On My Mind

Full disclosure: I don't know whether Brett Favre is going to play NFL football this season or not.

There; got that out of the way. If you're reading to find out Favre's future, you've come to the wrong place. As a Vikings non-fan, I hope he stays home in Mississippi. But he'll do what he'll do, and as we've seen the last couple of years, even those who know Favre and "know" what he's going to do don't actually know anything.

I used to blame Favre for this mess; kind of a "shut up and go away" attitude. I thought the tearful farewell to Green Bay after a productive season was a great way to end a career. I like guys who spend their whole career with one team, becoming pillars not only of a team but also of a community. I thought Favre's press conference was a heartfelt, tear-filled pit stop on the way to Green Bay sainthood and Canton, Ohio.

Then the rumors came…maybe he's not done. He showed up at training camp, expecting the team to set aside their plans for moving on and hand him back the ball. Suddenly Favre was about Favre, and not the "ultimate competitor" who would take a team on his back and do anything to win. So the trade to the Jets…and eventually he made his way to the Vikings, who were much more willing to set their plans aside and give Favre the keys to the offense, along with whatever else he wanted. "You just show up when you can, Brett."

I used to hold all that against him. "Doesn't he know when to quit?" I said. Then I looked in the mirror; at myself, after a church-league softball game.

Full disclosure again: no one ever paid me to play softball. In fact, I pay them for the privilege. So it's not like staying on the field helps my bottom line, as it does Favre. But the fact that I'm still playing has made me think, in the past few weeks, about the fact that Favre is still playing too.

Right now we're at the tail end of our softball season, and I come home most Monday nights with tight hamstrings and sore hips and back. I wonder why I drag my 40-year-old body out there week after week. I don't mind rainouts. (OK…I kind of like them.) And I think I'm almost done with softball. Forever.

My former "warning-track power" is now a power outage. What used to be turtle-like speed is now more like a turtle with two broken legs and a fifth of vodka. My left shoulder hurts, and there's no zip on my (right-handed) throws. The throws in the dirt I used to dig out at first base seem to get by me way too often this season.

We're heading into September, and my softball career seems very much to be in the rear-view mirror, even without the tearful press conference.

But you just watch. Come next April, when the announcement is in the church bulletin that they're signing up for softball teams, I'll feel the old pull. Some of the guys will ask if I'm gonna play, and I'll say, "I don't know." They'll encourage me, and I'll sign up. I'll feel the desire to be part of the team, to be one of the guys in the dugout pulling for each other and needling each other. It'll be warming up outside after a long winter, instead of blistering hot, and going out to play softball will seem like a natural part of spring. I'll grab my glove, and head for the fields.

And I won't say any more nasty things about Brett Favre hanging on too long in a young man's game.