Few people outside of Green Bay, Wisconsin are privy to the information that is in this article.
Many Minnesota Viking fans died crossing the border with this information. They weren't killed; it was alcohol poisoning.
You try going to Green Bay without consuming your weight in cheese curds and Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Tradition dictates that at 12:01 a.m. on March 4th, in a small basement room of the famous Stadium View Sports Bar in Green Bay, Wisconsin, Brett Farve stood surrounded by hooded figures.
While faces were largely obscured to protect anonymity, reports are that there was at least one middle aged woman that doesn't mind being married to someone who can't pronounce their own last name, one man that looks oddly like a walrus, one man that may or may not have been a Predator judging by the dreadlocks, and four other gender-ambiguous figures that swayed slightly, trying not to fall down while donning cheeseheads over their cloaks.
Farve stood in a deeply meditative trance, waiting for his most recent dosage of Vicadin to wear off so that he could feel his hands enough for what was about to take place.
After several moment in quiet reflection of broken records, big games and long departed homophobic teammates, the time was at hand.
Reaching into his pocket, the future Hall of Fame quarterback pulled out the most fabled quarter in all of Cheese Land. A quarter that has decided the fate of every Green Bay quarterback for the last 14 years. On one side was the head of George Washington, and the other side showed an American eagle (okay, so it was a normal quarter).
For the coin toss, the eagle would be heads and the head would be tails.
It has been that way since Brett first called it; no one stepped forward to tell him that it was mixed up.
Following tradition, Favre bowed his head and thought of seasons past.
Between a Super Bowl title, three MVP awards, over 61,000 career passing yards, and few seasons where he threw as many or more interceptions than touchdowns despite refusing to bow out of the game with some dignity.
The moment was set for the toss that would decide his fate.
If the eagle comes up, he comes back another season, citing that this season's team would be the best he's ever played for (and this time he really really really means it). If heads, he retires and gets a job on one of the 53 Sunday morning pregame shows.
The circle began to sway as the last shot of Jagermeister began to kick in.
Farve braced himself, bending at the knees and gracefully flicked the coin into the air.
Unfortunately, "gracefully" and "way too hard" sometimes get mixed up in the mind of the Pro Bowl quarterback, and the quarter shot through the ceiling.
Thirty seconds later the quarter returned, red hot from reentering the Earth's atmosphere and wedged itself six inches in the ground. As the hissing steam finally stopped, there it was.
Looking back at him, almost mocking: It was a head. Tails; he retires.
The circle hushed with silence, two hooded figures passed out from the shock/keg stand.
The decision had been made.
The quarterback, who had no physical reason to retire, but no financial or historical reason to stay, would walk away from the game he has been playing longer than the entire state of Wisconsin has been sober (in combined minutes since its inception on May 29, 1848).
One by one, the revelers left the basement for parts unknown until only Favre remained.
As though lost in deep thought, as the door closed, he raised his head and uttered his final words before announcing his retirement, "Wait, it should be pronounced Fav-ra, shouldn't it?"
1 comments Last one added about 1 year ago — Leave a Comment
Casey Clement about 1 year ago
Hilarious article John. I especially like the last line.
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