“Because I’m married?” he asked her.
“No,” she replied, “because you’re a prominent person, and those women could leave here and say you tried to rape them.”
What made Favre’s transgressions particularly dramatic was that, inevitably, he would find himself overtaken by guilt. A devout Catholic, Favre routinely attended team chapel services and went to church as often as possible. He believed in God, accepted Jesus, knew much of the Bible, and grasped the concept of sin. He fully understood drunkenness and infidelity were morally unacceptable, but continued the behavior. “Afterward he would always say to me, ‘That’s the last time! That’s the last time!’” said a friend. “I mean, he could have passed a polygraph that he was done with women. And then he’d do it again. And feel horrible again. He lacked impulse control, but I’m also not sure, back then, he truly wanted to stop.”
When he wasn’t playing football, Favre was often engaged in various corporate appearances and signings. He would, according to an associate, have bogus schedules faxed to the house, so Deanna would see what he was (supposedly) up to—8:00 a.m. flight; 10:00 a.m. meeting; 1:00 p.m. lunch. On and on. “So he’d travel, and maybe he’d have one or two things to do,” said the friend. “But the rest of the time it’d be drinking, women, partying. Whatever.” According to two people close with the family, things got so out of control that, ultimately, Deanna tapped his mobile phone and learned he was being dishonest and disloyal. She called him in Milwaukee one night and, said a friend, demanded he return to Green Bay immediately. “I know what you’re up to,” she said. “Get home now.”
Deanna was particularly cold to Favre’s nonfootball pals, many of whom she considered to be enablers of a lifestyle that was ruining her marriage. She grew weary of Mark Chmura and Frank Winters, the two Packers players who accompanied Favre on many escapades. She was dismissive of Joe Sweeney, the marketing expert who often traveled with him on the road. “I do a lot of speaking,” said Sweeney, “and one thing I always say is, ‘We’re the average of the five people we spend the most time with.’ Frankie and Mark and Brett loved alcohol, they loved the camaraderie, they loved the action and the bar hopping. So did they contribute to his troubles? Probably. But it’s Brett’s fault. He made choices.” In particular, Deanna urged Favre to break all ties with Clark Henegan, the friend from Mississippi now living in Wisconsin and handling Brett’s autograph-show requests. Of all the nonfootball pals in his life, Henegan was most involved in Favre’s off-the-field activities. A well-known night owl, he accompanied Brett to bars, to clubs. He knew about the sexual conquests . . . was often there for the sexual conquests. “I was always gonna do whatever it took to have my brother’s back,” he said. “I was loyal.”
Like Favre, Henegan struggled with drinking and, years later, acknowledged his problems and found sobriety. His life has not been an easy one—in 2008 his brother Mark was sentenced to life in prison for murdering two men while in the midst of a crack cocaine binge. Clark was fiercely loyal to Favre; he refers to Bonita as “my second mother.” But at the time, when Brett couldn’t help himself, Henegan was along for the ride. “My friends who have met Clark say he looks like the banjo player in Deliverance,” said Sweeney. “Brett got in the most trouble when Clark was around. And you know who had to pick him up from wherever he was? You know who would catch the blame? Me. But Clark was like the dog you’d kick, and he’d come back and lick you. Brett kept the company of people who weren’t the most upstanding citizens.”
In the public eye, Deanna maintained an image of the contented spouse and mother. She posed for photos, signed autographs, attended team functions. Quietly she was miserable. “You have a normal life,” she confided to one person. “Don’t underestimate how special that is.”
In sports, plenty of athlete wives understand the unspoken condition of in-season infidelity. But Brett wasn’t a famous jock she met at a Tampa strip club or on line at an autograph signing. He was a kid from Hancock County, just as she was a kid from Hancock County. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. “Everyone wants to blame the athlete for changing,” said David Thomason, Favre’s pilot and friend. “But think about it. Everywhere we went, someone wanted to buy Brett a drink. Everywhere we went, somebody wanted to do a shot with Brett. Everybody wanted to be seen with him, to say they had a moment with him, a beer with him, two or three beers with him. And Brett was very accommodating by nature.”
On paper, the 1997 season—much like the Favre marriage—looked to be a thing of beauty. In July he inked the largest contract in NFL history, a seven-year, $47.25 million deal that included a $12 million bonus and far surpassed the No. 2 earner, Detroit halfback Barry Sanders (he made $34 million over six years).* “I feel very strongly that he’s the best player in the National Football League,” said Ron Wolf, the general manager. “What better way to acknowledge that than the way we’ve just done?” Unmentioned in the reports was that, on the same day the deal was signed, Favre missed the morning walk-through for an exhibition game against the Dolphins with a “stomach issue” caused by “bad chicken wings”—a thinly veiled euphemism for hung over after a night out. “The team protected him a lot,” said Greg Bedard, a longtime football writer. “Like, a whole lot.”
In 1997 Favre won his third-straight MVP (he shared the honor with Detroit’s Sanders) and Lambeau sold out every game for the 38th straight season—but it felt different. In the years leading up to the Super Bowl, Favre charged $30 per autograph at shows. Now he was asking $40,000 per hour to sit and sign. He inked an endorsement deal with Mountain Dew, debuted the Brett Favre chocolate bar. He even earned a spot on the Forbes sports rich list, which ranked America’s 40th wealthiest athletes. Many members of the franchise were outraged when, in late March, Andre Rison was released, then—along with Howard (who signed with the Raiders) and kicker Chris Jacke (signed with Pittsburgh)—not invited to join the team trip to the White House to meet President Bill Clinton. “It was really insulting,” said Rison. “We were guys who played key roles in winning the Super Bowl, and now we’re not wanted? I thought Brett could have stood up for us and said something. He didn’t.”
The Packers rolled to a 38–24 season-opening win over Chicago, but few moments came easily. They suffered an ugly 10–9 Week 2 loss at Philadelphia, barely beat Miami and Minnesota in the next few weeks, and were crushed by the Lions, 26–15. Suddenly, the defending champions were 3-2 and limping along, and the predictable search for scapegoats commenced. “Look, we spoiled ourselves, our coaches, and our fans with the season we had,” said LeRoy Butler, the safety. “We’re fighting against that. Sometimes it’s good to have standards like that. Sometimes it’s not so good.”
Inside the Packers’ locker room, the players became disenchanted with Holmgren, now in his sixth season as head coach. If you were a star, like Favre or Reggie White, he would treat you well. But with winning came an ego, and with an ego came a dismissiveness that rubbed many the wrong way. Holmgren would pass a practice squad receiver or third tight end in the hallway, be greeted by a “Hey, Coach!” and refuse to respond. Not because he didn’t hear, or because he was busy. No, because he was Mike Holmgren, Super Bowl–winning coach. “He and I had a great relationship, but I can see why some struggled with him,” said Steve Bono, Favre’s backup. “There was an expectation of work ethic and focus, and if you didn’t live up to that standard you were gone and forgotten.”
Even with an egomaniacal coach and a reduced roster, the Packers were still the NFC’s most talented team. And, in professional football, talent (plus health) tends to win out. Antonio Freeman, one of the Super Bowl heroes, emerged as a No. 1 receiver, catching 81 passes for 1,243 yards and 12 touchdowns. Robert Brooks, back from injury, added 60 catches for 1,010 yards. Dorsey Levens had his first 1,000-yard rushing season, White tossed in 11 sacks, and Butler, the league’s elite strong safety, picked off five passes. Following the Detroit loss, the Packers went on a five-game winning streak, punctuated by a 28�
�10 demolishing of New England in a Super Bowl rematch.
On December 1, the Packers found themselves in Minnesota for a key NFC Central clash with the Vikings, who were 8-4 and one game behind in the playoff race. The game was important from a mere win-loss standpoint, but carried extra emphasis for Holmgren. One week earlier the Packers beat the Cowboys, 45–17, for the coach’s first win over America’s Team. Now was an opportunity (on Monday Night Football, no less) to triumph for the first time in six tries inside the dreaded Metrodome. “I’ve exorcised one demon,” Holmgren said after the Dallas win. “Now I have to exorcise another.”
Because the Packers and Vikings were archrivals fighting for postseason positioning, the hype leading up to kickoff was predictably excessive. Would Favre torch Minnesota? Could the Brad Johnson–Cris Carter connection break through the Green Bay secondary? Would Holmgren finally trump Denny Green, his former colleague with the 49ers, outside of Wisconsin? Would the . . .
Stop.
Wait.
The questions ceased. The hypotheticals halted. On the morning of the game, KQRS-FM, a Minneapolis classic-rock radio station, sent a reporter named Lee Mroszak to the downtown Marriott to knock on Favre’s door while pretending to deliver room service. He did so—live on the air—and a woman answered.
“You must be the lovely Mrs. Favre . . .” Mroszak said.
She was horrified. “What?” the woman screamed. “He’s married? He can’t be married!”
With that, the connection went fuzzy and, ultimately, cut off.
A nuclear explosion followed.
The news went viral, throughout the city, down Interstate 94 to Green Bay, across the United States. Brett Favre, the NFL’s greatest player, had been caught cheating on his wife! Live! On the radio! KQRS played the clip throughout the day. The news could not have been any more shocking, and the Packers immediately contacted Favre to find out how such an embarrassing episode wound up in such a public forum.
The call woke Favre. He’d been asleep in his room—and alone.
The whole thing was a hoax. Mroszak (real name: Lee Siegfried) was best known by his radio nickname “Cabe.” His official job title was the respectable-sounding “street reporter,” but his daily task was to stir it up. “They wanted me to do more wild things,” said Mroszak, a 28-year-old Gulf War veteran with a lengthy radio career. “I went to the hotel but there was security everywhere and I didn’t know what room he was in.” Favre, for the record, always checked in under the name “Leo Yelle”—a special-needs team employee he’d befriended. “So I went to my girlfriend Rebecca’s apartment and said, ‘You’re a woman, but not Brett Favre’s wife. I knock on the door, you react . . .’ OK, let’s do it.”
That night, throughout the Packers’ 27–11 win, the announcers alluded to the alleged infidelity, which both Favre and the team were denying. When asked by the station whether the skit was legitimate, Mroszak lied. “I should have admitted it was a fake,” he said. “But the media grabbed onto it, and everyone was talking about it as if it had happened. I guess I panicked.”
Finally, KQRS was contacted by Favre’s attorney, who made clear the quarterback’s intent to file a defamation suit. Dave Hamilton, the station manager, called Mroszak into his office and peppered him with questions. What floor had Favre been on? How did you get into the hotel? What was the woman wearing? Finally, he caved. “Look man, it was a bit,” he said. “It happened, but it didn’t really happen.”
Mroszak was fired on the spot.
“He got what he deserved,” Favre said. “It just never ceases to amaze me what people will do.”
The lawsuit failed to materialize. Had he dared file, KQRS attorneys (not to mention the media) would have inevitably dug deep into his life, his marriage, his indiscretions. There’s a reason Packer executives initially gasped when they learned of the report. Not because it was so shocking, but because they presumed it to be true. “Look, there were rumors all over the place that he was a philanderer,” said Mroszak. “That’s what inspired the bit. It was his secret, but secrets don’t usually last.”
Green Bay concluded the regular season with a 13-3 mark, and Favre seemed as good as ever. His 35 touchdown passes led the league, and even though many of his 16 interceptions were predictably ill-advised, it was hard to fault a player who had now started 93 straight games. That he was no longer using Vicodin to suppress the pain was amazing—“Nobody was tougher than Brett, nobody will ever be tougher than Brett,” said Bono. That he was regularly drinking heavily, and staying out deep into many nights, was astounding. According to the National Sleep Foundation, “The quality and amount of sleep athletes get is often the key to winning. If sleep is cut short, the body doesn’t have time to repair memory, consolidate memory, and release hormones.” Favre slept here and there, and never went out the night before games, but he was deep into (undiagnosed) alcoholism that would have rendered weaker men useless. He simply couldn’t say no to a drink. And one drink turned into three, three into five. When confronted by Deanna, he denied any problem. “But,” said Sweeney, “there was definitely a problem.”
It was masked by success. Green Bay opened the playoffs by stomping Tampa Bay 21–7 in the divisional round, then traveled to San Francisco and thrashed the 49ers, 23–10, in the NFC Championship Game. Afterward, Favre was giddy. He later revealed he had played with a torn rotator cuff in his left shoulder, only adding to his legacy of unstoppable toughness.
The Packers were returning to the Super Bowl, and he was the reason why.
One might think appearing in the NFL’s championship game would be the greatest thing to happen to a professional football player. It is, after all, the pinnacle of the profession, the reason men subject their bodies to ungodly pounding, their brains to repeated head trauma.
One might be wrong.
Super Bowl XXXII—featuring the Packers and the Denver Broncos—was to be played on January 25, 1998, in San Diego, California. It was a matchup that, outside of two cities, seemed to excite few people. At 12-4, the Broncos were soaring, but they’d been down this road before. John Elway, the bowlegged 37-year-old quarterback, had already appeared in (and lost) three Super Bowls, and the experts presumed this would be the worst of the setbacks. “Oddsmakers envision another trouncing,” wrote Jon Saraceno in USA Today. “Green Bay is favored to beat Denver by nearly two touchdowns.”
The Packers were the more talented, more successful operation. They featured a bevy of stars and a locker room filled with champions. “We were better than the Broncos,” said LeRoy Butler. “Now, were we so much better that we didn’t have to worry? No. But we had the better players.”
The problem for Green Bay, though, had nothing to do with skill, and everything to do with complacency. Super Bowl XXXI had been played in New Orleans, and Packer Nation traveled in droves to witness its first title game since the Lombardi days. It was phenomenal.
This, by comparison, felt like a pretty big game. “But for us,” said Byron Chamberlain, Denver’s tight end, “it was special. We knew the Broncos had been embarrassed in other Super Bowls, and we were convinced that wouldn’t happen again. We were very determined not to lose.”
The Packers arrived in San Diego a week before kickoff. They took a handful of buses from the airport to the Sheraton Torrey Pines, which was located 19 miles to the north of downtown. If one loved golf, as Favre did, it was a terrific location. If one loved partying, as Favre did, it was awful. The resort was a secluded paradise, wonderful for honeymooners and 70-year-old outdoorsmen. “It was like being in training camp in eastern Washington,” said Gil Haskell, the wide receivers coach. “Nothing was happening out there.”
“Between doing media and working out, being that secluded didn’t allow for the experience we wanted,” said Derrick Mayes, the wide receiver. “We went out a few times, but it was all kind of lame.”
There were other issues, too. Without Rison, the Packers were a significantly more businesslike team than they had been. “W
e were overly analytical,” said Darius Holland, the defensive lineman. “Sometimes you just have to play without so much conversation.” There were fewer trash talkers; expletive hurlers; dynamos anxious to kick ass and tell you all about it. Everything felt official, structured. “We weren’t the same,” said Haskell. “No Andre, no Keith Jackson, no Sean Jones, no Desmond Howard. And Edgar Bennett was injured that season, so we didn’t have a key running back. We were good. But we weren’t as good.” Holmgren was less communicative and unwilling to laugh at himself. He was more critical, oftentimes irrationally so. Early on in his career at Green Bay, he stressed loyalty and sincerity. Now, something had changed.
One incident, in particular, crippled the Packers more than the coaches probably ever knew. Now in his second season with Green Bay, Don Beebe—the veteran wide receiver—had struggled throughout the postseason with a strained left hamstring that caused him to miss the matchups against Tampa Bay and San Francisco. In the week after the AFC Championship Game, Beebe practiced every day, and assured Holmgren he’d be ready for the Super Bowl. When the team reached San Diego, Holmgren called Beebe in for a meeting. “I’m gonna cut to the chase,” the coach said. “We’re not dressing you.”
Beebe was flabbergasted. “What?” he said. “I fought back to make it here. I told you I’d be ready . . .”
Holmgren explained that the team was adding Ronnie Anderson—a rookie free agent out of Allegheny College who had yet to appear in a game—to the roster. “We’re doing it because we don’t want to lose Ronnie as a free agent,” Holmgren said. “It’s nothing you’ve done.”
Beebe felt the anger rise through his body. All those extra hours in the weight room, with the trainers, sprinting, lifting, stretching. “Mike,” he said, “that’s a flat-out lie, and you know it. I deserve better than this. Why aren’t you dressing me?”
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