Brett Favre, Brad Childress, and 35-Cent Boneless Wings: A Very Tall Tale

I had headed over to my local Buffalo Wild Wings after work with visions of 35 cent boneless wings and a basket full of mini corndogs dancing in my head.

I needed a chance to unwind after another tough day of shuffling papers at my work desk while monitoring comments on a variety of Bleacher Report articles I had written during my mini-vacation from earlier in the week.

Little did I know, my night was just beginning.

After the hostess seated me, my server graciously took my drink order. “Coke with ice,” I said with confidence.

A variety of sporting events were playing out all around me in beautiful Hi-Def, but none were terribly interesting.

I quickly noted that B-Dub’s was a lot less fun in the middle of July than it would be in another eight weeks.

As I waited for my food, I couldn’t help but notice a pair of eyes peering in my general direction. I moved my head to make eye contact and maybe say, “hey” or something else profound.

The gazer nimbly averted my glance.

However, as I looked at the man, I took a moment to study him. He was wearing a flannel shirt (in July, no less), jeans, and cowboy boots. I also noticed he had a scruffy, grayish beard. He couldn’t have been more than 38-years old.

He looked anxious, as though he were waiting for somebody. As though he didn’t want to be caught.

But I had bigger fish to fry…er, breaded pork to eat.

The mini corndogs had arrived.

I quickly tossed the mustard for my corndogs over my shoulder. I heard a man fall and utter a curse word. I shrugged and dug in.

Then, out of nowhere, Gray Beard approached my table.

“Y’all eatin’ all those mini corndogs?” he drawled.

I looked around, thinking maybe he had a lazy eye and that perhaps I’d been caught in the crossfire—I was, um, not with anyone…

“You talkin’ to me?” I asked.

Gray Beard nodded.

“Uh, no man, have a seat,” I replied.

“Do you even know who I am?” the stranger asked as he plopped his beer down on the table.

“Honestly?” I asked.

Gray Beard shook his head affirmatively.

I lowered my voice to a whisper.

“Well, I have to admit you look a lot like a certain former Green Bay quarterback who retired after the season, decided he wanted to un-retire, then permanently retired, only to recently announce that he wanted to play, requested his unconditional release, gave a two-part interview to FOX’s Greta Van Susteren, threatened to show up at Green Bay’s training camp, announced that he wouldn’t be attending Green Bay’s training camp, and has so far refused to apply for reinstatement.”

I then took a breath. What a long sentence. Not very web-friendly, that’s for sure.

Then Gray Beard revealed his identity. “I’m Brett Favre.”

“Oh, is that the name? I hadn’t actually heard it bandied about the last week or so…” I quipped.

Just then a man wearing a purple pullover jacket with a mustard stain sat down next to me at the table.

“And you are…” I asked.

“Shut up,” the man replied.

Favre interjected. “Whoa there, Trigger. We're just hangin’ out a little.”

“That’s great, Brett, but what if we’re seen? And who’s this guy?”

I was just about to tell the bald-headed, bespectacled stranger exactly who I was when Favre cut me off.

“Chill out, man, it’s okay. No one’s here. It’s July and there’s nothin’ to watch. This is, buddy, I’m so sorry, I never caught your name…”

“Greg,” I said.

“Craig,” Favre said.

“You a member of the press?” Dome Boy asked.

“Well, I write for the Bleacher Report when I have time. I actually write mainly sports hu—“

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