Note: The following is an excerpt from the book, FAVRE, written by Brett Favre and his mother, Bonita Favre, with Green Bay Press-Gazette columnist Chris Havel. FAVRE is a dazzling tribute to the Packers' future Hall of Famer, with personal family photos and remembrances, stunning four-color action shots, and inspiring stories. Click here to buy FAVRE
When I stepped onto the field in Oakland I didn't have the slightest clue what to expect. I knew the guys were ready to play, and I knew I wanted to play and play well, but knowing and doing are two different things.
It's hard to say I wanted to play better than I had ever played before -- because I never want to lay an egg -- but I never had circumstances like this before.
Some circumstances, huh? They were just about the worst possible circumstances, to my way of thinking, and I wouldn't have wished them on anyone else.
Looking back on it, I was probably in shock, but I remember almost everything leading up to the game. I had always told myself I could handle just about any situation -- on or off the field -- that might come my way. But this was different. This was something that is impossible to prepare for, something you don't even want to think about. Dad was gone. We were playing the Raiders on Monday Night Football in front of a national TV audience. Everybody would know about what had happened and what we were going through. It was so magnified, it was almost too big for me to handle, and that scared me.
It seemed like I had a hundred thoughts racing through my mind when I came out for the pre-game warm-ups, but I couldn't seem to remember our first fifteen scripted plays. I was having difficulty breathing, too. There's nothing like hyperventilating on national TV, so I kept telling myself to calm down and everything would be okay.
I wasn't convinced.
I grabbed a football to loosen up and something unexpected happened. I was still nervous, even with a football in my hand, and my first couple of passes during warm-ups didn't inspire confidence. I was high. I was low. I was all over the place. It was just awful. I couldn't throw the ball even remotely close to where I wanted to put it.
I had cottonmouth so bad I couldn't spit. I could hardly swallow, in fact, and I was still having a hard time breathing. I stopped to wipe the sweat off my forehead, and when I looked down to adjust my wristbands I got another surprise.
My hands were shaking.
I took a deep breath, tugged on my facemask, and tried to relax. Everything seemed so exaggerated, so surreal, and I wondered if I could even complete a ten-yard pass. I knew I would be feeling a lot of pressure from our fans, because I didn't want to let them down, but I probably felt more pressure coming from myself. I hate making excuses, and I knew if I played lousy everyone would say, "It's because of what happened." That might be true, but I didn't want that as an excuse. I knew what Dad would say. He'd say, "Son, once you decide to play, you go out there and play your *** off."
That's exactly what I wanted to do, but I wasn't sure I could pull it off, and now my damn hands were shaking like two leaves in the wind.
So much had happened in such a short time.
I remembered checking into my room at the team hotel in Berkeley and thinking I had some time on my hands. Whenever we play a Monday Night Football game, we often end up with more down time than we do normally. I decided to join some guys from the team and squeeze in a round of golf before our team meeting. I was on the golf course with Doug Pederson, Ryan Longwell, and Josh Bidwell when Doug's cell phone rang.
I heard him say, "Hi, Deanna."
When he looked at me, I could tell by his expression it wasn't good news. After a moment, Doug told me that my father had died of a heart attack.
It took me what seemed like forever to gain my composure and talk to Deanna.
I didn't know what to do or what to say. I just held the phone and didn't say much of anything. Dad had died of a massive heart attack while driving on a road near my parents' house. My brothers, Scott and Jeff, and my sister, Brandi, were among the first people at the scene, but there wasn't anything anyone could do.
This may sound strange but I had a feeling it was about Dad even before Doug told me. I had been pretty ******* him about seeing a doctor for a physical and losing some weight. I was worried about his health, and I wanted him to do something about it. I wanted him to be around to see his grandchildren grow up, and to enjoy everything he and Mom had worked so hard for all their lives. I wanted him to take care of himself, so I harped on him to go to the doctor and get a checkup. Now I was feeling guilty for giving him such a rough time even though I had meant well.
I couldn't imagine never seeing my dad again, just like I couldn't imagine him never watching me play football again. Mom and Dad had seen each one of my games -- either in person or on TV -- since grade school. They were always there for me. It was instilled in me, which was probably a huge part of the reason why I wanted to be there for my teammates, why I didn't just walk away and go home, although nobody would have thought twice if I had.
I met with Mike Sherman and the first thing he did was promise to support whatever decision I made, and then he asked if there was anything he could do to help.
He handled the situation about as perfectly as possible. We both knew how much was riding on the game, and he didn't downplay that, which I respected. But he also knew that so much of what we talk about as a team -- about being a family, being there for each other, having each other's back -- would be a lie if we said one thing and did another.
I told him I wanted Deanna to be with me as soon as possible, so he immediately arranged to fly her from Green Bay to Berkeley. I also told him I planned to play against the Raiders, and that I wanted to talk to the guys that night at the team meeting. He asked if I was sure, and I told him I could get through it, although I didn't even know myself how.
Just about everyone on the team knew Dad. He had his own identity in Green Bay, and with the Packers, after spending so much time up there through the years. The news of his death was all over the TV, too, which didn't surprise me. We were playing the Raiders in a nationally televised game the next night, a big game on Monday Night Football that we needed to win to stay in the playoff race. I knew everybody would have an opinion on what I should do. I knew some fans would say, "I hope he plays well," and others would say, "I wish he'd have gone home to be with his family."
Anyone who knew Dad would know that he would have wanted me to play, and not just for him or for me, but for my teammates. He knew how much work the coaches and players put into each game, and he wouldn't want me to let them down with so much at stake. Besides, there was nothing I could do for anyone back home that couldn't wait until after the game. Dad was gone and there wasn't anything I could do about it, and my brothers and sister were there for Mom, and vice-versa, so they had each other. They all said I should do whatever I needed to do, but they also let me know it was okay to play. As much as that meant to me, it didn't make getting up in front of the team any easier.
I remember telling the guys, "I'm with you, and if you ever wondered before, you don't have to wonder now." I wanted everyone to be confident that, "Brett's with us," so I told them that. Never, not once, did I say, "I need you guys" or "Let's win it for Dad." I already felt that from them and I appreciated it more than they could ever know. I told them I would be there for my "Packers family" on Monday night, and as soon as the game was over, I would go home and be with my family.
By the time I was finished, and after I'd broken down a couple of times, there wasn't a dry eye in the room. There wasn't much else to be said, so I went back to my room and sat around with a few close friends on the team and in the traveling party. It wasn't long before I was feeling tired -- I'm sure I was emotionally spent -- so I thanked everyone for their support and understanding, and then I asked them to leave.
For the first time in my career, and for the first time on a night before a big game, I wanted to be alone.
Now all of that was behind me, and the Raiders were in front of me, with kickoff less than an hour away. I needed to focus on the job at hand, as difficult as that was going to be.
When I got ready for our first offensive series, I looked around the huddle and tried to approach it like any other game. I already felt that they wanted to win this game for me, so I didn't want to overstate it. I wanted to be the first to say, "Let's move on." We've all watched games or been a part of something tragic where finally you say, "Hey, enough is enough. I'm sorry but let's move on."
I just stepped into the huddle, looked around, and told the guys, "Hey, we need this game. Here we go."
Then I called the first play, a handoff to Ahman Green that went for ten yards and I thought, So far, so good. But did I settle down after that? Heck, I don't know if I ever settled down the whole night.
A few plays later we called a "Y Corner" route to the tight end, and it may have been my best throw all year, in fact in several years. I was rolling to my left and it looked like a linebacker had Wesley Walls blanketed, but it's a play we practice and a play I'm not afraid to make. I knew if I put the ball where only Wesley could catch it, and while the linebacker was peaking back to look in the pocket, he'd make the play. It turned out Wesley made a great catch in the back of the end zone.
I felt a whole lot better about our chances after that first touchdown pass, but I had no idea it was going to be the first of four TDs in that half.
The second touchdown pass, a twenty-three-yarder to Javon Walker, might have been my second or third best throw of the season. To some people it might have looked easy, but I'd like to think that's what I do.
To be honest, after that play I thought, Something special might be going on here.
At halftime, we had a 31-7 lead. There's no question that it was the greatest half of football I have ever played. I completed fifteen of eighteen passes for 311 yards, and four touchdowns under the most difficult of circumstances.
By the time we were through we had racked up a ton of yards (548, third-most in franchise history) and gotten a huge win. I've been asked if I think there was some kind of divine intervention at work. That's impossible to say. I do know that I made some of my best throws of the season, and the other guys made some really tough plays look easy.
Did Dad lend a guiding hand? I can't say. But I do know this was the kind of game he would have loved. I finished with four touchdown passes and completed twenty-two of thirty passes for 399 yards. My passer rating (154.9) was just about off the charts, and I was sacked just once, which is a credit to the entire offense, including my coaches.
The statistics are great because it means you played well, but God knows I've amassed enough statistics. The older I get, they do mean something, but I tend to appreciate other things. The first time I threw five touchdown passes I thought it was a big deal, but after a while stats are just like a lot of material things. Once you get them they no longer mean quite as much.
I am fortunate to have become good friends with Bart Starr over the years. I look at how people react to him and how they cling to him and how much they respect him. He's like a walking bronze statue, a living hero, and it's not so much because of his statistics as it is because of what he stands for.
Basically, what I stand for is family, and that includes my teammates.
I often get asked what I want my legacy to be. That's easy.
I hope every guy I ever played with will think of me as a great teammate. You see these old football games and old TV shows on ESPN Classic and you hear guys saying, "He was a great teammate. I loved that guy." That's what matters. Not that he could throw the hell out of the ball, although I could do that, too. I want people to think I was dedicated not only to myself, but also to my teammates and my family.
Excerpt from the book FAVRE appears courtesy of Rugged Land Books and NFL Publishing. Copyright © 2004 by Brett Favre, Bonita Favre, and Chris Havel. All rights reserved.
