Jets Camp Report, Part 3: Pun Intended

Two weeks after venturing to Hempstead - a knuckle of one finger in suburbia's sprawling grasp over Long Island - I find myself back stalking the same field.

Nothing's changed with the set-up at Hofstra University, the site of the New York Jets training camp. The field still gleams the uneasy green of artificial turf. Anxious fans still mill about in beloved jerseys. Modest bleachers still shine uncomfortably in the summer heat.

But, of course, everything's changed since I filed my initial reports. Two weeks ago, the biggest stories were the team's newest big men and a familiar quarterback competition. Brett Favre was merely a specter hanging over that competition, alternately a convenient jeer and a far flung hope.

Now hopes once modest and uncomfortable prepare to seat big, fat expectations. Anxiety turns to excitement, the reason simply that new name on the back of so many new jerseys fans have shelled out for in record numbers.

And another shade of green causes me unease. Though the Jets' hunter green isn't so far from the Packers' dark green, the reality of Brett Favre in a new uniform drives those minute degrees miles apart.

Today is Saturday, Brett Favre's first practice with Gang Green. The momentous quality of the occasion is reflected in the 10,000+ fans in attendance.

Up until this moment, Favre's New York arrival is all talk. The local rags trot out their consistently awful puns: Jett Favre, Can You QB-lieve It?, So Favre So Good, etc. Snatches of heated discussions are heard wandering the midday streets of the city. The mayor unveils an oversized key and outsized words in welcome.

Thankfully, after an entire month of bluster, the time for talk is over.

I am a lifelong Packers fan, but I tell myself I come as a writer interested in the objective importance of the moment. Admist the throngs of green and white, I'm hardly the only cheesehead. In fact, a couple Cowboys jerseys float by as well as a Steelers jersey. I stand next to a Buccaneers fan, perhaps here to see what his team missed.

Make no mistake, this three ring circus is primarily for the Jets and their fans. And, despite all the hoop-la, the main spotlight is trained on one man.

Unsurprisingly, that man looks a little lost in his new surroundings. An August routine of sixteen years broken will do that to a person. During stretches, Favre bends his knee in the opposite direction of the players around him, players already two weeks deep in the clockwork drills. He stops altogether, talks to an assistant coach to clarify his confusion.

The players run their position drills, but the entire crowd cranes to watch Favre, wondering when he'll throw. I wonder if Jets fans are easily impressed. As Favre takes snaps dropping back seven steps, someone says, "Look at him him drop back, what a pro!" Then I remember I'm not among the earnest folk of the northern Midwest and think I missed a tone of playful sarcasm.

There's no deny a slight disconnect between the fans and Favre. On the cab ride to the field, the guy I share the fare with is convinced Favre is motivated to play for the Jets. I'm not so sure. Brett's body language through the press conferences and sideline interviews shows me a tired old man, perhaps wondering what mess he got himself into. All might be well once the first Sunday rolls around, but there's no shortage of growing pains between now and then.

After what seems like an eternity, Favre lets fly his first pass. Applause and cheers ring through the assembled. His second pass provokes even more cheers, but a mild sardonic tone creeps in, the fans laughing at themselves for caring, self conscious at least in part of the absurdity of the moment.

Ever pass is judged. A heater is knocked away to gasps. The first interception nets a handful of jeers and more gasps.

Coach Mangini wastes no time in running several 11-on-11 sessions, handing Favre the reins to the ones. Arrayed with the entire starting line-up for the first time, the strangeness of the situation begins to sink in. Initially, exhaustion at the standoff and relief at its conclusion afforded some peace of mind. But watching him direct and dodge, pump and throw, basically watching Brett lead, the relief gives way to regret.

Journalists from time to time like to admonish their reading public that football is a business. It's a realm of hard truths, best to temper those emotions with a dose of skepticism. Never mind these same writers hope you buy into the grand fantasy, that you care enough to shell out for their typeset pages in books and magazines.

No, there's not a whole going for sports unless we fans forge some connections, however silly, however vestigial.

I contemplate what Favre has given Packers fans. Certainly, innumerable blows to his body. Chunks of his flesh litter Lambeau Field. Perhaps, a statewide rise in heart attacks on autumn Sundays. And foremost, an eerie consistency at a position and sport designed to discourage any such reliability.

Somehow, it's fitting, aside from a pair of overlarge shoes for Aaron Rodgers, Favre leaves Green Bay no part of himself. His body is in tact. No throwing shoulder torn to shreds or knees hobbled to old age.

What made his brief retirement bittersweet was the fact that plenty of football remains in his 6'2" frame. He was afforded a rare chance to walk away from the game, free from its ravages.

The contentious circumstances of his return to the NFL aside, the same truth imparts this comeback tour a bittersweet quality as well. Vikings center Matt Birk wrestled with the romantic notion of being scraped off the field as he contemplated retirement. But peeling the jersey off a prone body is often ugly in operation. Its elegiac, but only powerful in hindsight.

Favre's physical gifts will deteriorate. The spotlight on that inevitability once dimmed now shines again.

These thoughts fill my notebook. But a quick cadence of huts lifts me from these sobering scribbles. Favre drops back to pass, steps up in the pocket, and lets fly a beautiful tight spiral. Jerricho Cotchery slices the down the field on a deep post pattern, his man striding with him step for step.

The throw is too almost long. Almost. Cotchery leaps and extends his left arm, ensnares the pass, and loosens a thunderous cheer in the throats of crowd, myself included. All the hesitations and regrets melt away. I'm simply a fan again, amazed by this game practiced by rare athletes. Whatever the circumstances, the game won't fail us. Of that I feel certain.

I know my Packers are taking the sensible route to constructing a team. Mid-level free agents, resources poured into scouting, drafting in volume for depth, collecting prospects with an obsessive compulsion. It's a philosophy and they've held to it.

The Jets on the other hand backtracked on such a deliberate and moderate approach. Favre merely becomes the central argument for this aggressive philosophy. Big bucks to Alan Faneca, Kris Jenkins, Tony Richardson, et al, serve as a side dishes to the main course.

All in for now. It's an approach Favre howled for in his final Green Bay years. Are big accomplishments always accompanied by a slight stench of desperation? We'll find out.

The Jets and Packers won't clash on the field this year, but their accomplishments will be set against each other. And it's more than just Rodgers versus Favre. It's a clash of ideologies. As I board the train back to the city, I realize at least Favre finally suits up for the side he believes in.