I
had something to say during the pregame chatter of football analysts
who know everything 52 percent of the time, not long before the
kickoff of a much-touted Packers-Vikings matchup. Anyone with the
slightest interest in football was talking about Brett Favre and we
were no different. I turned to Bonham, a friend from college.
“Favre is just like Harvey Dent in The Dark Knight. He used to inspire worship in mortals like us. We really thought he was a righteous leader who had that Elvis-like swagger. Seeing Favre in a Vikings' uniform reminds me of Harvey's quote from The Dark Knight: 'You either die a hero or else you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.' It turned out to be a self-fulfilling thing—a prophesy—when Harvey Dent turned into Two-Face. Just like Two-Face, Favre follows through on that quote. Similar character arcs.”
Bonham seemed complacent with this observation and nodded. Then he offered his own take on Favre.
“I can see that. But to me, Favre's deliverance to evil is more like Hulk Hogan, the eternal good guy, turning into Hollywood Hogan, the leader of a group of bad guys.”
“The New World Order.”
“Right.”
“Did that gang of wrestlers ever conquer the world as they had originally planned?”
“Almost. But then Razor Ramon pussed out right before they invaded Russia.”
“Favre is just like Harvey Dent in The Dark Knight. He used to inspire worship in mortals like us. We really thought he was a righteous leader who had that Elvis-like swagger. Seeing Favre in a Vikings' uniform reminds me of Harvey's quote from The Dark Knight: 'You either die a hero or else you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.' It turned out to be a self-fulfilling thing—a prophesy—when Harvey Dent turned into Two-Face. Just like Two-Face, Favre follows through on that quote. Similar character arcs.”
Bonham seemed complacent with this observation and nodded. Then he offered his own take on Favre.
“I can see that. But to me, Favre's deliverance to evil is more like Hulk Hogan, the eternal good guy, turning into Hollywood Hogan, the leader of a group of bad guys.”
“The New World Order.”
“Right.”
“Did that gang of wrestlers ever conquer the world as they had originally planned?”
“Almost. But then Razor Ramon pussed out right before they invaded Russia.”
Bonham
smiled faintly and shifted his weight with a strain of weariness.
“Anyway,” he went on, “The Favre fiasco reminds me of something out of the WWF. It has been like watching that dramatic transformation of a hero into a villain, for sure, but the saga has become such an unreal farce that, to me, it feels more like pro wrestling than a Batman movie. It's closer to wrestling in that the madness is being presented as authentic. Narratives that stem from comic books offer fiction that doesn't really try to represent reality.”
On that Sunday in November of 2009, the Packers lost. Favre, aka Two-Face, aka Hollywood Hogan, shredded a usually solid Packers defense. Whereas my creative ego had fallen victim to a snap suplex of wit and left me to ponder the unsavory notion of humility, the Packers fared much worse. They were routinely body slammed and whacked in the head by a steel chair and then pinned by their most despised rival. On the long drive home, I wondered if Bonham's Favre analogy was to mine as the Packers were to the Vikings in 2009, if I too was good but not great, bound for the playoffs but clearly no match for the championship contenders.
“Anyway,” he went on, “The Favre fiasco reminds me of something out of the WWF. It has been like watching that dramatic transformation of a hero into a villain, for sure, but the saga has become such an unreal farce that, to me, it feels more like pro wrestling than a Batman movie. It's closer to wrestling in that the madness is being presented as authentic. Narratives that stem from comic books offer fiction that doesn't really try to represent reality.”
On that Sunday in November of 2009, the Packers lost. Favre, aka Two-Face, aka Hollywood Hogan, shredded a usually solid Packers defense. Whereas my creative ego had fallen victim to a snap suplex of wit and left me to ponder the unsavory notion of humility, the Packers fared much worse. They were routinely body slammed and whacked in the head by a steel chair and then pinned by their most despised rival. On the long drive home, I wondered if Bonham's Favre analogy was to mine as the Packers were to the Vikings in 2009, if I too was good but not great, bound for the playoffs but clearly no match for the championship contenders.
At
least Bonham, for one, was onto something—and so I borrowed his
idea.
###
###
Of the major American sports, the commonalities between the NFL and pro wrestling are the most striking. First off, both entities appeal to our lust for mayhem and brutality. Secondly, many Pro Bowl caliber players have incurred the worry and dismay of their coaches, general managers, and fans (at least the ones who stopped watching pro wrestling when they were 14) by putting on tights and tangling with the likes of Bam Bam Bigelow in Pay-Per-View events. Perhaps the most conspicuous example of sports entertainment overlapping with football can be seen in the career of Steve “Mongo” McMichael. Mongo played 15 seasons as a defensive tackle whose career was punctuated by a Super Bowl victory as part of the '85 Bears and their dominant defense. Not long after he retired in 1994, McMichael traded in his pads and uniform for a pair of sleek trunks and achieved middle-tier status as a crony of “The Nature Boy” Ric Flair. Mongo's hit-or-miss stint in the gaudy limbo zone between athletics and acting came to an end in 1999. (He may have been but a pawn in the game, but Mongo is at least more fondly remembered than Chris Benoit.)
These points of comparison are superficial, though. In retrospect, Favre's entire career seemed to adhere to an epic script conceived by Vince McMahon and his cohorts. Favre's dramatic legacy wasn't exactly too good to be true; it was simply too outlandish to feel authentic. Merit and perseverance factored into the Favre storyline every bit as much as betrayal and corruption. The most dynamic, profound, and hyperbolic legacy in the history of sports entertainment cannot be claimed by hacks like The Rock, Steve Austin, or even Hulk Hogan; it belongs to Brett Favre.
The young gunslinger shot blanks early on. In his rookie season as a backup quarterback for the Falcons, he played sparingly and with comic ineptitude, failing to complete a single pass. In his forgettable season as a bench-warmer, Favre meant no more to the NFL than the Brooklyn Brawler did to the WWF. Both entertained, ingloriously, as bottom feeders in the big show.
In what would later be deemed one of the most lopsided trades in league history, Favre was sent to Green Bay. An injury to Packers' incumbent Don “Majik Man” Majkowski forced Favre into action against the Bengals in week 4 of the '92 season. He seized the opportunity with bravado and lead the Packers to a late game comeback win that culminated in a deep touchdown strike to Kitrick Taylor. (Who?!) A year later, the WWF's 1-2-3 Kid seemed to crudely trace that era in the Favre storyline. The 1-2-3 Kid likewise showcased youthful exuberance as he battled with grit against improbable odds. Both withstood humble and fledgling beginnings and then launched their careers on the strength of surprising victories. (The Cincinnati Bengals = Razor Ramon.)
Favre's consecutive games played streak of 297 is mirrored in hype and endurance by a bald beast in a black Speedo named Goldberg, who began his career in the now-defunct WCW with 173 victories in a row.
Triumph in Super Bowl XXXI solidified Favre's status as football's answer to Hulk Hogan (the good guy—or babyface, in pro wrestling lingo). The mature gunslinger had won league MVP for the league's best team; he was effectively the face of the NFL by 1996. His loss to the John Elway-led Broncos in next year's title game emulated the Hulkster's narrow defeat at the hands of the Ultimate Warrior at Wrestlemania VI. (John Elway = The Ultimate Warrior.)
In 2003, not even a broken thumb on his throwing hand could scratch Favre from the starting lineup. This feat stands as his most impressive display of toughness. Like “Stone Cold” Steve Austin, a different bald beast in a black Speedo, Favre's competitive drive and hubris caused him to prefer blood loss and agony to the humility of tapping out. “There is not a human being on the face of this Earth who can make me say, 'I quit.'” Stone Cold said so, but this quote could just as easily have been proclaimed by Favre.
The Old Gunslinger staged phony retirements, just as the Nature Boy and the Macho Man did. Truly, number four reneged on vows and delivered shams with the greatest of sports entertainers.
Then came Favre's descent into villainy, his mutation into Hollywood Hogan, the bad guy (or heel). After that, the news broke that he sent lewd texts and a much ballyhooed dick-selfie to a buxom sideline reporter. The scandal had all the tawdry sizzle of a WWE storyline founded on the appeal of degradation. We were surprised, but in hindsight, we should have seen it coming.
Flaws, sins, and interceptions notwithstanding, I no longer see the sense in resenting Brett Favre. I can't begrudge a man for following the script. A long-time babyface turned into a heel and ratings soared. Nothing more. It seems as though some of the greats are bound to fatalism, and that God must be a fan of sports entertainment.
