Brett Favre feels besieged. He can't move, can't venture outside his rented house near the Vikings' complex in Eden Prairie, can't contemplate a Friday night on the town for fear he'll be swarmed.
His days and dreams are haunted not by paparazzi waiting outside restaurant doors, or fans clicking cell-phone cameras in his face. At 40, with every season perhaps his last, he finds himself smothered instead by the doubts that rattle around his gray head like flies trapped inside a screen door.
The doubts nag at him to flip open his laptop and study opposing defenses one more time, bark at him to turn off the TV and ignore his family and dissect, once more, the way the Bengals align their defense on third-and-8 inside the 20.
The TV announcers call him a "gunslinger" and laud the joyful recklessness of his play, but six days a week Favre lives like a rich recluse, growing a beard Howard Hughes would admire and a catalog of minutiae befitting the Rain Man.
"I'm here for one reason," Favre said recently in a rare one-on-one interview with a member of the Minnesota media, and the more he talked the more his persistent stubble looked like a sign of obsessiveness rather than a good ol' boy fashion statement.
With a Hall of Fame berth assured and a handful of records that would have made Johnny Unitas blush tucked into the back pocket of his Wranglers, Favre finds himself driven more than ever by fear of the unknown, fear that he will miss a tell, a read, that could win his team a championship.
In a year when St. Paul native Joe Mauer won the American League Most Valuable Player Award while leading his hometown team to the playoffs, Favre is the 2009 Star Tribune Sportsperson of the Year because his story is even more dramatic and unique. Perhaps never before in the history of major sports had a player of Favre's stature, at a position of such celebrity and importance, chosen to join the archrival of the team that made him famous and so immediately made an impact that reverberated across the nation.
'I'm always worried'