Mark’s Kaddy Korner

A Round of Golf with Brett Favre

Boers and Bernstein, or as my college educated daughter calls them “Boring and Beefcakes”, were bad mouthing Brett Favre earlier this week. Listening for ten or fifteen minutes because that’s all I can handle, I realized their opinion was probably based on media hype, anti-Packer/Viking  sentiment, a tinge of jealousy, and the jaded view from their soapbox because they never step down among us. Their opinion is all that matters, they love to hear themselves talk.

Someone – you all know that someone—once said, “You can learn a lot about a man’s personality during a round of golf.”  Apparently, they haven’t played much golf with Brett, and I’m hazarding a guess they never will. I’ve been in Brett’s foursome many times over the years.  A Bear fan when we first met, I told him so on the first tee and he put his arm around me as we walked down the fairway.

 “Keep an eye on me,” he said. “I need all the help I can get with this game.” He didn’t hang with the corporate execs in the group, or the pro, Bob Murphy, Brett spent most of his time with the caddies that day.  We were in New Jersey, Upper Monclair CC, for the Cadillac NFL Classic and Brett was one of the head liners back in the mid 90’s. He was hanging with the caddies in his jeans and nasty ol’ baseball cap.

Like I said, I was a Bear fan but my daughter Cassie, either side of ten at the time, was a die-hard Packer fan, she knew the possible draft choices each year and could have been Ron Wolf’s right hand consultant back then. Standing on the second tee next to Brett I asked, “If I can get my daughter on the phone, would you mind talking with her?”

“I’d love too, what’s her name?” Over the years only Bill Murray has acquiesced like Brett. In the fourth fairway we had a wait and I phoned Cass, “Hey Cass, someone wants to talk with you.”

Brett was sitting next to me in the cart, grabbed the phone then walked into the trees. The ten minute conversation went like this:

“Hey Cass, this is Brett. (There’s a cousin Brett)……..No, this is Brett Favre………. No, really this is Brett Favre.” His grin was evident; he was having a good time, and told everyone to hit their shots while he finished the conversation. They talked about school, crazy pants day, and stupid kids stuff; I didn’t overhear one word about football. My normally outgoing daughter was speechless after the conversation and Brett had a great time, naturally. It wasn’t forced, there were no cameras, and he didn’t have to do it; Brett was having fun.

There was no conversation about football or Brett Favre during the round. We talked about giggin’ frogs, shootin’ turtles, fishing, and hunting deer. Whenever the paparazzi came around he grabbed a caddy for the photo shoot and there wasn’t an autograph seeker, except the professionals, ignored. He didn’t understand the attention but he definitely appreciated it.

His golf was ugly, an 18 handicap at best, but he hit it a long ways once in awhile. In between there was always some good ol’ boy conversation. Murph talked about Brett and his fellow NFLers drinking beer like water and shooting pool till the wee hours back at the host hotel. “Man, they drink more than you caddies,” Murph announced.

That was just before Brett’s Vicadin abuse issues went public, baring his “coonass” to the public. “Maybe that’s why none of us can play this damn game,” Brett shouted back. I’m not sure he finished a hole that day but had a good time despite his lack of talent. Walking off the eighteenth green he handed me his phone number. “Keep in touch, let me know if I can do something for ya’.”  In 1992 I was in the stands during the Steelers game at County Stadium, when the announcer couldn’t pronounce his name subbing for “The Magic Man” Don Majkowski, now he seemed like a high school buddy.

We kept in touch, bumped into each other at a couple of tournaments every year, and he got Cass and I tickets to a Bear-Packer game one year. The plan was to meet Brett’s wife Deanne, pick up the tickets then do a little tail gaiting but for some reason things got screwed up. Sitting in Lambeau parking lot without tickets I explained our plight to a security guard who escorted me to the executive offices, introduced me to Diane behind the desk, and I explained the situation. Any other organization would have had me lassoed and escorted from the premises into a padded cell.

She immediately phoned Deanne who said Brett had the tickets. After a couple of quick calls Brett appeared in the front office with two tickets. We chatted briefly, I immediately became a Packer fan after such royal treatment, and Cassie had the time of her life, Cheesehead perched on her noggin, bantering with the Bear fans behind her throughout the game. It was all good natured fun and wouldn’t have been possible without Brett’s help.

A few years passed, Brett had some rocky times off the course, but whenever we hooked up that greasy old baseball cap was still stinking, his baggy shorts were wrinkled, and his golf game was improving. He told me in Memphis, “When I quit drinking, I had to find something to do. I spent more time at the range than I ever did at the bar.” He said his handicap was a four; I called bul%#&it and didn’t believe him until we played in Birmingham a year later.

We had a nice pro-am foursome at Greystone during the 2000 Champions Tour Bruno’s Memorial Classic. Brett was a regular participant every year and drew quite a crowd. Our group, Raymond Floyd, Al Del Greco, and Vince Gill had a combined handicap of eight and things got quite competitive among the boys. The haggling, harassing, haranguing, and home boy humor started on the first tee and never let up. They were ruthless but kept it fairly clean because there were children in the crowd. Brett was holding his own with the sticks, Al was better than scratch and Vince was a four also, and they were all scratch at bantering.

Every shot there was some mud slung and it was tough to get a “good shot” from your teammates. On the fifth hole, a long sweeping dogleg right par five with a creek stretching across the fairway about 320 yards from the tee and extending down the right side of the layup area, Brett pulled out driver after everyone had laid up short of the creek. During each layup shot he mumbled something, rhymes with fussy, just loud enough for us to hear.

Vince yelled, “Wadda ya doin man? You’ll knock that in the crick.”

“I ain’ knockin’ it in, I’m taking it over the right trees and over the crick. Watch this boys-s-s.” Brett sniped back. This was going to be fun no matter what the outcome.

Brett winked at Raymond and me, spat a slew of Skoal, and started a serious waggle eyeing up his challenge. He had to get the ball up quick and carry it some 350 yards for a safe landing. Daly would have been proud of the backswing, his 5W30 hat stayed in place somehow, and we were all in awe but only the gallery acknowledged Brett’s feat. After he unwound he chirped, “Get you somma dat, Vince!”

The ball not only carried the first part of the ditch, it ended up past the layup extension, and Brett had nine iron for his second shot. The crowd was oohhing and awing but his partners were ribbing him all the way down the fairway. “Still gotta make a putt country boy,” Vince chided.

Brett bladed his nine iron, chipped up, and three putted for bogey never hearing the end of it the rest of the round. Those big hands of his (Jordan’s are the only one’s bigger) sometimes lose a little touch around the green. Luckily we started on the back side so there were only four holes left. The steam was rising, it got awful quiet but there was no explosion. Deanne showed up, consoled her hubby who spent the rest of the round with the gallery, partly to sign autographs, mostly to avoid the wrath of Vince and Al. They were relentless.

Whenever we’ve been on the course it’s been fun, it’s been natural, there’s been no pretentiousness. His stardom never reached the fairways, only that good natured country boy from Kiln, MS. I’m not quite sure who Boers and Bernstien were talking about the other day.

Ron Wolf must have played some golf with Brett before he traded for him. He understood the character, competitiveness, charm, and athletic talent of the 1991 33^rd draft choice from Southern Miss that helped rebuild the Packers. Maybe a few more folks should play golf with someone before they spout off about them.