Sports fans from 49 states breathed a sigh of relief Sunday when Brett Favre lost.
Never in the history of sports has an athlete been more universally disliked for doing nothing objectionable except being himself.
He’s been an evil force throughout basically my entire memory as a sports fan. He’s one of the greatest villains ever.
On Sunday, I was imagining the worst — best? — ways Favre could fail. A pick-6 in overtime? Getting injured, snapping his consecutive games streak and having Tarvaris Jackson lead Minnesota to a championship?
He’s Darth Vader. He’s Jay Leno. I love to hate him so much, it would be sad if he did retire — although I’m sure I’d get over it.
But I get Favre. He’s one of the greatest ever at what he does and wants to keep doing it, especially since he can at such a high level — help, I’m making excuses for him.
I mean, I still play organized baseball. It’s hard to walk away from something you love — especially if you make millions doing it. When you have hundreds of news outlets hounding you about your future seconds after you finish possibly your last game, it’s easy to change your mind — and to have it come back to haunt you, not to mention millions of sports fans.
Skipping around on the field, crying at news conferences and singing in locker rooms comes with the arrogance of Favre, and he’s earned it. He’s legendary.
Then there’s the Favre who clashes with coaches, forces wild passes, does old-people-jeans commercials and inspires countless columns — um, this one doesn’t count.
Teams live and die with Favre. He made the Vikings better. The Jets were better off without him. You just couldn’t tell Favre to throw the ball as little as Mark Sanchez does.
If this is really the end for Favre, I won’t be shedding any tears for him. But let’s be honest. It’s probably not. And I’m OK with it.
