Gunslinger by Jeff Pearlman

Author:Jeff Pearlman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

17

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THE CURSE OF REACHING an immeasurable high is the inevitable plummet.

That night in New Orleans, following the Packers’ Super Bowl win, Brett Favre and his friends and family members partied like the biggest rock stars who ever lived. They prowled Bourbon Street and drank into the wee hours of the morning. Even those who wondered whether Favre was wise to imbibe were willing to make an exception. The toughest stretch of his life concluded with a Super Bowl crown. Cut the guy some slack.

The fall began but a day later, when the Packers flew back from New Orleans to Green Bay for a victory parade. As soon as the plane landed at Austin Straubel International Airport, the players and coaches loaded onto five buses and drove through the city toward Lambeau Field.

It was awful.

Actually, scratch that. Awful is having your leg gnawed off by a shark. Or Mike Tyson punching you in the gut. Awful is the smell of old salmon, the taste of castor oil, the musical stylings of Rick Astley. This was significantly worse.

The temperature was 20. With the windchill, it felt 10 below. Snow covered the ground. The air was dry and bitter. Breathing burned. The Packers’ marketing department planned the entire day, including the three-hour trek from the airport to the stadium, including the players and officials who would speak at Lambeau, including the bus’s open windows.

Yes, the windows were locked in the open position, so the fans could feel closer to the players. Which would have been digestible had the Packers been warned, or had winter jackets been provided. “I would say it was freezing,” said Don Beebe, “but that doesn’t do it justice.”

“We’re all in suits,” said John Michels, the offensive lineman. “Suits! Not prepared at all.”

Reggie White was the first to board a bus, and he cradled the Lombardi Trophy in his arms. The driver popped in a CD, Queen’s Greatest Hits, and blasted “We Are The Champions.” Tremendous choice. “That was great,” Bob Kuberski, a defensive tackle. “But when we’re moving, the cold cuts through your body like a friggin’ knife.” Reebok had gifted the players with purple Super Bowl XXXI athletic suits, and before long everyone was slicing open the packets and draping the clothing over their outfits. “I’m leaning out the window, and this kid reaches out his hand,” said Kuberski. “He has a glove on, and I take it off his hand. He’s yelling at me, ‘Hey! My glove! My glove!’ Sorry, kid.”

Approximately 60,000 fans filled Lambeau Field. The ground was brick-hard and covered by six inches of snow, and the players were in dress shoes. Favre—warmed by several beers—said a few words, as did White, Mike Holmgren, and Ron Wolf. “Whoever planned that thing should have been canned,” said Wolf. “When Mike and I talked, we both sounded like we were drunk. A doctor later explained to me it was from the cold. It was just awful.”

“I just wanted to fucking go home,” said Derrick Mayes. “It was like, ‘OK, we won.

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