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Dear Brett:

Retirement is tough for anyone. For you, one who has given his life, his body, his physical and his mental health to his career, it’s nearly impossible. You’ve done the impossible before, and you can do it again.
Remember when you drove your car around a curve too quickly, bordering on (dare we say it) reckless? You found out that speed limits really respect the laws of nature. Your injuries nearly killed you, but you recovered. You not only played college football again, you played well. Very well.
Your time with the Atlanta Falcons, the team that drafted you into the NFL, wasn’t exactly stellar. In fact, black hole might be a better description. But Ron Wolf took a look at your talent and made a trade that changed history for you and for all of Wisconsin, the state that calls the Green Bay Packers their own.
Substance abuse. Addiction. Rehab.
Playoff success. Super Bowl ring. MVP honors.
Changes in coaching. Changes in personnel, receivers, centers, offensive line, back-ups.
Personal losses. Deaths of close friends and family.
Personal trauma. Your wife’s cancer.
Through it all, fatherhood. Raising two daughters in the shadow of Lambeau Field, with a famous father, and attempting to keep their lives “normal.”

Brett, football has been the center of your life all of your life. High school revolved around football. College revolved around football. After that? Seventeen years of records breaking, numbers falling like dominoes. When you announced your retirement, you must have wondered how you’d fill the hole left empty without the NFL, without the Green Bay Packers. Where will you go each day with no team meetings? No workouts? No training camp? How will you fill your time, your thoughts, focus your energy?

Brett, you’ve suffered in public so many times. Now you’re suffering again, but this time it’s different. We Packer fans are watching you panic. We’re watching you fall apart, grasping for a cloud that is rapidly evaporating, fading out of reach.

Brett, it’s not about you any more, and that’s central to the panic. Your team, the fearless green and gold, is moving on without you, and you just don’t know what to do.

Please, Brett, get help. Get professional counseling. You have value, with or without a football in your powerful hands. As I mentioned above, you’ve already done the impossible; you can do it again. But you don’t have to do it alone. Retirement is tough for anyone, and much, much tougher on you. Get some help, and get it now. You can retire, and you can retire with class.
Sincerely,
Daisy
A concerned and caring fan

>Yes, the news came out today. It’s official.
We knew he couldn’t play 4-ever, but we hoped. We cheered “One more year!” one more time, and hoped he heard us. Fans all over wore the green and gold and sported their #4 jerseys. They’ll wear those forever. It’ll be a classic jersey, since there’s not a chance in the NFL that another Green Bay Packer will ever wear number four again. It’ll be up there with 15 and 66 and only a few more. For ten trivial points — can you name the two players I just identified by number? For bonus points, can you name the other GB Packer players whose numbers have been retired?
My husband emailed me this morning as it unfolded. Apparently one of the big networks broke the news, but it hadn’t been independently confirmed yet. Minutes later, after a phone call to the team’s PR department, his station also aired the story.
I announced it to my class shortly after receiving the email. Many of my little darlings are also fans, and they were shocked and surprised. Consider that they’ve never known Green Bay with another quarterback; Ironman Favre was always, always, there.
He livened up the game with his gunslinger attitude and his dramatic play. He made mistakes, but he more than made up for them. For a southern guy, he sure played well in the cold. I’ll never forget the time he blocked on a running play and got called for a personal foul: unnecessary roughness. A quarterback? Only Favre.
He faced major personal tragedies while in the public eye, and handled them with class. Hurricane Katrina destroyed his childhood home. His wife developed breast cancer. His father died the night before a major game on national television. He battled addiction to a prescription painkiller. He faced fair-weather fans who said he was washed up, too old to play well.
Through it all he continued to inspire fans and foes alike. Anyone who couldn’t laugh when he instigated a snowball fight on the sidelines had to be a bah-humbug or a Seahawks fan. But when he came running out of the tunnel, the crowd roared.
I have many memories, including watching him lead the team to victory in Super Bowl XXXI, being in the same (large) room with him when he appeared on Larry McCarren’s Locker Room show, and rejoicing in his many records established and re-established.
What can I say? Good luck, Brett Favre, the Packers won’t be the same without you. And neither will Wisconsin. Thanks for everything — and mostly, thanks for the memories.