Last night, after taking the first snap in 297 consecutive games (or 321 if you, like me, count playoff games) Brett Favre stood on the sidelines in street clothes and watched his team play without him.
I very much wish I didn’t have certain pictures of him in my mind – assuming that those were indeed pictures of his… Yes. Okay. So I looked. Sue me. And yuck. I hate to think of him as a sex pest and a jackass, although there are enough reports of both to make me wonder.
At any rate, I love football. If I think of Favre in that box (not unfortunately boxed in with no boxers in the frame of a cell phone’s camera) it was the end of something pretty special.
In the proper priority of things and giving weight where weight is due, I know that my sports-tears are kind of funny, but I love the lump in my throat just the same.
Now please just don’t tell me that David Akers is a peeping tom. I can’t take it.