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How Brett Favre Saved My Life
When you grow up in New Orleans, you can’t help but be a Saints fan. Even if you don’t watch football, even if you don’t like football, you’re a Saints fan. I’ve theorized that the doctor in my delivery room wasn’t wearing a white coat but a black and gold jersey. With all that said, it’s no wonder I grew up watching and loving the Saints. But it wasn’t until about high school, when I truly started to understand the game, that I understood respecting football meant respecting its players, even if they’re not wearing the right colors.
It was around this time that a young man of 21 who hailed from New Orleans’ backyard, Kiln Mississippi, got selected in the second round of the draft by the team I loathed with the same exuberant passion that I loved the Saints: the Atlanta Falcons. That young man’s name: Brett Favre. One year later, Favre left those Dirty Birds and flew North to the bitter cold of Green Bay, Wisconsin. When I look back at what Favre has been able to accomplish over the span of his 17-year career, I can’t help but selfishly think, “Thank God he didn’t bring all that good fortune to the Falcons.”
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