I promised myself last summer that I was not going to write about Brett Favre. I did.
It’s not that I thought I’d want to write about Brett Favre. The only other time I even sort-of wrote about him wasn’t really about him; it was about ESPN’s media stalk-gala into his every inaction after he asked Roger Goodell for reinstatement papers but did not sign them last summer. And I was happy that I did not care.
But now? Now I care. Because now it’s personal.
I thought I knew Brett Favre because, well, I’d like to think I’m smarter than he.
For starters, while I did grapple with retirement for four seasons in my simulation baseball league, when I finally walked away from the Tampa Bay Devil Rays after a disappointing 2025 season, I stayed retired, never once considering a return to competition.
And so you know, I made sure they stayed the Devil Rays.
But still, I thought I was smarter than he ever was. At least, I thought I was smart enough to know what he was thinking.
I knew Favre was not going to retire after the first two tear-stained locker room moments in 2005 and 2006, just like I knew he was going to walk away after leading Green Bay to the 2007-2008 NFC Championship Game.
At the same time, I knew Favre wasn’t really retiring, because I knew Favre had too much pride to go out after an overtime interception in the playoffs, just like I knew Favre was done after bruising his shoulder and looking like, well, Kyle Orton, down the stretch for the New York Jets.
But when Favre watched deadline after deadline pass last month; when Favre stated at the last deadline that he was going to remain retired; when Favre returned home to Mississippi for good, I thought he was retiring for good, or rather staying retired for good.
And when someone shows me to be wrong, it becomes personal.
I was never a fan of the Minnesota Vikings, so it’s not going to be difficult to root against Favre. But now? Now I hate the Vikings. H-A-T-E.
Hell, I might ever root for Carolina week 15 when the two go head-to-head, even if the game has NFC South title implications for my Atlanta Falcons.
I don’t take being wrong well, and since Favre has already shown me to be wrong once, I’m going to let him make me wrong again: I’m writing this article about him.
I’m writing about Brett Favre so that you know that I now promise never to think any topic is so far beneath me that I will never want to write about it.
If Brett Favre could still somehow interest me after how much he irritated me over the past 15 months, then there cannot be anything that could not someday interest me enough that I’d want to write about it.
Cricket? Maybe I’ll just watch and cover the final Ashes match next week.
Australian football? Well, I was going to write next week about St. Kilda’s push for a perfect season just so I could say I’ve written about a sport I’ve never truly watched. St. Kilda’s the worst team in the Victorian Football League and now the Australian Football League for most of the last 112 years, lost in the final second by two points to Essendon on Sunday, ending their quest to become the first team to ever win the championship unblemished with just two rounds left in the regular season.
Pesapallo? Well, I don’t like Finland, so I’ll pass on that. Maybe once I get translated to Finnish, I’ll care about Finland, but until then, I’ll just tell to country to wither away.
Hear that Fins? Translate me to your language or else I won’t write about you.
Okay, maybe I’m getting a little carried away. Just because I decided to write about Brett Favre doesn’t mean that I’ll eventually write about everything.
For instance, I still have absolutely no desire to write about steroids. Doping just doesn’t interest me. Ban the cheaters you catch; if you can’t catch them, congrats to them and let’s all move on.
But that’s about it. What else is there that I know I will never be interested enough in to break down and spill 1,000 words of my guts on it?
I’m still sick of Favre; his entire saga annoys the living bejesus out of me. If Brett Favre went out and withered like Finland, I wouldn’t care. Hell, I’d be happy because once ESPN stopped it’s all-access coverage of his funeral, it would stop talking about him until he got inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame, or at least until Peyton Manning shattered all of Favre’s records.
Despite that, despite my indifference to Favre and my antipathy to him being in the news, I still am weak enough to care that he unretired.
And it sickens me.
I could have written about Y.E. Yang’s mythical final round while Tiger Woods collapsed, how I was so enthralled that even though I had to be in Austin, Texas by 7:30, I still pulled into a Chili’s off of U.S.-290 to watch the final hole and drink a glass of Shiner Bock.
I pulled in at 7:29.
Speaking of me being wrong, I was wrong that Woods and Yang was the wrong final round pairing, but that’s besides the point. That final round was good enough that I’m glad I was wrong in that instance.
Or I could have written about UEFA Champions League qualifying or, better yet, being a supporter of an English soccer club that’s not currently in the top flight and how hard it is to support that team overseas.
But no, I’m not writing about any of that. Because I don’t want to. Because I want to write about Brett Favre. Because I’m weak.
God I hate you Brett Favre. You make me hate myself.
At least I could get 1,000 words out of you. Almost. And there we are.
