”
The ceremony was followed by a small reception. The newlyweds honeymooned that night in the village of Kohler, Wisconsin, a charming town along the Sheboygan River (Favre had to report to training camp a day later, hence the one-night getaway).
For the first time in years, everything felt right for Brett and Deanna Favre.
Training camp began on a Tuesday.
Brett Favre addressed the media that morning at Lambeau Field in what he said would be his only time discussing rehab. He was newly married, newly fit, and excited about a team that, many believed, was finally Super Bowl ready. So the last thing he wanted to dwell on was substance abuse.
Four days later, though, he had no choice. It was 1:45 a.m. in Pass Christian, Mississippi, when Scott Favre, Brett’s older brother and hero, was driving his Mitsubishi van with Mark Haverty, a 26-year-old family friend, positioned in the passenger seat. The two were returning from a night out at a local bar. They had known each other for years. Mark roomed for a short time with Brett at Southern Miss, and then moved to Green Bay for a brief spell when the Favre-Packers union began. Brett and Mark shared passions for hunting, sports. “He was a bartender for me, did some cooking,” said Kevin Burkel, the Green Bay bar owner. “Just a great guy, and very close with Brett.”
Scott steered the van north on Third Avenue, toward Toca’s Food Store. He passed three RAILROAD CROSSING signs, but any oncoming train lights were obscured by the tall, thick trees. “On summer nights,” wrote Barry Meisel of the New York Daily News, “when the windows are rolled up for the air conditioner and the stereo is cranked loud, the intersection is deadly.” Scott began to roll across the tracks when a 49-car CSX freight train slammed into the passenger side of the van, iron crumpling aluminum. Scott, 29, suffered only minor bruises and cuts. The force of the impact was so great that Haverty, wearing a seat belt, was thrown from the vehicle. He died immediately from internal injuries.
Scott’s blood alcohol level was 0.23, more than twice the legal limit. Said Bobby Payne, the county prosecutor: “We’re alleging that due to his negligence, he caused the death of another human being.”
The phone inside Irv and Bonita’s house rang around 3:00 a.m. There was an accident. No details, except that it involved a train and Scott. “We get to Memorial Hospital, and of course the reporters are there,” said Bonita. “There’s nothing private in your life.” The news was like a brick to the skull. Scott was arrested and charged with DUI felony negligence. He faced a maximum 25 years in prison, and after being discharged from the hospital was taken three hours away to the Greene County Jail in Leakesville, then later transferred to the Harrison County Jail. According to Bonita, guards would “slap Scott upside the head and say, ‘When you see your brother tell him how stupid you are.’” Bonita called Bus Cook, Brett’s agent, for help, but according to her, he was largely useless. “Hey, how are you?” Cook would ask when she called, to which Bonita would respond, “How the fuck do you think I am?”
When Brett learned of the tragedy, he froze. His close friend was dead? His brother might spend the next 25 years in jail? Two days later he and Deanna flew in for the funeral. “We were all distraught,” said Scott. “You’re numb and lost. My friend Mark and I, we thought we were bulletproof. When I went to jail, I was just sitting there and I made a deal with myself that I was done drinking. I couldn’t have anyone say I didn’t learn my lesson.”
Scott wound up being sentenced to 15 years in prison, with 14 suspended and the other served under house arrest. Buddy Haverty, Mark’s father, was one of his biggest defenders, blaming the railroad crossing, not Scott. “Any further punishment would be more punishment to me,” he said. “My family’s sentiments are: I would rather it just be dropped. Through no intent of Scott’s did this occur . . . Lord knows, everybody has been punished enough for this.”
When Brett returned to training camp, he turned to the one thing athletes have long used as motivational tools durin
g tough times: devotion. He would devote the season to Mark Haverty and the memory of his friend. It wouldn’t bring anyone back, or even soothe the awful feelings that crept through his brain every day. But he needed a tool to survive. He needed something.
The 1996 Packers were special, in the way great teams that aren’t overtly great often are. Green Bay wasn’t Dallas of the 1990s, loaded with high-priced superstars at every position. What the Packers possessed, more than anything, was immense confidence, as well as a quarterback determined to carry his team to the next level. Favre had a clear-eyed steeliness few had seen before. It was noted by veterans, it was noted by newcomers. “He was always the first one there, the last one to leave,” said safety Eugene Robinson, then entering his 12th NFL season. “When he stepped out to the field, it was business.”
The Packers emerged from training camp as the odds-on favorite to win the NFC Central. They jumped out to an 8-1 start, including a 37–6 pounding of the rival Bears and a 23–20 win over San Francisco, a league power. Favre—using only Advil to ease the pain—was playing masterfully, and it paid off. An ESPN/Chilton Sports Poll showed him to be America’s most beloved football player, and businesses lined up. Favre endorsed Choice Hotels, Sprint, Nike; he signed objects big and small for profit. “I have been at this many, many years,” said David Burns, founder of Burns Entertainment and Sports Marketing, “and I haven’t seen a quarterback move to the top profile-wise and endorsement-wise as fast as [Favre] has.”
In Green Bay, any worries his popularity might diminish after the Vicodin admission vanished. Favre was bigger than ever—a married, clean-living, drug-free hero who perfectly embodied the Midwestern virtues of hard work and accountability. So what if he was neither clean living nor drug free? (Though done with Vicodin, Favre still drank plenty of beer, and his connubial faithfulness to Deanna did not last long.) He worked with his own marketing expert, Joe Sweeney, who proved a huge help to Favre in massaging his image. “Brett spoke his mind, gave you who he was,” said Sweeney. “He was immediately likable, so he wasn’t a hard sell.”
With the team rolling and his wife and daughter by his side, Favre was relaxed and at ease. He stole linebacker Wayne Simmons’s catchphrase for the ’96 season (“Shit be bringin’ it, Hoss”) and repeated it incessantly. “Shit be bringin’ it, Hoss” could apply to a great catch, an amazing throw, a large unflushed poop in the toilet. Favre’s favorite nonfootball pastime was sneaking up on teammates while they were showering and slapping them—bare-assed—as hard as he could with his right palm. The average NFL quarterback’s hand measures 9.6 inches. Favre’s was a ridiculous 10.38 inches. “Always when your face was under water, shampoo was in your hair,” said Don Beebe, a Packers receiver. “He’d leave a red mark on your can that would send you into shock.”
“You might be in the shower and you feel something warm on your leg,” said Ken Ruettgers, the offensive lineman. “It’d be Brett peeing on you.”
Team cohesion was put to the test in late November when the Packers went out on a limb to sign wide receiver Andre Rison off waivers. Not all that long ago, Rison had dismissed his former Atlanta teammate as a hillbilly. The slur, though, was stated when Rison, a five-time Pro Bowler, was one of the NFL’s elite pass catchers. Now, having flamed out with Cleveland and Jacksonville, the 29-year-old was considered a past-his-prime punch line, best known off the field as the fool whose Atlanta mansion was burned down by Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes, the TLC singer and his on-again, off-again girlfriend (who started the blaze by setting fire to his athletic shoe collection in a bathtub). Dumped by the Jaguars and sitting home alone, Rison was desperate. “I needed a job,” he said. “Any job.”
Green Bay’s two best wide receivers, Robert Brooks and Antonio Freeman, were injured, and Ron Wolf asked the coaches if they wanted Rison. “I was the only one to raise my hand,” said Gil Haskell, the wide receivers coach. “And everyone looked at me like, ‘We want that asshole in here?’” As the reigning MVP, Favre’s opinion carried weight. When asked, he didn’t flinch. “ ’Dre can help,” he said. “That’s what matters.”
Rison signed on November 19 for a paltry $81,000 and arrived the next day. The negative perceptions immediately vanished. On the field, everything Rison did was precise and professional. “He taught me shit in two practices that I didn’t learn in 20 years,” said Derrick Mayes, a rookie receiver out of Notre Dame. “Just the nuances of being a wideout. It was sick to see. I mean, everything he did was about slowing the game down.”
One of Favre’s gifts was an ability to get along with everybody, and Rison was no exception. There was a bond over shared time in Atlanta, as well as the mutual appreciation between a strong-armed quarterback and a speedy wide receiver. “We used to talk a lot in the locker room,” said Rison. “I loved Brett. He knew when and how to get you the ball, he was a cool guy who tried to know you as a person.”
The coaching staff knew Mayes resided by himself in a half-empty duplex, and he was told by Holmgren that (a) Rison would live with him, and (b) he was responsible for getting the notoriously tardy player to practice every day. “Mike, are you kidding me?” Mayes said. “I’m a rookie. Why would Andre listen to me?”
The gruff Holmgren wasn’t empathetic. “It’s your job,” he said. “Do it.”
Rison made his Green Bay debut in the 24–9 win at St. Louis on November 24, starting across from Beebe and catching five passes for 44 yards. The team flew back to Green Bay, whereupon Rison turned to Mayes and said, “We have the day off tomorrow. Rook, you’re coming with me.” The wide receivers caught the next flight to Atlanta—“two first-class tickets, paid for by ’Dre,” said Mayes—and were greeted at the terminal by a stretch limo holding Lopes and two of her friends. “We go straight to the Gold something . . . some strip club,” said Mayes. “There are two magnums of Cristal on either side, and I’m talking to a girl and Lisa gets in her face and said, ‘Sugar Bear, we ain’t paying you to talk to him all day. You better get up and dance at the same time!’”
Lopes frequented Green Bay, and she and Rison constructed a makeshift music studio in the apartment. The earsplitting beats blasted throughout the night. There would be fighting some evenings, lovemaking other evenings. One time Michael Silver, the Sports Illustrated writer, came to the apartment to interview Rison. “ ’Dre, a reporter is here,” Mayes said.
Rison: “Are you sure he’s a reporter?”
Mayes: “I think so. That’s what he said.”
Rison: “Well, frisk the motherfucker.”
Mayes: “Nah, I’m fine.”
Rison: “You better fucking frisk the motherfucker right now!”
“I frisked Mike,” Mayes said. “It was a little bit embarrassing.”
Green Bay won its last five games with Rison as a starter, and while his 13 catches for 135 yards didn’t leap off the page, his intensity did. “We needed somebody with the right swagger to get our group to understand,” said LeRoy Butler. “Andre was starving. He had numbers, but no ring. And he wanted it. Our receivers were good, but we didn’t have a guy with that swagger.”
The Packers’ locker room seemed to come alive. It was a playground for all seasons—Reggie White in one corner preaching the gospel, Rison in another talking smack, Favre telling stories about Mississippi and Oreo-eating alligators, the offensive linemen discussing hunting excursions and fishing holes. “We had an interesting dynamic, in that every section was like a neighborhood, and it almost seemed as if the locker room was organized on what type neighborhood you were from,” said Chris Darkins, a defensive back. “You had the Wayne Simmons–LeRoy Butler area as the hood. They were hanging out, playing games, talking shit. So if wanted to have fun you’d walk to the hood. The only stabilizing part of the hood was Reggie White. He was smack-dab in the middle and whenever a fight broke out in the hood, Reggie stepped in. Then on the far corner, to our far-left corner, you had the suburbs. That’s where you had mostly offensive linemen hanging out, chilling. Not a lot
of noise. Our corner was the intellectual corner—people who observed, watched. That was kind of like Brett’s demeanor. He’d watch, observe, talk to anyone, maybe pull a prank.”
The Packers had a rowdiness to them, especially with Rison’s addition. They talked shit and smoked pot and drank bountifully. Much like Rison, Simmons was a fiery player who never worried about holding his tongue. He found pleasure in trying to trick White into cursing or losing his cool. He would blast gangsta rap from the locker room speaker, anxious to goad White into shutting it off. Over the final two months of the season, the only music that was accepted by all parties was a well-worn Bob Marley CD. Once, the men nearly came to blows. “Reggie, in the Bible it said Jesus preached to the prostitutes, the sinners,” Simmons once noted. “Why don’t you come to the clubs with us?”
“Reggie tagged along one time,” said a teammate. “He lasted 15 minutes.”
The Packers concluded the season with an NFC-best 13-3 record. They went 8-0 at home, and were the first team since the undefeated 1972 Miami Dolphins to have both the NFL’s highest-scoring offense (456 points) and stingiest defense (210 points allowed). Favre, with 39 touchdowns, 13 interceptions, and 3,899 passing yards, would yet again be voted the NFL’s MVP. Green Bay lacked a 1,000-yard rusher or wide receiver, making his run all the more impressive. “[Brett is] the greatest, the best, the most unselfish, the most competitive,” said Gilbert Brown, the Packers nose tackle. “You know he’s going to show up, you know he’s never going to leave you hanging.”
Green Bay opened the playoffs at home by crushing the 49ers, 35–14. The hero was Desmond Howard, who returned the first punt for a 71-yard touchdown, then later had another 46-yard return to set up a score. Steve Young, the star San Francisco quarterback, left early with a rib injury, and hope departed with him. By the time the fourth quarter began, Lambeau’s fans were chanting, “We want Dallas! We want Dallas”—the team that knocked Green Bay from the playoffs the past three seasons. Beebe, who lost two Super Bowls to the Cowboys as a Buffalo Bill, agreed. “If anyone wants to play Dallas,” he said, “it’s moi.”
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