"Dear Brett Favre:" An Open Letter To The Man Who Changed My Life...

            I've been a Minnesota Vikings fan since 1970.  For better or for worse, they are my

football team.  I was there when Joe Kapp lost the Super Bowl to the Chiefs.  I cheered when

they acquired the great, but snake-bitten Fran Tarkenton, then watched him lose the Super

Bowl to the Dolphins.  Then one to the Steelers.  And then to the Raiders.

            I was there for the frustrating Dennis Green era and suffered through the NFC

championship game when they blew a 10-point fourth quarter lead to the Falcons, thanks to a

missed field goal by Gary Anderson, his only miss of the year.  I watched them rebuild behind

their exciting new quarterback Daunte Culpepper, then sat freezing at Giants Stadium when they

lost another championship game, this time 41-0 following the 2000 season.  Five seasons later,

Culpepper crushed his knee against the Panthers; and then there was the embarrassment of the

"Love Boat" fiasco. 

            Yet through it all they were still my team.  I'd buy a new Vikings jersey every year and

even went on e-bay once to purchase a couple of "game-worn" practice jerseys, certified, of

course.   Living in New York, I made sure I was at the Meadowlands whenever the Vikes

faced the Jets or the Giants.  But that wasn't enough:  I joined a group of Viking friends every

year for a trip to the Metrodome, so I could put on one of my jerseys and my purple hat with

the white horns and the gold braids and cheer for my football team to Maul the Bears or Crush

the Cowboys or Rip the Redskins.  When my group disbanded after seven or eight seasons, I

went alone:  Called my ticket scalper, flew to Minneapolis, and braved frigid temperatures

so I could put on the horns and scream by myself.  I loved every minute of it.

            But after forty years of untold heartbreak and a decade worth of trips halfway across

the country, I have decided to shut away the jerseys, cancel my reservations, and turn my

satellite TV to any other NFL game that might be showing on any given Sunday.  Why?  It's

You, Brett Favre...it's you!             

             As a fan who bleeds purple and gold, I obviously have no love for the Packers.  But I

saw how you ended your career in Green Bay (a Championship Game interception in overtime,

at home, against an underdog Giants squad); watched you eat away at the inner workings of

your old team by refusing to help an up-and-coming young QB (Aaron Rodgers, who looks a

lot like you, minus the arrogance); I watched you retire, un-retire, weep openly and then, when

you couldn't get the Packers to swing a deal to the team of your choice, end up, of all places,

as a member of the New York Jets.  Anybody who watched football for more than a month

knew it was the last place you wanted to play. 

            The team you really wanted to go to, rumors had it, was my team, the Vikings, but I

waved that off as the usual media creation and instead watched in fascination as, after a quick

start, you began another INT-fest, finishing in style once again with three picks, as the Jets lost

to Miami, at home, blowing a playoff berth.  And then the off-season carnival kicked into gear

once again:  first, a couple of Jets' players who weren't at all intimidated by your presence,

reported to the local press how you cared more about yourself than your team, and how you'd

throw passes into obvious coverage if it meant the chance for a highlight-reel play, the score and

situation be damned! 

            Then of course, you retired, un-retired, wept openly, and finally got your wish...and I

watched in horror as the coach of my NFL team actually drove to the airport to pick you up

for training camp. (By the way, can you just see Bill Belichick driving to the airport to pick up

a new player--or any player??  Of course you can't, Belichick has some pride.)  It was at this

point that I did what most live-or-die sports fans, myself previously included, never thought

we'd ever do:  I swore off the Vikings.  Matter of fact, I rooted against them! 

            Friends and co-workers were stunned.  But I told everyone last August to just watch: 

I told them you'd get off to a hot start, lead the Vikings to first place, undoubtedly

make the playoffs, and then proceed to kill their chances by throwing an interception at the

worst possible moment, assuring once again that the Vikings wouldn't win a Super Bowl. 

            The season went pretty much true to form, Brett:  behind your leadership, the Vikings

rang up one of the best regular season records in team history, highlighted by an unbelievable

scramble-throw-and-catch against the Niners that made you look like a true savior.  (I couldn't

eat for two days after that one.)  Following a couple of late-season stumbles (Bears, Cardinals),

you breezed into the playoffs and faced the shockingly inept Dallas Cowboys, moving your

team to the NFC championship game.  I gotta say, at this point I started to get nervous.  My

friends and co-workers passed me in the halls and shook their heads.  "They could win it all,"

I heard them whisper. 

            "Could I have been wrong about this?"  I asked myself before the Saints game.  "Could

this Brett Favre be a different Brett Favre, a guy who will really put his team before himself

when the game comes down to crunch time?  What will I do if the Minnesota Vikings win the

Super Bowl, and after forty years of rooting for them, I won't be there to celebrate it?" 

            Never fear--for the third consecutive year, you ended your season with a murderous

interception, throwing a mindless pass in Saints' territory when a couple of yards would have set

your team up for the winning field goal.  (And Gary Anderson nowhere in sight!)  I celebrated

for a week.  "You called that!" said my friends and co-workers.  "Never in doubt," I chuckled. 

And in the end, Brett, what did you really do for the Vikings?  By winning the division you

earned their fans a home playoff game.  Then you went to the NFC championship game with

high hopes and crushed those true fans once again.  Hate to tell you this Brett, but the Vikings

have lost NFC title games before.  They didn't need to bring you here to do that.

            Now here we are in another off-season.  You may retire.  You may not.  Your ankle

might be too sore.  It might not.  Look Brett, be honest for the first time in your life:  You're

going to play this year and you're going to play for the Minnesota Vikings.  After the regular

season you just had, you'd be crazy not to.  You'll wait until training camp is over and the first

two or three pre-season games are through, then you'll pick up your cell and dial Coach

Childress' number and unless he's mysteriously grown a pair we haven't heard about, he'll pick

you up at the airport again.  And you'll go 12-4 or 13-3 and you'll win the NFC North and

you'll go to the playoffs, and sometime between then and the first Sunday in February, you'll

throw another stupid interception and Viking fans will be crushed again.

            But I won't be one of them.  The jerseys will stay in the closet, the flight will not be

booked.  Think about it, Brett--you have one championship ring after almost twenty years of

football, and you 'earned' that one by beating an over-matched Patriots team (with Drew

Bledsoe at QB for God's sake!)  And the only reason the Packers won that Super Bowl was

because your kick returner, Desmond Howard, had a career day, breaking the game open

with a TD kick-off return and winning the MVP.  (Quick, can you name another Hall-of-Fame-

destined quarterback who's won a Super Bowl without winning the game's MVP award?  I

can't.)     

            "How can you hate your team that much after forty years of rooting for them?" my

friends and co-workers ask.  They have it wrong.  Of course I don't hate the Minnesota

Vikings, Brett.  They're still my team.  But I care about them too much to watch you put them

through what you always put your teams through:  Dealing with your insincerity, your egoism,

your crocodile tears.  And one day I'll put my purple-and-gold back on and I'll act as if this

whole ugly episode never even happened.  That's the day you'll wake up one summer morning

and decide you're done with football for good.  Hopefully that day will come very, very soon. 

Or maybe you'll get hit by a bus before then.  That'll work, too.