There should be a manual for sporting deities called “How to Step Away Gracefully,” written by maybe Nolan Ryan or Jim Brown or Larry Bird, and it should be a must-read for every icon like Brett Favre before he retires. Because this unseemly saga that pushed into early this morning, with Broadway Brett headed to the New York Jets, severely damaged the myth of the heart-on-his-sleeve hayseed who restored glory to Green Bay.
Each telenovela with Greta Van Susteren, each new text message to “Mort” or some other soul whom Favre believed would buy his sorrowful tale of being wronged by a team he voluntarily retired from, deeply hurt the small-town fable of one of the most exciting, unpredictable players in modern NFL history.
Favre, in weeks, has morphed from the go-long-till-you-hit-the-barn legend of Kiln, Miss. — a real-life Wrangler jeans commercial — into the old guy who now needs the game more than it needs him.