He is our golden boy—the laurel crowned prince. You know who I’m talking about —Brett Favre.
With a boyish grin he handles our collective Wisconsin “hero” projection, carrying it with ease on those broad shoulders. Even sports commentators come under his spell as they speak admiringly of his bullet passes, his accuracy, his leadership and his personality.
When the Packers played the Florida Jaguars on Monday Night football they showed some old footage of Favre as a college player, grinning into the camera from the bench. The commentators said, “He looks just the same.” And he did, same impish smile, same confidence even then. He was the fair-haired boy and still is today at age 32.
Football cynics even abstain when it comes to Favre, he seems universally admired—witness opposing team players hugs and pats at the end of each game. He is also a universally recognized icon of football, not just for Wisconsin, witness his cameo role in the irreverent film “Something About Mary.”
He lives in the collective unconsciousness of all Wisconsinites. I know a Dells woman who told me she realized, as she watched him play last Sunday, that she had dreamed about him. She didn’t go into it.
In this little central Wisconsin town the library sports a life size cardboard cutout of the star and one year they raised money selling polaroids of people with it (him). People all across Wisconsin watch television football wearing green and gold and churches plan schedules around Packer’s games
And although we love our Packers, it’s Brett that we adore. He was wild in his youth, then settled down with his marriage. We held our collective breaths when he hurt the thumb on one of those valuable hands and didn’t we all wonder if this might be the beginning of the end? But this year he is back bigger and better than ever. When he is in the groove he seems charmed, blessed by the football gods, throwing pass after pass down the field like a missile directly into the arms of receivers—often throwing across his body and on the fly without setting his feet.
I know next to nothing about football, don’t ask me about statistics, don’t expect me to know what’s going on all the time, but when Brett is on the field, I’m hypnotized. So casually does he line up and then go into gear. Nine years of starting every game, after every play he jumps up like a rookie. Even my son, a Bears fan from Chicago, after Sunday’s game against the Packers at Lambeau said Favre is one of those players that would probably play for free, he so obviously enjoys it. Indeed, in that game toward the end it was Brett out there with a towel waving the fans into a noisy frenzy as the Bears lined up. He’s always in the game.
Years ago I taught at a school where Fran Tarkenton, the famous Vikings quarterback, sent his daughter. On parent’s night when he entered the room all the other parents were suddenly still. One colleague commented later that there were many people in that room who were much wealthier, but there is nothing to compare with pure talent.
Here in Wisconsin, harsh land of snow and cold, of midwestern angst, work ethic and pot bellies – here he carries the high ground, the best, the joy, for all of us. Brett Favre is our showstopper, our cheesehead savior. He is our boy.