Hi Brett Favre! How’s it going? I hope you are recovering well from your super-secret surgery you recently had. It is to be expected that a career of being pummeled by linebackers would leave one’s body in desperate need of some corrective surgery. But the fact that you had the surgery brings two thoughts to mind. The first one is about how a man of your age is probably not as resilient as you were a dozen years ago. You probably know that already. It obviously takes you longer to get up when you’re knocked down now. And you probably feel the soreness for more than just the next day after a game. But you’re older and you have earned that creakiness.
More importantly, you’ve achieved great things and this is the part where you retire gracefully without tarnishing all you accomplished. It’s not the part where you do a Jordan and decide to play minor league baseball. It’s not the part where you hint at coming back (AGAIN) to play *just one more* season of professional football. It’s when you sit on a beach in Mexico (now with less swine flu!) with your arm in a sling and the other hand holding a daiquiri with umbrellas and exotic fruits spilling forth from the souvenir glass that is so large it is an affront to God. This is where you spend the fall watching football from your overstuffed naugahyde recliner and calling Tony Romo queer when he gets sacked. This is where you shoot all those animals you love to hunt for and spend your weekdays chewing Red Man and making friends at the taxidermist’s.
You have more money than God. If God had ever played as a pro quarterback in the NFL. Your family is taken care of for life. Your wife has her foundation to run and her charity work to do so it’s not like she’s going to be in your hair all the time, asking you when you plan on cleaning out the rain gutters. As far as I know, you are not the center of any major ongoing litigation for which you would need to earn money to finance. I don’t think you have an army of secret kids for which you must pay monthly support. You gave up all the fun drinking and drugging habits that you used to have which can be a drain on the bank account. You could probably afford the nicest pontoon boat any Mississippian has ever seen.
But instead, you hint that you might come back for *just one more* season to be the quarterback for the Minnesota Vikings. America collectively rolls their eyes. It’s not that we don’t want you to play. We just think it would be, ummmm, better if you didn’t. You have a distinguished career. Or you did until you came out of retirement the first time to play one lackluster season with the New York Jets. You know, when people who previously thought you had gracefully retired at the height of your success, going out when no one could touch you. Then we saw you getting picked off and chased down by younger and faster guys. And all the sudden, you went from being Green Bay’s own Silver Fox to the Old Guy on the Jets.
I, as surprised as you may be to hear this, have never played professional football. So it’s fairly easy for me to say, “I’m too old for this shit. I have enough money to buy all the monster trucks I could ever want. I’m widely hailed as one of the best quarterbacks of the past 20 years. I would prefer to wake up on Monday mornings not contorted and bruised. Thanks anyways though. Deuces!” I guess there’s some deep love of not just the game but playing the game that you can’t get out of your system. Maybe you’ve got some David Carradine-esque desire to tempt death for thrills. If those two things are true, play some tag football in your front yard with your old college buddies or drive around without a seat belt on or eat raw oysters from the Chinese buffet or wear an Obama t-shirt to your next NRA meeting. But don’t add another ugly black mark to your legacy.
Also, Minnesota is full of people that talk funny.
Sincerely,
Amandacobra
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