Gunslinger Page 14

  On July 17, 1990, Southern Miss football fans exhaled a collective sigh of relief. FAVRE SHOULD RECOVER FOR ’90 SEASON read the headline atop the Clarion-Ledger sports section. Brett Favre was not only fine and dandy; he’d almost certainly suit up for Southern Miss in the coming weeks. “His liver is still bleeding, and we’re watching that,” said Barkley, his physician. “But it doesn’t seem to be a problem. I’d say that barring any unexpected problems, Brett would be able to participate [in football] this season.” One day later, Favre guaranteed his return for the September 1 season opener against Delta State. “I’ll be there,” he said.

  On July 22, following eight days in the hospital, Favre was released. He returned to the Southern Miss campus, to the off-campus apartment he called home. The Golden Eagles training staff kept it simple—some walking, some light swimming, and low weights. After a week, Favre transitioned to throwing the football. He looked great, and it seemed he would, amazingly, start the opener.

  Until the gas came.

  Not just gas. Cramps. Jolts. Pangs. On the morning of August 6, Favre thought his stomach was being attacked by an army of pitchforks from the inside. He ate, felt awful, vomited. Ate again, felt awful, vomited. A school physician suggested it was a reaction to the trauma of the accident. “Screw that,” Favre said. “I’m dying.” He was taken to Forrest General Hospital in Hattiesburg, where the only person speaking to the media was Irvin, his father. “There seems to be an obstruction in his lower intestine,” he said. “The doctors are trying to treat it. There’s a 50-50 chance it could get worse. If so, they might have to operate. This is something new. This wasn’t on the X-rays when he was released.”

  Two days later, Favre underwent one and a half hours of surgery. Dr. George McGee determined the car accident caused a blockage that constricted the blood flow in the small intestine. He removed a 30-inch section of his intestine. Afterward, McGee held what still goes down as the largest press conference in Forrest General’s history. All 25 chairs were filled, and the operating physician explained that Favre could begin “full, unrestricted activity” in five weeks. He might possibly rejoin the Golden Eagles for the third game of the season, a September 15 matchup with Georgia. “It’s good to know at this point where we and Brett are headed,” Hallman said. “Things certainly look brighter than they have in recent days.”

  Later that day, the phone rang in Favre’s hospital room. A nurse answered and said the head football coach at the University of Alabama wanted to speak with him. “Young man,” he said, “we’re scheduled to play you. Hopefully you can make it, but more importantly hopefully everything works out and you get back on your feet again. Just know we’re pulling for you.”

  When the conversation ended, Favre, high on painkillers, said to his parents, “I just spoke to Bear Bryant!” Bryant had died in 1983. It was Gene Stallings, the new Crimson Tide head coach.

  By now, the local media was All Favre, All the Time. Newspaper readers would rise, walk to the end of the driveway, pick up the Clarion-Ledger or Hattiesburg American and see (almost always on page 1A) what was happening that day with the Southern Miss quarterback. He was home recuperating under the watchful eye of his mother. He took a short walk. He ate some soup. He ate some more soup. He napped. Some subscribers expressed their displeasure via letters to the editor. (“This is ridiculous,” one read. “I wonder if there would be this kind of headline if the same thing happened to a Rhodes scholar that was attending USM.”) But for most it was General Hospital brought to life. There was drama! There was intrigue! There was heartbreak! There was jubilation! “It was huge,” said Watkins, the Clarion-Ledger beat writer who covered the accident recovery as he would a presidential election. “Easily the biggest story around for that span of time.”

  A small number of writers suggested Southern Miss should redshirt Favre, that the university’s first priority needed to be the health of its quarterback. That opinion, however, was drowned out by the thrilling vision of August 21, when Brett Favre—dressed in black shorts, black helmet, and a gold No. 4 jersey—returned to practice. He weighed 192 pounds (down 34 pounds from his normal measure), with toothpicks for legs and the shoulders of a prepubescent teenage boy on a juice diet. But there he was, jogging, tossing, smiling. “Right now I couldn’t go out there and play,” he told the media after a brief workout. “I’m just trying to sit back and do what doctors tell me to do.”

  “He feels good,” added Rodney Allison, the quarterbacks coach. “Just having him out there is a positive influence for the other guys.”

  There was hope that come September 1, Brett Lorenzo Favre would jog onto the field for Southern Miss’s opening game and start at quarterback against Delta State.

  It sure beat Plan B.

  He was home in Chipley, Florida, when the call came. John Whitcomb doesn’t remember the exact words, but they concerned Brett Favre, a car accident, an opportunity. “Get ready,” Curley Hallman told the redshirt freshman quarterback. “Because you’re up.”

  You’re up? What the hell was he talking about? All summer, Whitcomb was comfortable with the idea of returning to Southern Miss, standing along the sideline, watching Favre set records, possibly mopping up at the end of a blowout. “I was ready,” he said. “But I wasn’t mentally ready. There is a difference.”

  Although they weren’t particularly close, Favre and Whitcomb had a lot in common. Like Brett, John grew up knowing only sports. Like Brett, John’s football coach for as long as he could remember was his father, Skeebo Whitcomb, a local legend. Like Brett, John spent the majority of his high school career handing off. Brett Favre had Charles Burton standing behind him at Hancock North Central; John Whitcomb had Amp Lee—a future star at Florida State, then with the San Francisco 49ers—standing behind him at Chipley High.

  Finally, with his son a senior, Skeebo Whitcomb opened up the offense, and the results were breathtaking. Using a run-and-shoot system, the Tigers outscored their opponents 311 to 121, and John threw 16 touchdowns with only two interceptions. He was named All-State but—because nobody knew of him as a junior—went lightly recruited. Just like Brett Favre.

  Now the six-foot-one, 190-pounder would make his first collegiate start. Four days before kickoff, Favre told the Clarion-Ledger that he expected to play, but it was wishful thinking. Inside the football offices, the goal was to make do without Brett for a week, maybe two. Although Delta State went 6-3-1 in 1989, it was a mere Division II program, and an easy triumph was the expectation of Hallman and his players (Delta State was paid $50,000 by the university to come to Hattiesburg). Even with Whitcomb.*“John was a very intelligent player,” said Honoroe Britton, a freshman quarterback. “That was his strength. He reminded me of a Joe Montana. Analytical. He didn’t have Brett’s arm, but who did?”

  Favre dressed for the game. He stood along the sideline beforehand, throwing lightly to Eric Estes, a backup, and looking thin but fit. He had started 32 straight games for the Golden Eagles, and this was torture. Favre wanted to play. He floated the suggestion to Hallman—How about a few snaps? A series? “No,” Hallman said, repeatedly. “You’re watching.”

  So, begrudgingly, Favre watched. And as torturous as the pregame felt, this was 1,000 times worse. The Golden Eagles won 12–0 behind two field goals and a late touchdown pass from holder Stacy Dennis to tight end Anthony Harris on a botched field-goal snap. Whitcomb completed 8 of 17 passes for 111 yards, but played poorly. Hallman, meeting with his coaches a few hours after the final whistle, put it best. “Men,” he said, “we need Favre back. Now.”

  Although they are loath to admit it, most college and professional coaches know there are games they will win, and games they will lose. Against Delta State, for example, Curley Hallman was certain his team would not fall to a Division II squad. It was a near certainty.

  As the second game of the season approached, Hallman was equally certain that Southern Miss was likely to lose. This had nothing to do with a lack of faith in his players, or shortcom
ings in finances or manpower. It was matters of circumstance and reality. His team would be traveling to Birmingham to face the University of Alabama in a colossal mismatch. First, the Crimson Tide was coming off a 10-2 season that included a 37–14 rout of the Golden Eagles and ended with a close loss to Miami in the Sugar Bowl. Second, this would be Alabama’s opening game, as well as the debut of head coach Gene Stallings. Third, the contest would be played before a sellout crowd of 75,962 people—99.9 percent Alabama loyalists. Fourth, the Crimson Tide roster—loaded with 16 returning starters—was a who’s who of future NFL players. Fifth, there was this little issue with the quarterback, and his 30 inches of missing intestine. “Southern Miss was the sacrificial lamb,” said Robert Wilson, who covered the game for the Clarion-Ledger. “Alabama was the lion.”

  In the days following the Delta State contest, Favre spent the majority of his time either throwing footballs or breaking wind. The first was mandatory preparation for what he hoped would be a triumphant return to the field. The second was a result of the intestinal surgery. Suddenly, Brett Favre was a farting machine—in the morning, at night, during meetings, midway through meals. Because he was embarrassed by seemingly nothing, Favre let loose with an eight-year-old’s delight, often lifting a leg for dramatic gaseous accompaniment, or approaching a teammate with a look of seriousness, only to follow with a noxious reminder of his presence. “All that farting started with the surgery,” said Bonita Favre. “The doctor actually told him, ‘Now Brett, if you have gas you need to expel it. Don’t hold it in.’ Buddy, he expelled it. It didn’t matter who was in the room or who was nearby, he just let it rip.”

  When Favre wasn’t stinking up the Southern Miss facilities, he was trying to show Hallman he was prepared. Every throw was dedicated to getting his coach’s attention. Every rollout, every drop-back, every handoff. “I want to play,” Favre told the Hattiesburg American—more plea than statement. “Hopefully I’ll get an opportunity.”

  He wasn’t just battling against the suggestions of doctors and a training staff. No, Favre was fighting his own coach’s history. Back in the late 1970s, before he emerged as a coaching prospect in the collegiate ranks, Curley Hallman was a little-known running backs coach at Memphis State. On October 29, 1977, the Tigers were playing Southern Miss in Hattiesburg. It was late in the first half, and a member of Memphis State’s special teams unit went down with an injury. “We had a kid named Bill Crumby who didn’t play much,” said Hallman. “We needed somebody, so I said, ‘Well, let’s put the tall string bean in there!’” The six-foot-two, 175-pound Crumby rushed onto the field, tried to make a tackle, and sustained a fractured dislocation of the fifth cervical vertebra. He was paralyzed from the shoulders down and never walked again. Hallman had inserted the boy into the game. The burden was his. “That sticks with a coach,” said Hallman. “It always sticks with you. After that, I never took the health and safety of my players for granted. I’ll put you in the game, but only if I know you can be safe and protect yourself.”

  Could Brett now be safe and protect himself? Hard to say. Three days before kickoff, the Sun-Herald ran the disappointing headline, WHITCOMB TO START AGAINST TIDE. Southern Miss wouldn’t beat Alabama with Brett Favre. But with the robotic freshman, they’d lose by . . . what? Fifty? Sixty? “Honestly, I probably wasn’t ready to do much against a team that good,” said Whitcomb. “Not at that point in my football career.”

  What those outside the program didn’t know was that, by the time the article hit newspapers, Favre was all but locked in as the starter. The unofficial anointment came that Thursday afternoon, when the Golden Eagles held a physical full-contact practice inside the stadium. The team ran a drill called pass under pressure, which entailed the first-team defense blitzing the first-team offense for 10 straight minutes. Hallman saw it as a proving ground. Survive, and he’d consider. “Now keep in mind, Brett still didn’t look too healthy,” said Estes. “Not that much earlier he could only walk one lap around the football field and he was puny. And here he was, leading the first-team unit.” With the defensive linemen and linebackers charging at full speed, Favre went to work, completing eight of eight passes before hitting Michael Jackson for a touchdown. “It was unbelievable,” said Estes. “He had barely practiced, and they were perfect throws, perfect placement. I knew he was good. I didn’t know he was that good.”

  Later that evening, Favre convinced a handful of teammates to accompany him to the Silver Saddle, a Hattiesburg bar with a $5 All You Can Drink night. Until that moment, Favre had been recovering on nightly milk-and-egg protein shakes—“which tasted like crap,” said Reed Wainwright, the strength coach who prepared the beverages. “I’d sit there and watch him drink, to make sure he finished it all.” Now, protein shake or no protein shake, the quarterback was getting drunk. “I was like, ‘Dude, we’re not going to the Silver Saddle!’” said Pete Antoniou, the defensive tackle. “Of course, we went and we drank, and Brett didn’t even have the five bucks. I had to pay for him.”

  The Southern Miss football team planned to make the four-hour bus ride to Birmingham on the Friday morning before the game. Hallman was committed to Favre, but nervous about it. “Brett, we’re gonna start you,” he told him. “And I think it’ll be a big boost for our football team. But after the first series it’ll be series by series for you, and we’ll see how it goes.” The quarterback was quietly giddy. Under National Collegiate Athletic Association rules, teams cannot keep a player’s availability a secret. This was a secret. Throughout the week in Tuscaloosa, home to the Crimson Tide, Stallings prepared his team to face Whitcomb, with only a slight emphasis on Favre. Asked by the local paper for his thoughts on the rival quarterback, Stallings slipped and said, “I’m not concerned about Mississippi Southern.” When roving regional college scouts stopped by campus, the Alabama coaches would ask what they heard about Southern Miss. All said Whitcomb was the guy. The words were accepted as gospel by all but Ellis Johnson, Alabama’s linebackers coach and Southern Miss’s defensive coordinator the two previous seasons.

  “I haven’t talked to anyone, but I bet Brett plays,” Ellis told Brother Oliver, the Tide defensive backs coach. “He doesn’t miss games like this.”

  “C’mon,” said Oliver. “There’s no way.”

  “OK,” said Johnson. “Just watch.”

  On the morning of September 8, the members of the Southern Miss football team walked out onto the Legion Field Astroturf, knowing little about their pending fates. On the other side of the 50-yard line, the Alabama Crimson Tide players stretched, jogged, played catch. Although it was the season opener, as well as their head coach’s debut, the team appeared calm. This wasn’t a matchup against Auburn, after all, or even Florida, Georgia, or Louisiana State. It was Southern Miss, and a game they scheduled for the win.

  Brett Favre was emaciated and physically untested. How would he hold up against John Sullins and Eric Curry, two of America’s elite pass rushers? Nobody was quite sure. “That was my first college game, and I was pretty terrified,” said Darian Smith, a Golden Eagles offensive tackle. “You grow up watching Alabama, loving or hating Alabama. And now you’re playing Alabama, at Alabama.”

  When the team returned to the locker room for final preparations, Hallman gathered everyone around for last thoughts. The players sat on wood stools. It was brutally hot (95 degrees), without air-conditioning or fan. “OK,” Hallman said, “I want all of the offensive linemen to stand up. First team, second team, third team—actually, all of y’all. Stand.”

  The 76 young men rose. Still, silence. “Boys, it’s on you,” Hallman said. “Brett’s about 70 percent and he’s going. And he better not get touched.”

  A pause.

  “A lot of you boys are from the state of Alabama, a lot of you boys dreamed of playing for Alabama. But they didn’t want you. You were too small or too slow or whatever. Well, we wanted you. We want you. Today is your chance to show them what they’re missing . . . to show them what kind of stupid m
istake they made . . .”

  With that, the Southern Miss players charged through the tunnel and onto the field. Favre walked to the sideline, gripped a ball, and began to warm up. “To watch him throw—wow,” said Gary Hollingsworth, Alabama’s quarterback. “When a guy throws from college hash marks to the other side of the field, and the ball never gets lower than head high off the ground . . . as quarterback you sit and watch that and just go, ‘Damn. I can’t do that.’ And he wasn’t even healthy.” By now, Stallings, who later described Favre as looking “like a damned scarecrow, his uniform hanging all loose around him and stuff,” was fully aware of whom his team would be facing. Before kickoff, he spoke to his defensive starters. “Go hard,” he said, “but don’t hit Favre after he releases the ball.” The words shocked Alabama’s pass rushers, but not Hallman, who played under Stallings at Texas A&M and later coached with him. “Gene is a quality man,” Hallman said. “He did things the right way.”

  Alabama received the opening kickoff, marched down the field, and easily reached the end zone on an 18-yard Derrick Lassic touchdown run with 12:07 remaining in the first quarter.

  It was Southern Miss’s turn. Favre took a deep breath and prepared for the most meaningful jog of his young football life. Several months earlier, before the wreck, Favre had volunteered to work at a summer high school football camp held on the Louisiana State campus in Baton Rouge. The counselors—hired by a Golden Eagles assistant coach named Daryl Daye—were all regional college players, including a large number of LSU standouts. Favre gravitated toward Shawn Burks, a linebacker who enjoyed a cup of coffee with the Washington Redskins. Whenever Burks completed a drill, or coached a successful play, he would scream out, “Whiskey!” Nobody knew why, but the exclamation alone—expressed with such gusto—reduced Favre to hysteria.