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  Brett ran for two touchdowns, threw for one. Memory of the final score has vanished with time. Did the Hawks win? Lose? No one seems to know. But a seed was planted. “I thought to myself, ‘Hey, quarterback is a cool position,’” Favre recalled. ‘It sure would be nice to play this for a long time.’”

  The Hawks competed in eight games that first season, winning six. Though no official statistics were maintained, Brett threw between 10 and 12 touchdown passes, with a small handful of interceptions. He also played linebacker, and was allowed to roam the field seeking out hits. “If we needed a big stop on defense, Brett was usually the one,” Vincent Cuevas said. “We all wanted to win, but he wanted to be the best. Even way back then.”

  3

  High School

  * * *

  THE WING-T OFFENSE haunts Brett Favre’s dreams.

  OK, this is something of a guess. Perhaps Brett Favre hasn’t given the Wing-T a second thought for decades; perhaps it’s nothing more than a distant memory and a life hiccup, not unlike the aftereffects of eating week-old sushi.

  In the fall of 1981, however, as he began his seventh-grade year at Hancock North Central High, 11-year-old Brett was first asked to direct a relative of the wishbone offense his father utilized at the varsity level. Joe Shaw, a teacher at Hancock North Central, served as the junior high head coach, and he was under strict instructions to teach kids to play the game as they would once they reached the Friday-night varsity lights of Hawks Stadium. “So we didn’t throw it,” said Shaw. “Hardly ever.”

  This was fun for pretty much nobody. Shaw, a University of Southern Mississippi graduate who had been hired by the school district in 1976, loved high-flying football. Brett, a fan of quarterbacks like Roger Staubach and Archie Manning, loved high-flying football. Irvin Favre, however, believed the game was won via stout defense and ball control. So he devoted the Hancock program to following the offense made famous by Coach Tubby Raymond and the University of Delaware Blue Hens—multiple backs, misdirections, 95 percent running. “We sat down with the Delaware coaches, got their numbering system, took their concepts, and tried to use them effectively,” said Shaw. “When you watched Hancock, you were watching a high school version of Delaware.” According to Irv, there would be no deviating from the system. Whatever the Blue Hens did, the young Hawks would do. “Irv’s thing was, ‘We’re gonna run over people,’” said Shaw. “And his teams did.”

  Which was great. Only most people hated it. The Hancock football program was blessed with marvelous athletes and a coaching philosophy that shunned that very athleticism. Through the years, as his son emerged as an icon, Irvin Favre was repeatedly hailed as a genius, a guru, a football coach for the ages, a developer of legends. In reality, his offensive approach was simplistic and stale, quietly criticized by peers and assistants too intimidated to suggest upgrades. At the same time men like Bill Walsh and Don Coryell were revolutionizing passing in the NFL, Hancock’s coach was living in a philosophical cave. “Irv was tough and hard-nosed,” said Rocky Gaudin, his longtime assistant. “He was also unyielding.” Were the Hawks successful, perhaps the steadfastness would make sense. Between 1979 and 1984, though, Hancock’s varsity was a model of mediocrity, posting only two winning seasons and drawing so-so crowds. Everyone, from opposing coaches to opposing players, knew the Hawks’ limited playbook.

  The junior high team was composed of seventh and eighth graders, and while Shaw initially positioned Brett Favre at split end (“He was big and could run”), he was permanently moved behind center midway through the second game. “He had a great arm,” said Shaw. “But since we never threw, that didn’t matter so much. The reason I put Brett at quarterback was because he just had this way about him. The other kids would play better with him out there barking out things.”

  There was also the Irv Favre factor. The varsity coach was adamant about his boys playing quarterback. Not because he aspired for them to be stars, but because he knew they would always show up and show up on time. A team could survive without a defensive lineman or a fullback. But the quarterback had to be there.

  Irv Favre’s kids were always there.

  In Brett’s two years as a junior high quarterback, his teams went 14-1, often playing before 12 people and a couple of squirrels at Hawks Field. He averaged, by one teammate’s estimation, three throws per game—usually screens to the halfback or short outs. Joy for the boy came primarily on defense, where he excelled as a hard-hitting linebacker/safety hybrid. Although Brett didn’t love being tackled as a quarterback, he relished popping receivers and halfbacks as they crossed the middle of the field. In practices, when his balls were intercepted, he went out of his way to show his displeasure. “You’d pick him off, he’d try spearing you,” said Drew Malley, a teammate. “He wanted you to know how he felt.”

  “At Hancock we’d refer to players as either milk drinkers or whiskey drinkers,” said Gaudin. “Whiskey drinkers are full of piss and vinegar and drive you crazy. Brett was all whiskey.”

  Off the field, Brett Favre was as memorable as a brown leaf. He attended school, earned ordinary grades (he was a dependable B student). “In the classroom, I was a follower,” he once told ESPN’s Jeff Bradley. “But on the field, I was always a leader.” His clothes were often hand-me-downs from Scott: plaid shirts and jeans. Browns, grays, blacks. Peers began to experiment with alcohol and marijuana, but Brett abstained. First, he knew of the paternal beating that would accompany a slipup. Second, he wasn’t that guy. “I remember Brett telling me he was disappointed in me because a bunch of us were out having a good time, and we were drinking,” said Jesse Dupree, a classmate. “He showed up at a dance, saw us drunk, and let us have it.” A Friday night for Brett Favre involved lifting weights in the garage and dreaming of the 50-yard spirals he wasn’t allowed to throw. He wanted greatness, but wasn’t entirely sure what the stuff looked like. “Everybody else was going out, hanging out with their friends, and Brett would be doing a full workout at home,” recalled Brandi. “And I used to think, ‘What is wrong with him?’ I’d say that all the time—‘What is wrong with you?’”

  Brett’s springs were consumed by baseball, the high and wild pitches consistently high and wild. He gave winter basketball a quick try, but displayed a precise inability to dribble and shoot. “He once took the ball out at the end of the gym and hit the fire extinguisher on the wall on the back side of the gym,” recalled Bonita. “He didn’t like the sport.” He noticed girls, but rarely mustered up the courage to approach. He cracked jokes and pulled pranks with teammates and friends, some of them mildly funny. At home, he feared his father, loved his mother, idolized his older brother (Scott joined the Hawks’ varsity in 10th grade, and started at quarterback for three years), and continued to torment his younger siblings, Jeff and Brandi. If there were parties going on in Hancock County, Mississippi, Brett Favre either didn’t know about them or wasn’t invited. Which was fine with him. “We had a pretty simple life,” said Scott. “The way we liked it.”

  Then, toward the end of his eighth-grade year, Shaw pulled his quarterback aside. “Brett,” he said, “I’ve got you a running back coming.”

  “Is he fast?” Favre said.

  “Yeah,” Shaw replied. “Charles Burton is fast.”

  His first-ever football team was named the Rockets. Although Charles Burton was but a fourth grader at the time, his school—Charles B. Murphy Elementary in Pearlington, Mississippi—was willing to make an exception and add the 8-year-old to the squad. Even though rules stated one had to be 11 or 12 to play. Even though he was as tiny as a peanut, with the skinny legs and pipe cleaner arms to match. Even though there was no precedent.

  “They took me,” Burton said, “because I could fly.”

  Indeed, from the time he was walking, Charles Burton was sprinting. Up the stairs. Through the yard. Down the block. Often with a football tucked beneath his arm. His mother, Diane Burton, worked as a janitor at the Stennis Space Center on the banks of the Pearl River.
His father, Charles Burton, was a construction grunt. As was the case with Irvin and Bonita, the Burtons insisted their three children (Charles has an older sister, Angela, and a younger sister, Dietra) devote as much time as possible to being outdoors. So after school, Charles bounded from his family’s small shotgun house and joined the neighborhood kids in spirited games of tackle. “They were all older and bigger,” he said. “It caused me to grow up quickly.”

  In Hancock County, Irvin Favre was working to create a family football dynasty. Only, one already existed. Throughout the 1970s and ’80s, a string of Burton relatives not only played for the Hawks’ varsity, but excelled. There was Don Lee, the uncle halfback who wore No. 30. There was Andrew Willis, the cousin halfback who wore No. 30. And now, entering Hancock Central High School along with Brett Favre, was a new No. 30.

  “The first time I met Brett, I was struck by how big he was,” said Burton. “I was like, God dang, they grow these boys big here!”

  To Brett’s delight, the affable Shaw coached the Hancock North Central freshman team, a job that included the tricky task of merging large numbers of players who had never before competed alongside one another. “They had their stars, we had our stars,” said Burton. “So how do you decide who plays and who sits?” Before any of the Hawks’ squads began practices, Irv Favre held his annual Meet the Football Team night inside the school auditorium. Parents of the players were required to attend, and when Irv took to the stage, the small talk and chatter died off. “When your son is out here with me on the field, and with my coaches, he’s ours,” he said. “If you need help with him at home, I’ll help. That’s what I try to do. But if you’re raising a baby, take your baby home. Out here your sons are expected to be men.” The days that followed were brutal—two-a-day practices designed to test mettle and manhood. Water breaks were kept to a minimum; vomiting was greeted scornfully. “If you survived two-a-days, you had a chance of playing,” said Burton. “But if you quit, it was over.” According to Burton and several other black Hancock players, the social wedges one might expect from Mississippi didn’t arise. Some of this was a product of the intense workouts—the team that sweated together bonded together. The freshman Hawks’ roster included but five blacks, including Burton. “Race just wasn’t a problem at the school,” said Burton. “I guess it’d be a better story had it been. But . . . we all got along really well.” From the earliest practices, Shaw knew he had a spring-loaded weapon in the new halfback. So did Brett Favre. Even though he fantasized of throwing 30 passes per game, the quarterback marveled at Burton’s burst and precision. On the varsity, Scott Favre handed off to Lydell Curry, a dazzling six-foot-one, 190-pound whirlwind of a runner who would go on to play at Mississippi State. “Charles Burton,” said Shaw, “was even better.”

  At the same time Scott Favre was guiding the varsity Hawks to a 6-4 mark, Brett Favre was leading the freshman team to an undefeated record and Deep South Conference title. Well, not leading. But he did flip the ball to Charles Burton left, Charles Burton right. Burton became a master of the 38 Sweep, which involved him taking the ball from Favre and bursting around the right tackle. “Our offensive line was just amazing, even in ninth grade,” Burton said. “When I ran inside, I would go through the line laughing. Not in my head—laughing aloud. I wasn’t a trash talker, but it was just too easy. It seemed funny.”

  Before it was common for Mississippi blacks and whites to socially mingle, Brett Favre and Charles Burton were tight. On occasion Burton slept over at the Favre house, waking up to the bountiful breakfast served up by Bonita. “She’s like my other mother,” said Burton. “If I have any problems, I call her.” If Burton didn’t feel like enduring the 45-minute bus ride home after school, he’d spend the afternoon with the Favres, playing sports in the yard, watching TV. In between seasons, Brett sometimes traveled to Pearlington to hang with the Burtons. “My parents loved Brett,” Burton said. “He was family.”

  Across Hancock County, few people knew a freshman named Brett Favre existed. There was no hype for the rising young quarterback, no talk of future greatness. People didn’t flock to see him play. Brenda Heathcock, prep-football writer for the local Sea Coast Echo, wasn’t pitching profiles of the kid. “Scott was a big deal,” Heathcock said. “Brett was not.”

  Burton, however, knew the truth. When practice ended and teammates walked off to the locker room, quarterback and halfback often stuck around. At the time Brett’s favorite quarterback was Miami Dolphins phenom Dan Marino. He mimicked his cadences—“Blue 50! Blue 50!”—and sent Burton out for deep passes. “He would launch that thing,” Burton said. “Not 20, 30 yards like most kids. I’m talking 50 yards easy, without much effort. We were a running team. I understood that. But, dang, you couldn’t watch Brett throw the ball and not think it kind of special.”

  The physicality remained a secret. Shaw’s offense ran often and effectively, and Favre dutifully handed off the ball. Then, in the last game of the season, the Hawks squared off against Pearl River Central, the conference’s power team. The Blue Devils successfully stymied Burton, loading the line with seven and eight players. Burton ran the ball on a sweep—Bam! Up the middle—Thwap! With 12 seconds remaining in the game, the Hawks trailed 12–7. Hopes of the conference title were dwindling away. “It was against our nature,” said Shaw, “but I said, ‘The only way we’re gonna win this game is if Brett throws it and Charles catches it.’” The play call was simple—Burton, lined up wide, ran a go routestraight down the field. Favre, out of the shotgun, dropped back and threw it far.

  Very . . .

  Very . . .

  Very . . .

  Far.

  Despite standing only five feet seven and weighing but 160 pounds, Burton split two defenders, glanced over his right shoulder, and hauled in the pass. “We used a Wilson football for freshmen, which was a little bit smaller than the regulation ball,” said Shaw. “But Brett threw that thing 50 yards in the air—50 yards! Easily!” As soon as Burton crossed the end zone, Shaw charged the field, smothering his quarterback in a bear hug.

  “Amazing,” he screamed in the 14-year-old’s ear. “Just amazing!”

  “Son, do you know what mononucleosis is?”

  The words hung there like a speech bubble in an Archie comic. Did 14-year-old Brett Favre know what mononucleosis was? Did 14-year-old Brett Favre know what mononucleosis was? How would he know what mononucleosis was, what with sports and a million other things to worry about? No, he didn’t know what mononucleosis was.

  What he did know, sitting in the office of Dr. Jare Barkley on that August day, staring at bland walls and the bland floor, was that something didn’t feel quite right. A boy usually overloaded with energy suddenly lacked energy. A kid who typically leapt from the couch now found himself glued to the couch. Still, the doctor’s visit was all his mother’s idea. Favre men don’t do physician appointments. “Irvin hated those medical places,” said Bonita.

  So did Brett. Especially when Barkley explained to him that a blood test had confirmed his diagnosis: his symptoms were a result of infection with the Epstein-Barr virus. Were it not taken seriously, mono could lead to a rupturing of the spleen, which often becomes enlarged as a result of the illness. Until he recovered, contact sports would not be a good idea. When Brett exited the room, Barkley told his mother, “Bonita, if he were mine, I wouldn’t let him play football. But obviously it’s your decision.”

  She brought the news home to Irvin, who was devastated. With Scott having graduated, the Hawks’ starting varsity quarterback position was wide open, and Brett stood as the natural heir apparent. Only two days of practice had passed. It wasn’t simply that Irv needed a signal caller. Hell, most any schlub could turn around and place the ball in Burton’s chest. And it wasn’t merely that Brett knew the plays—even though he did, by heart. No, Irvin Favre simply cherished (a word he would never use) having his sons play quarterback under his tutelage. Scott had been the Hawks’ hardest worker for his three seasons on var
sity, and Brett was, if possible, even more driven. He knew his sons would keep their teammates in line, and he also knew he could make an example of Brett without having the kid crumble. The Favre boys would lead as he would lead, and that—beyond any other attribute—was invaluable to Irvin.

  Now, however, Brett was out. Irvin asked a million questions, looked for the smallest loophole. What if Brett . . . Maybe if he . . . Perhaps there’s a way . . . How about we . . . but accepted his son would need three to four weeks of rest and an avoidance of all contact sports.

  Brett was inconsolable. The boy who rarely cried sobbed like an infant. Come late summer, the Hancock North Central varsity football team commenced practice without its presumed starting quarterback. In his place stood sophomore Melton Lewis, a converted running back with a quick first step, an average football IQ, and a soggy noodle for a throwing arm. Expectations for the team were low. Wrote Heathcock in the Echo: “[Irvin] Favre’s Hawks lost most of their skill players through graduation last year, and inexperienced players are now filling those positions.”

  For Brett, 15 and itching for contact, it was pure hell. On the bright side, he spent much of his recovery time lifting weights and eating, gaining 25 pounds of muscle by season’s end. He posed for the team photograph, hiding in the back row between Drew Malley and Byron Ladner, eyes to the side, chin tucked. During most games he would stand along the sidelines in blue jeans and his No. 10 jersey, watching, advising, pretending to be more engaged than he actually was. It’s a tricky spot for any athlete, and a particularly difficult one for a teenager. Did he want Lewis to do well? Did he want Lewis to struggle? What if the Hawks dominated without him? Would he regain the quarterback job? Would he switch positions? Play only safety?