I remember the moment that Favre became Favre for me. I was aware of the Green Bay quarterback with the cannon arm and unspellable name, and I'd seen him play, but he hadn't yet blown me away. It was 1995, and my Super Bowl-bound Steelers were closing out their season in a meaningless game against Fahv-rah's Packers. The Packers were overmatched. The Steelers pounded Favre in a way that no QB could ever survive. Just pummeled him. Yet time and again, this guy got up off the turf, shook the sod out of his ear-holes, and fired away into the teeth of my defense. By the third quarter, blood poured forth from his face and his jersey turned a dark maroon. Jesus Christ, I said to Allie. This guy has seen "Rocky" a few hundred too many times.
And then he won the game.
And his hulking lineman leapt into his arms, in celebration.
And from then on, I watched him as often as I could, fearing that if I didn't, I would miss something that I'd never seen before and would never see again.
And now he's gone. Retired.
And the game I love most, I love less.
