“I think the King is but a man as I am;

the violet smells to him as it doth to me …

His fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours are;

Yet … no man should see him with any appearance of fear;

Lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his army.”

--King Henry V, in disguise, to one of his soldiers on the eve of battle

Prince Hal, who became King Henry V, understood the mixed blessings that accompanied his crown. As a prince, he was a squirrelly, riotous young fellow who enjoyed far too well the bar room antics of the irresponsible Falstaff. His father, King Henry IV, his countrymen, and his future opponents, the French, worried about his leadership skills, underestimated his determination, and in France’s case, taunted and insulted him by sending over a bag of tennis balls when he ascended his throne.

I almost wish that the Minnesota Vikings had dismissed Brett Favre by delivering a bucket of tennis balls to Green Bay when he arrived in the city in 1991. Pink ones. And a kid’s plastic play racquet to go along with it, too. Anything to stoke the fire. Just think of the additional records Favre could have set had he been so welcomed by his opponents. Perhaps the competitive drive would have lasted a little longer; perhaps he would have graced us with his presence in our state and on our state’s team for just one more year.

He says he’s mentally tired. “Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,” Prince Hal was told by his father. Imagine what the burden must have been for 17 seasons for Favre. Yes, the violets smelled to him as they do to us, but for 17 seasons and 253 games, Favre could show no fear; his team, on the frozen tundra of battle, needed to turn to him and recognize confidence, even in foreign and frenetically hostile NFL climes.

But that confidence could never culminate in self-satisfaction, or in prideful self-indulgence. Had that happened, Brett’s and the Packer’s story would have ended far differently. Perhaps tragically.

“By jove, I am not covetous for gold …

it yearns me not if men my garments wear;

such outward things dwell not in my desires.

But if it be a sin to covet honor,

I am the most offending soul alive.”

--King Henry V, St. Crispian’s Day speech, just before riding into the battle of Agincourt

According to those who understand him, Brett will disappear behind the fence of his Mississippi home, go on with his life, and leave the summations and the stories and the “what ifs? And remember whens?” to the rest of us. Analysts will discuss his records, the amazing and the enduring, and the sickening opposites: the interceptions, the impulsiveness, and the agonizing, heartbreaking last play of his career. We’ll discuss the confessions, the rehabilitation, and the youthful shenanigans.

Perhaps a few storyteller-writers more skilled than I will connect all those dots and let its shape reveal a tale not often witnessed in modern times. A tale of honor and pride bequeathed upon a little town, a “fly over,” unassuming agricultural state, and its unlikely, rascally hero. The miraculous paradox of a truly successful leader-king-quarterback is that he understands and accepts that the more powerful and popular he gets, the more humble and less materialistic he must become. (The opposite of that truism is ugly to witness; we’ve seen it too many times to count.)

So what does he have if he isn’t seduced by tempting wealth and fleshly riches, and the resulting sycophantic adulation, that surrounds his victories?

He has what Shakespeare told us, as revealed in King Henry’s St. Crispian’s Day soliloquy. He has his honor, his character, his moral fiber. He has an honest mirror, so to speak. When Brett views himself in the bathroom looking glass every morning for the rest of his life, the conscience gazing back at him will be flawed, but it will offer soul-soothing comfort and truth. The honor he coveted, whether on purpose or not, he achieved. And he achieved it for all of us, in front of all of us, despite all of us.

There is nothing so disarming to one’s determination than to have a confidante express doubts. When cousin Westmorland told King Henry that they were devastatingly outnumbered by the French forces, and he wished for more men, Henry gave him a rousing tongue lashing:

“O, do not wish one more …

That he which has no stomach in this fight;

Let him depart …”

My eye for football is a novice one, but when I think of Brett Favre, it is beyond his profession’s context. Why? Because like King Henry, he wished for no more. Tiny Green Bay, its unpretentious environs, and its few people in terms of NFL cites, were sufficient. He bloomed and made soldiers in the modest field where he was planted. Anybody, football fanatic or not, can embrace that.

He could have fled, self-righteous and angry, when the going got rough. When the bank account became engorged; when the fans questioned and the coaches changed; when the embarrassment of rehab stung; when another interception was thrown; or when the Holmgren reprimand hit. But he didn’t, he stayed. He stayed among us, content for 17 seasons in Titletown, America’s Dairyland.

“This story shall a good man teach his son;

… and Crispian shall never go by;

From this day to the ending of the world;

But we in it shall be remembered …”

Yes, we certainly shall remember. The world will remember, but especially those of us here; those of us he “gentled” and promoted to his happy few, his band of brothers, because he wore the green-and-gold.

Thanks for the ride, Mr. Favre. You did so much more than just throw some inflated leather skins through the air on successive Sundays in the autumn. Grit. Determination. Perseverance. Honor. A modern Agincourt.

“He that outlives this day and comes safely home;

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named …

He that shall live this day, and see old age …

Will strip his sleeve and show his scars;

And say, ‘These wounds I had on Crispian’s day’.”

Thank you, Mr. Favre. To you and your family. You set an example; earned your kin’s Coat of Arms. There aren’t many modern fairy tales that combine a young, talented, irresponsible prince and a forgotten little land-that-could into a happy ending. Your tenure wasn’t perfect; you’re not a saint, and the scars are many. But that’s what comprises glory. An honest journey isn’t about perfection. You learned how to lead, and taught us to how to do it, too. You exemplified what was important, and gave us a lesson in how to represent yourself, your team and your state with honor.

Thanks. All our best during your well-deserved retirement, sir.

Godspeed.

Brettus Favricus, (BRETT-us FARV-i-cus), n.  Cheesespeak; Old World Lambeau. 1.  To lead with humility. 2.  To serve with dignity.  3. To invigorate the populace.  Rare.