Bring Me The Heart of Brutt Fiver

There is nothing new to be said about Brett Favre. The platitudes, the invectives, the verbal fellatio and the death threats, all relevant words have spilled forth, settled on the ground, and been ground into a fine dust by a thousand footsteps. But the Jets play the Vikings on Monday, and Brad used to play for the Jets, and so I will try to say something that will not bore you to tears.

I like Brett Favre. I like that he jerks people around, that he makes a spectacle of himself as often as possible, I like that his alternating between brilliant and atrocious seems to be getting more spastic. I hope Brick Faver plays until his arms fall off, I tell people. I hope Robo-Favre plays every year after that. But he won't. One day he will be gone, and anyone being honest will admit that it just won't be the same without the Gunslinger. But that is a concern for some time down the road, isn't it? In the here and now he is still with us, and he will play.

He used to play for the Jets. I loved it. I wasn't happy with the way the team did Pennington, but The Gunslinger was out there in green, leading the league in smiles and interceptions. While it was fun, it was a lot of fun. But the cold set in, the moisture left his tendons, something tore loose inside of his arm and then there was no more fun to be had. Just a run of losses, the season ending with a whimper, and the old man hitting the road for a shot at big things by way of fake grass, of stale air. I have no hate in my heart for Brett Favre. It comes from somewhere else.

What I mean to say is it's there. Holding on in some wicked corner of the brain only the world's finest phrenologists could ferret out, there is hatred for Favre. In his Wrangler commercial he rides along in his truck, talking up the fit, repeatedly taking his eyes from the road. Next time you see it I dare you not to imagine a semi plowing into the cab, the steel crumpling around him, an explosion of glass, a terrible screech and then nothing. Can you imagine the wailing? The moment of silence, the little black patches on the uniforms. The solemn on-air tributes. For some reason I imagine Jim Rome giving the eulogy, waxing poetic about how the F-Dogg wasn't always on your good side, but you knew his heart was in the right place. Moss is there, but he won't say anything, or even take off his sunglasses. When they lower Favre into the ground, one of the cables will snap. It's been a cold fall.

But failing a tragic accident involving sensibly priced jeans and lax defensive driving, Favre will come to the Meadowlands on Monday. He'll bring Moss with him. The Jets defense might settle in, with Revis' return looking likely, and Calvin Pace a strong possibility. Handsome Mark continues to ride his new found confidence and good luck, now with an additional target in Santonio Holmes. LT will do what LT does, and Greene will have a chance to demonstrate whether his respectable showing was about him or about Buffalo. But the Jets are the antagonist in this play. Monday will be about Borscht Frisk, coming off of a bye week, coming with the obscene deep threat of Randy Moss. The most the Jets can do is play the spoiler, an opportunity they should take for all it's worth.