Poor Brett Favre

Oh, Brett Fav-Ree. Things aren't looking so swell for you these days. Against the Jets on Monday night, following the weekend's revelations that Brett likes to text-message photos of his wiener to girls who aren't his wife, 'ol Fav-Ree looked horribly old for the first 3 quarters of the game. He looked like a man whose head was elsewhere, quite possibly mulling over the fact that his marriage, public image and career were adrift in iceberg-strewn waters. He threw passes to nowhere, the football just dropped out of his hands (repeatedly) onto the ground as though he'd forgotten he was holding it. He looked like a man with serious problems. Watching his reaction after making yet another terrible play, hands on his head, you didn't need to be a telepath to read his mind: "...shouldn't have sent that text, damnit, I really shouldn't have sent that text..."

And then, suddenly, 41 year-old Grandpa Brett caught fire. On third-and-17 from the Jets 37, with 2:10 left in the 3rd quarter, he reared back and threw a perfect bomb to newly-reminted Viking Randy Moss for the Vikings first score of the game; 'ol Fav-ree ran down the field and leapt into Moss's arms like a joyous teenager. On the Vikings two following drives he was scintillating, firing the ball all over the field with pinpoint accuracy, cutting through the much-vaunted Jets defense like the proverbial knife through butter. And just like that, the Vikings were back in the game: with the ball on their own 20 yardline, 1:43 left and down 22-20, in perfect position to take the victory home. And 'ol Fav-ree drops back on 3rd down, and fires the ball straight into the arms of New York Jet Dwight Lowery, who takes it in with ease from 26 yards out for the touchdown: Jets 29, Vikings 20, ballgame over.

Maybe it's silly to say I feel somewhat sorry for Brett Favre. After all, it seems like he was born to play football, and that's exactly what he's done with his life, longer than almost anyone ever has. But it also seems, given that in-born destiny, that he keeps playing because he simply has no idea what else he could possibly do with himself. When he looks his age, he also looks much older; worn out, beaten-down, like Father Time's personal punching bag.

The diminishing returns, the cringe-inducing blunders, are hard to watch. But at the same time, he is still capable of playing the quarterback position with a verve and skill that is kind of breathtaking. Time will take Brett Favre out, eventually, as it takes all football players, as it takes all of us. Watching him fight it is both sad and oddly inspiring. I hope that he finds the clarity to make a graceful exit, so that the memory of the inspiring is what will win out, for him and for the rest of us, in the end.