“You are old, Mr. Favre,” a reporter did call.
“And you’ve seen quite a lot of the game.
And yet you incessantly throw the football
To the wrong team. Isn’t that a shame?”
“In my youth,” the veteran replied to the man,
“I had no control of my arm.
But I do as I’ve practiced, since that way I can
Be sure that I’ll come to no harm.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before.
And have played with most uncommon skill.
Yet at the end, the Vikings just couldn’t score.
Surely this wasn’t part of your will?”
“In my youth,” answered Brett, taking his helmet off,
“I kept all my limbs in good care.
But now,” he went on, with a sigh and a cough,
“My bygone strength just isn’t there.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet.
But your whispers will stir up new rumors each week.
Pray, how do you manage to do it?”
“In my youth,” Favre explained, “I’d pretend to broadcast
My made-up playoff victories.
My mouth got practice from those years so long past.
Now I can start rumors with ease.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “one can hardly suppose
That next season you will come back.
Or is that not true? You know how it goes.
Will you stay and help the attack?”
“I have answered three questions, and that is enough,”
Favre responded. “Don’t give yourself airs.
I’ll have the summer to think about that stuff.
Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs!”