Arkansas Anticipation

Here in Dallas, the official start of the NFL season is about two weeks away, and the complaints about the Cowboys, from whom much is expected, already have begun.

"The Cowboys' first–team offense, which had been anything but sharp in the first three preseason games, looked even worse Saturday night in a 23–7 loss to the Houston Texans," writes Tim Cowlishaw in the Dallas Morning News.

Losing a football game to Houston — even in the preseason — has never gone down easily in Dallas. Over the years, the Cowboys have had intense rivalries with many teams — but losing to an instate rival, even (or, perhaps, especially) when not much is expected from that rival, is just downright intolerable.

Texas, like most Southern states, has a reputation for being religious. But the real religion around here is football.

And Dallas may be the most egregious offender. In the nearly 40 years of its existence, Texas Stadium's distinctive rectangular hole in the roof was said to be there so God could watch his football team play.

(The first time I heard that, I wondered what was keeping God from watching the teams that played in stadiums that had no roof or anything else that might obscure the view from on high.)

I even read an obituary once in a Texas newspaper that said the deceased would be enjoying seats on the 50–yard line for God's football games. (The assumption, of course, was that heaven has a football team. But no mention was ever made concerning who that team would play. Hell's Angels, perhaps?)

I'm not a Dallas native, and I'm not a Cowboys fan so it really doesn't matter to me if Dallas doesn't live up to its fans' expectations.

But I do understand the almost religious fervor that accompanies the start of football season here. I grew up in it — in Arkansas.

Now, there is no professional sports team in Arkansas (other than the minor league baseball team that plays in Little Rock). But the statewide devotion to the University of Arkansas Razorbacks has always put the fan bases of many NFL teams to shame.

When I was a child, the Razorbacks were always ranked going into a season. They didn't always finish the season in the then–Top 20 — in fact, they seldom won the Southwest Conference, the now–defunct conference in which they once competed — but the fans still went into every season convinced the Hogs would win them all.

And, then, with each loss, even when the loss was expected, the anguish in Arkansas was excruciating.

Nevertheless, in spite of some brutal setbacks, the Hogs always seemed to come through when you least expected it.

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One of the most astonishing was the day in 1981 when the Razorbacks took on their old rivals, the top–ranked Texas Longhorns, two weeks after losing to TCU for the first time in more than 20 years.

At that time, TCU was not the nationally recognized football program it is today. The Horned Frogs were regarded as one of the weakest teams in the conference in those days, and a loss to TCU was devastating for a program as proud as Arkansas'.

I was a student at Arkansas at the time, and I can assure you that there was little enthusiasm on the campus for that game with Texas. But the Razorbacks surprised everyone with a 42–11 rout.

Half a dozen years earlier, there was a similar feeling as the Razorbacks prepared to face Texas A&M in the regular–season finale. The undefeated Aggies had beaten the rival Longhorns the week before; Arkansas was in the midst of a seven–year losing streak to Texas and had already lost to the Longhorns.

The winner of the game would be bound for the Cotton Bowl — which may not sound like much now, but in those days, it was the reward for winning the Southwest Conference.

And the winner was Arkansas, 31–6. So the Hogs came to Dallas to face Georgia in the Cotton Bowl on Jan. 1, 1976, and won that game, too, 31–10.

A few years later, Arkansas came close to winning the SWC but came up short — thanks to another loss to Texas. The Razorbacks were invited to play #2 Oklahoma in the Orange Bowl on New Year's night, a game that didn't attract much attention in the days leading up to it, in large part because coach Lou Holtz had suspended three starters for rules violations.

The Vegas oddsmakers took the game off the board, assuming that OU would crush Arkansas. But, instead, it was Arkansas that won the game in a romp, 31–6.

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Well, there have been great moments — and crushing defeats — in the years since.

But it seems the Razorbacks have been making fewer appearances in the rankings than they used to. They seemed to be on an upward trajectory a few years ago, when Darren McFadden was the runnerup in the Heisman Trophy voting two years in a row, but they slipped back when McFadden left and Arkansas went through a coaching change.

Now, however, all is right with Razorback Nation again.

The season begins this week, and the Associated Press has Arkansas ranked 17th. Five other Southeastern Conference teams are in the AP's Top 25 — but only two are ranked ahead of the Hogs, and only one of those teams (defending national champion Alabama) will face Arkansas during the regular season.

I've got to admit I've been fantasizing about an SEC title and maybe even a berth in the national championship game, but I'm far from the only one. It really is nice to be able to eagerly anticipate a football season again, but I think we all need to take a minute or two and remember that there are many obstacles to overcome.

For one, the Razorbacks may be playing in the most competitive division in the most competitive conference in the nation. Two other schools from their division — LSU and Auburn — are in the Top 25, and another one (Ole Miss) got some votes in the poll. The only school in the division that seems likely to be a "breather" — at least by comparison — is Mississippi State, but anyone who watches SEC football knows there are no breathers in that conference.

At some point, I believe MSU will be the "spoiler" for someone. It might well be Arkansas.

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And, while there is a lot of talk among Arkansas fans these days about the Heisman prospects for strong–armed quarterback Ryan Mallett, people do get hurt playing football, and many good football teams have seen their hopes go down in flames because a key player was injured.

I hope the Razorbacks can successfully negotiate the mine field that the SEC schedule can be. And I hope no one crucial to the team — least of all its Heisman prospect at QB — gets hurt.

All I can do is hope.

Crunching the Numbers

Lists — and I'm speaking of "best of" lists here, the ones that are based on the personal preferences of the individual or group who compiled them — are meant to provoke arguments.

It's really why they exist.

If, for example, I say that I think "Citizen Kane" is the greatest movie ever made (which I do), I am sure to encounter arguments from others — from people who don't share my appreciation for the pioneers or the historical context of motion pictures, from viewers who think that any film that is devoid of "action" and/or splashy special effects (and thus must depend on dialogue) is inferior, even from folks who refuse to watch a black–and–white film (and consequently deprive themselves of many of the greatest movies ever made — talk about being color blind).

Such people might recommend some worthy alternatives for consideration. Others might not. But the point is that it's all opinion. No one is right. No one is wrong.

In almost every such debate, there are just far too many variables to consider. And the value I will give to one variable almost certainly will not be the same value that others will give to it.

Sports are particularly vulnerable to this kind of debate that no one can win.

It seems, for example, as if I have heard people debating the merits of different generations of baseball players all my life. When Hank Aaron was about to surpass Babe Ruth as all–time home run king, I heard people arguing about which one was a better home run hitter.

It was tougher in Ruth's day, I heard some say. The ballparks were bigger, and the leagues were smaller. The talent wasn't as diluted, which meant the pitching was almost always tough, no matter who you played.

Besides, the schedule was shorter. Who knows how many home runs Ruth might have hit if he had been able to play in eight more games per year?

Yes, the Aaron supporters would say, the league was smaller — and road trips were shorter. At the most, Ruth might have to travel half the length of the continent, but Aaron, who spent most of his career in Atlanta, played in a division that required him to travel to the Pacific coast frequently. That much travel is bound to take its toll, yet Aaron played in the majors for more than 20 years.

Well, this flight of fancy was inspired by a recent pair of posts on the Sports Illustrated web site.

These posts were dedicated to the best pro football players ever to wear each number, and they were divided in two lists because a single list of every jersey number from 00 to 99 was just too bulky.

Actually, it was pretty big at 00–49 and 50–99, too. Frankly, I would have preferred four lists. At least. But it wasn't my call.

Nor was it my call which players were named the best to wear their numbers. I agreed with many of the choices, but I disagreed with some.

For example:

• At #5, Donovan McNabb was listed as the best to wear that number. He's had a great career, but how on earth can anyone take him over Paul Hornung, who didn't just play in NFL championship games but won four of them and was on the team that won the first Super Bowl?


• At #9, I have a problem with taking Sonny Jurgensen, who had some great numbers but never won the Super Bowl, over Jim McMahon, who actually won a Super Bowl.

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• I really have issues with #12.
  
  Sports Illustrated picked Tom Brady over Terry Bradshaw because Brady allegedly won in a "tougher era."
  
  Really? Tougher than beating the Dolphins of the early '70s? Or the Raiders throughout the decade? Or the Oilers, who mounted serious challenges from within the division after Earl Campbell joined the roster? Or the Buffalo Bills when O.J. Simpson was in his prime?
  
  Or Dallas' Doomsday Defense in two Super Bowls?
  
  Or Minnesota's Purple People Eaters in one?
  
  In all, Bradshaw won four Super Bowls in six years. How many has Brady won?
  
  There were other great players who wore #12, too — Roger Staubach, Bob Griese, Joe Namath. I'm sure you could get arguments in several NFL cities. But I'm convinced that Bradshaw deserves to be 12's representative in this list.


• I live in Dallas, but I wasn't born and raised here so I don't feel any special attachment to the Cowboys, least of all Deion Sanders. And I really don't think he deserves to be listed as the greatest to wear #21. I'd rather list the runnerup, LaDainian Tomlinson, or Cliff Branch or even Jim Kiick.
  
  Maybe that's just personal preference, though.


• I can live with the choice for #32 — Jim Brown — even though I'm sure it was a tough call. After all, guys like O.J., Marcus Allen and Franco Harris wore that number, too.
  
  But Brown was the best.


• Now, #33 is a real generational clash. SI went with Sammy Baugh and listed Tony Dorsett as the runner–up. I hadn't been born when Baugh was playing, but I remember watching Dorsett on TV.
  
  I know Baugh was probably the best passer of his era, but all I've seen of him are film clips.

And in the second group ...

• At #52, I think I would replace Ray Lewis with Mike Webster. If it's about the numbers, I'm more impressed by Webster's four Super Bowl rings — a noteworthy achievement for a man who played a position as physically demanding as center.
  
  And some people would tell you he was the best ever to play his position.


• As good as Otto Graham was, I don't really think he deserves to be listed at both of the numbers he wore in the NFL — first #60 and then #14. Give #60 to Chuck Bednarik or Tommy Nobis. Or give #14 to Y.A. Tittle or Ken Anderson.

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• It had to be a close call in selecting #74.
  
  Sports Illustrated went with Merlin Olsen, but, really, I think I would have gone with Bob Lilly. I saw both of them play on TV when I was a child, and I thought Lilly had more of an impact. Heck, even Sports Illustrated chose him as one of the 10 most revolutionary defensive players ever.


• Another close call at #75.
  
  SI went with Deacon Jones, a decent choice. But I would have preferred the runnerup, Mean Joe Greene.
  
  Must have been a tough choice. Howie Long also wore #75, as did Jethro Pugh and Forrest Gregg, who played an important role in the success of Green Bay's power sweep in the 1960s.


• At #85, I'm baffled why Jack Youngblood got the nod over Nick Buoniconti.
  
  Sure, Youngblood was a great player. But why take him over Buoniconti, the middle linebacker for Miami's great No–Name Defense that quietly kept the Dolphins undefeated in 1972?

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• And #99 is purely a personal choice.
  
  Warren Sapp got the nod from SI. And that's fine. But Dan Hampton wasn't even the runnerup. Jerome Brown was.
  
  And Mark Gastineau wasn't even mentioned!
  
  I know, Gastineau never played in a Super Bowl. And Sapp and Hampton each won one. But Gastineau and his sack dance breathed new life and energy into the NFL after its strike–shortened 1982 season. Some people didn't like it. But it sure got people's attention.
  
  Some people thought he was a jerk. But he was never as bad as Brian Bosworth.

Well, that's the kind of argument these lists are designed to provoke.

Running to Daylight

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Friday will be the 40th anniversary of the death of Vince Lombardi.

Lombardi died of colon cancer. While there have been many improvements in the fight against cancer in the last four decades, colon cancer remains one of the most common causes of cancer–related deaths.

A relentless perfectionist, Lombardi probably would be disappointed that, in 40 years, medical science hasn't conquered the thing that killed him. Medical science has made great strides against other forms of cancer, including the variety that killed Bears fullback Brian Piccolo less than three months earlier, but colon cancer remains a formidable adversary.

I guess that's fitting. During his life, Lombardi also was a formidable adversary.

In the 1960s, Lombardi may have been the most respected coach in the NFL. He became the first coach to lead his team to three straight NFL titles, and he was the winning coach in the first two Super Bowls.

Today, his memory is not so vivid in most minds. He is remembered by some for saying things that are generally considered cliches now — things like "Winning is the only thing" and urging his players to "run to daylight."

My personal memories of Lombardi are still vivid, though, and they are in black and white. That's because our TV was a black and white in those days — and the screen wasn't very big so Lombardi, who was not a tall man to begin with, looked even smaller to my elementary school eyes.

Actually, my family got its very first color TV in 1970, a few months before football season was scheduled to begin. Then as now, I loved football, and I was looking forward to seeing football games in color.

And one of the things I was looking forward to the most was finally seeing Lombardi, who was coaching the Washington Redskins by that time, in color.

In hindsight, I probably didn't miss much. Even in the color film I have seen of the Lombardi Packers, Lombardi was a black–and–white figure, almost always wearing dark pants and a white shirt, occasionally wearing a tan overcoat. He always appeared somewhat colorless, with his salt–and–pepper hair and his dark–rimmed glasses.

But appearances can be deceiving. Lombardi was far from colorless.

I was — and still am — a Packers fan. Lombardi was the reason for that, but, as much as he did for the Packers, he seems to have done even more for the Redskins in 1969, laying a foundation for the franchise's future success in the 1970s and 1980s.

But even though he took a team that was unaccustomed to winning and molded it into a contender, Lombardi worried that he hadn't been as tough as he should have been. Sonny Jurgensen said that, before he was stricken with cancer, Lombardi told him he had been "too easy" on the players after taking a year off from coaching and pledged to be tougher.

In the spring of 1970, it seemed all but certain that, with Lombardi at the helm for the second year, the Redskins would be televised beyond their local viewing area. That was good news for a young Lombardi fan living in Arkansas.

And, in that spring of 1970, there was no ESPN where football fans could get offseason news, but the sports writers I read in the Arkansas Gazette in those days all seemed to feel the Redskins were poised to make a real run for the playoffs.

That was an unfamiliar feeling, even though Washington could have been in the playoffs in 1969 if the Redskins had defeated the Dallas Cowboys in their two meetings (in fact, they didn't really come close to winning either game).

The old NFL and its upstart rival, the American Football League, merged earlier in 1970, then divided into the NFC and AFC, and folks expected big things from the Redskins (who actually would have been in the running for a wild–card playoff spot in 1969 if such a thing had existed at that time).

But it was not to be. Lombardi was stricken with cancer that summer. The oncologist who treated him called it the most aggressive he had ever seen, and Lombardi died about 10 weeks after his diagnosis.

His memory is honored, of course, in the name of the trophy that is awarded annually to the team that wins the Super Bowl — a fitting tribute to the man who coached the winning team in the first two Super Bowls, even though those victories had none of the drama of the legendary "Ice Bowl."

I still remember when I heard that Lombardi was dying. It was a week night in early September 1970. My father, a college professor, had been spending the previous eight weeks taking continuing education courses in Chicago, and he was returning that night.

My mother took my brother and me, along with some family friends, to the Little Rock airport to meet his plane — only to be told at the airport that Dad had called. He had missed his flight — I think he got stuck in Chicago traffic — and was booked on another flight. He would be arriving late that evening, we were told.

So we turned around and drove back to our small hometown about 30 miles away to have some dinner and kill a few hours. I clearly remember, on that drive home, hearing reports on the radio that Lombardi was near death. And, by that time the next day, he was gone.

The year after he died, Lombardi was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

After Lombardi died, one of his former players from his glory days in Green Bay, Jerry Kramer, put together a book about Lombardi that was primarily transcriptions of interviews he did with people who were influenced by the legendary coach.

He had had some experience with this kind of thing. In 1967, he kept a diary of the football season, which, as it happened, was the last season Lombardi coached the Packers. The diary was published as a book called "Instant Replay" and became a best seller.

Kramer played one more season, then retired, publishing another book titled, "Farewell to Football."

Most of the people he interviewed for his book on Lombardi were men who played for Lombardi. One was his brother. Another was a college teammate who became, along with Lombardi, one of Fordham's "Seven Blocks of Granite." Kramer also interviewed legendary Army coach Red Blaik, who hired Lombardi as an assistant coach in the late 1940s.

And the final entry came from Kramer's conversation with Sonny Jurgensen, a talented quarterback who was trying to come back from rib and elbow injuries at the age of 35 when Lombardi arrived in Washington. They had one season together.

When Jurgensen met with Kramer, he told him, "I envy you ... all you guys from Green Bay. You had him for nine years. We only had him for one — just long enough for him to educate us as to what it takes to win."

When the transcription was finished, Kramer wrote, "I think I felt sorrier for Sonny than I did for any other man affected by Vince's death. He'd waited so long to be a winner. He'd waited so long to find a Vince Lombardi."

Some people never find a Vince Lombardi, and others, like Jurgensen, don't have their Lombardi long enough.

On the surface, his lessons were about football, but they were really about life.

"If you believe in yourself and have the courage, the determination, the dedication, the competitive drive," he said, "and if you are willing to sacrifice the little things in life and pay the price for the things that are worthwhile, it can be done."

And, while there was no way he could have known it at the time, he had good advice for those people in the 21st century who find themselves in a poor economy and working at a job for which they have no passion.

"If you aren't fired with enthusiasm," Lombardi said, "you will be fired with enthusiasm."

Lombardi. His wisdom still rings true 40 years after his death.

Do The Hustle

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Mark Kriegel writes, for FOX Sports, that Brett Favre has turned his now annual public agonizing over whether to retire into some kind of racket.

Favre's Hamlet act, which is now in at least its third incarnation (who knows what kind of maneuvering he may have been up to when he was still wearing the green and gold of Green Bay?), seems to be wearing a bit thin. More and more people appear to be thinking, "Retire already!" And Kriegel is one of them.

"It's not wrong for him to get more money," Kriegel writes. "I'm just sick of the guy pretending he's so damn pure."

Does that seem harsh? I don't really think so. I mean, you'd probably have to look long and hard to find someone who admired Favre more during his Green Bay days than I did. I've been a Packer fan all my life, and Favre is the most exciting thing I've seen wearing a Packer uniform since the Lombardi days of my childhood.

I will take a backseat to no one in my admiration for Favre. Even after he left Green Bay. You really do have to admire a man in his late 30s (now early 40s) who keeps going out there to face defensive players who are nearly half his age. And he can still play at a time in life when nearly all the men who played pro football hung it up long ago.

He's always been kind of the NFL's Peter Pan, forever young (in spirit if not in body), the kind of guy who seems like he would play even if he didn't get paid.

But he does get paid — and quite handsomely, too — as Kriegel points out.

"In 2007, Favre was making about $11 million in base salary," he writes. "After retiring, un–retiring and reporting to the Jets in late August 2008, he went up to $12.8 million. Last summer, he came out of retirement again and got a two–year deal worth $25 million.

"Now he's become the first 40–year–old in America to get an extra $3 mil guaranteed for taking another month off from work."

I understand Kriegel's frustration — especially when Favre says things like "it's not about the money."

As H.L. Mencken said, "Whenever someone says, 'This is not about money' — it's about money."

That certainly seems to be true in Favre's case, all protestations to the contrary. And Kriegel gets that by reading Favre's own words — between the lines, that is.

Favre admitted that he was getting a lot of money from Minnesota to come back for one more year, but, he said, "that in itself was not the biggest factor."

Therefore, concluded Kriegel, "it was a factor."

And, thus, he writes, Favre has made retirement "one hell of a business."

As long as he continues to produce the way he did last season, it may be awhile before he has a going–out–of–business sale.

Bobby Thomson Dies

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Bobby Thomson did a lot of things in the major leagues, and he would be deserving of a place in baseball history even if he hadn't fired the shot heard 'round the world that sent the New York Giants to the World Series after a dramatic playoff against the Brooklyn Dodgers at a time when playoffs (other than the World Series) only occurred if two teams tied for first place in either league.

But he did — on Oct. 3, 1951.

Anyway, Thomson died the other day at his home in Georgia. He was 86 years old, and his daughter said he had been in failing health in recent years.

"Partly because of the fierce rivalry between the Giants and the Dodgers; partly because it was broadcast from coast to coast on television; and partly because it was memorably described in a play–by–play call by the Giants radio announcer Russ Hodges," writes the New York Times' Richard Goldstein, "Thomson's three–run homer endures as perhaps the most dramatic moment in baseball history."

If you've ever heard children fantasizing aloud about being at the plate with two on and two out and a two–run deficit to make up in the ninth inning, they could be describing that October afternoon when Thomson hit a three–run home run to complete what had been a truly remarkable comeback at the end of the regular season.

In mid–August of that year, the Dodgers led the Giants by 13½ games, but New York won 16 in a row and pulled even with Brooklyn on the final weekend, setting up a best–of–three playoff.

And when Thomson fired his historic shot, he gave generations of boys something to emulate. Like Harry Truman's famous political upset only a few years earlier, it was proof that, as Yogi Berra said, it ain't over 'til it's over.

Football Memories

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I've been writing at my other blogs of my friend Phyllis, who died last week.

I think it shall be hard for me, this fall, to watch a football game without thinking of Phyllis.

Last night, I was on the phone with a mutual friend, also named David, who is in my hometown making preparations for Phyllis' memorial service. We only recently reconnected through Facebook — largely because of Phyllis' illness and death — and much of our conversation focused on people and places and things I really hadn't thought much about since I was in high school.

Sports played a modest role in my relationship with Phyllis. She was in the marching band for many years so she was always performing at football games. I wasn't in the band, and, to be honest, I rarely went to my high school's football games when I was a sophomore or a junior — but I will admit that my attendance rate did go up considerably when I was a senior and I was dating a girl who also was in the band.

Phyllis enjoyed sports, but we didn't always share the same passions — in her later years, for example, she apparently became a NASCAR fan, which seems to be a very Southern thing even though it is a sport I've never really been able to appreciate. Phyllis tried to tell me about it, and I'm going to try to watch it in the future. And, when I do, I will pull for Jimmie Johnson — Phyllis' favorite driver — but I doubt I will ever be able to work up the kind of enthusiasm for NASCAR that Phyllis had.

At one point, our conversation turned to Phyllis' mother, who told David to ask me if I remembered staying at their house one New Year's Eve when I was in college. I had been visiting my grandmother in Dallas during the Christmas holidays, and an ice storm came through at the end of December.

My parents were living in northwest Arkansas. Before the year was over, I made the decision to transfer there, but on this occasion, I was going to college in my hometown, and, when the dorms were closed, I had no place to stay.

That put a lot of pressure on me because the dorms were set to reopen the day after New Year's. At some time on New Year's Eve, I made the decision to drive to Conway (with my car loaded down with my stuff) and spend the night at Phyllis' house.

(I figure I must have had at least one phone conversation with Phyllis before I left my grandmother's home, but that memory escapes me now.)

As I recall, it was a pretty low profile New Year's Eve. I didn't drink any champagne — guess I was still too young to buy alcohol in those days, and I was tired from my 300–plus mile trip, anyway. I don't think any of us stayed up to see the new year in.

But the next day, I remember watching the Cotton Bowl game on TV with Phyllis' mother — and marveling that I had driven from Dallas to Conway the day before.

The game was a classic. Joe Montana led Notre Dame to a stirring come–from–behind victory over Houston. Notre Dame scored 22 points in the final quarter, including a touchdown on the final play, and I remember watching it all with Phyllis' mother — and yelling until we were practically hoarse.

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A year later, I was living in Fayetteville, Ark., where I finished work on my bachelor's degree.

But, before I left Conway, I returned to Phyllis' home that fall to watch the Arkansas–Texas game with Phyllis, her mother, and a friend and high school classmate named Ellen. Others may have been there, too. I simply don't remember.

We were all Arkansas fans, and the Razorbacks had lost to Texas for seven straight years. But they prevailed that afternoon.

The way we all yelled and hugged, you would have thought we were on the sidelines or at least in the stands and not watching in Phyllis' living room.

Those are memories I will always cherish.

Will He or Won't He?

As I have mentioned before, I've been a Packers fan since I was a little boy.

Consequently, for some 15 years, I was a big fan of Brett Favre. He did what no one had done since I was a child — take the Packers to a Super Bowl. And he did it in back–to–back seasons.

Along with being a Packers fan, I'm just a fan of football in general. When I see someone having as much fun as Favre had playing for the Packers — and then for the Jets and then, even for the loathed division rival Vikings — it reminds me of when I was a kid.

It's hard not to have fun watching someone else have that much fun.

But, writes Jay Glazer for FOX Sports, that fun might be coming to an end.

Glazer reports that a "source" has said Favre (who turned 40 last fall) is going to retire.

Given his history, though, what can you believe? This is the third summer that Favre has lapsed into his Hamlet shtick. The first two times, he came out of retirement and played — pretty well, too, for a man in his age bracket.

It is the perpetual drama of Brett Favre in recent years. He is an exciting — but flawed — quarterback to watch who long ago reached the age when most pro athletes are thinking about hanging it up. I've seen some who just couldn't accept the verdict of nature at first, but they became persuaded when they realized they weren't capable of what they once were.

Favre's problem is that he thinks these thoughts, but he can't bring himself to follow through on them. And I suspect that the main reason is he is a freak of nature. Even at the age of 40, he was still capable of putting up impressive numbers. Perhaps they weren't quite as gaudy as they had been when he was winning MVP awards, but they were numbers that many quarterbacks half his age would envy.

Not to mention the fact that he damn near got to the Super Bowl again. And I suspect that, if he had, we might not be having this conversation. Because, if he had made it to the Super Bowl at the age of 40, I think he would have retired, win or lose.

But he came up short, just like he did two years earlier in his final game with Green Bay. That's just too tantalizingly frustrating for a guy like Favre. He is not the sort who tends to be satisfied with making it to the conference championship game.

Glazer insists, though, that "this is the strongest indication yet that the legendary quarterback could, in fact, retire for good."

Maybe so. Not everyone agrees, though — and, at this stage, it's probably wise to be skeptical of any suggestions from anyone that Favre's career is, indeed, over.

But, if it is, the Vikings seem likely to face a problem I wrote about last year — a crisis of confidence among the quarterbacks who remain.

Actually, on that occasion, I was agreeing with something that Sports Illustrated's Peter King had written: "I'd have waited until [quarterback] Sage Rosenfels struggled — if he struggled — and then made the call to Favre. By doing it now, [head coach Brad] Childress loses Rosenfels and [quarterback] Tarvaris Jackson; how can they ever trust anything he says now?"

The problem was deferred — but now, having to deal with it may be unavoidable. Jackson only got a handful of snaps in relief of Favre last season. A year he could have spent polishing his skills was squandered, and, unlike Favre, Jackson (who turned 27 in the offseason) has never seemed like the kind of quarterback for whom time was on his side.

So far in training camp, he's reportedly taken most of the snaps with the first team, which may be a sign the Vikings are trying to prepare him to take Favre's place. Too little too late?

I'm inclined to think the Vikings will pay a price for rolling the dice on Favre last season and will slip from the lofty 12–4 regular–season record (and relatively easy 5–1 mark in their division) they had last year.

If Favre calls it quits, I look for the NFC North to be more competitive in 2010.

Chasing 600

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It's ironic, isn't it?

Baseball media has been holding its collective breath — when it wasn't temporarily distracted by the impending trade deadline — waiting for Alex Rodriguez, nicknamed "A–Rod" in the fashion of the day and then dubbed "Pay–Rod" for his relentless pursuit of ever larger paychecks, to join the 600 Home Run Club for ... how long?

To be honest, I've lost track of how long he's been stuck on 599 home runs. And, actually, it's kind of a relief to me that it's been taking him this long to break that barrier.

It sort of revives my faith in what Annie called the "church of baseball" in the movie "Bull Durham."

In an odd way, it's kind of a confirmation that baseball is finding its way out of the steroids wilderness. When steroids fever was really raging in major league baseball, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa seemed to be hitting at least one home run each on a daily basis. They didn't, but it seemed that way.

It's not that way now, though, is it? If you're looking for evidence that performance–enhancing drugs are being purged from baseball before you decide you can worship at its altar again, the evidence may be right there before your eyes, on the field, where pitching seems to be staging a comeback and the stratospheric hitting numbers we were seeing as recently as three or four years ago appear to be declining. The natural order is being restored.

Anyway, home runs seem to be harder to come by — which means, I guess, that things are becoming more the way they used to be and less the way they were just a few years ago.

About a week ago, I was reading that there was considerable optimism among longtime sportswriters that A–Rod would swat No. 600 during a series against Kansas City — especially since the guy who served up his 500th homer was scheduled to pitch.

But that series came and went, and we're still waiting for A–Rod to join the 600 Club.

The fact that A–Rod has not hit his 600th homer with the routine ease of the first 599 may not be good news for him — like anyone approaching what has long been regarded as an historic milestone, the pressure will build the longer it takes him to get there — but, for those of us who believe (and, I think, most of us do) that steroids have cheapened what were once respected athletic achievements, this may be a sign that we are on the cusp of a great era in baseball (and, perhaps, other sports as well) that could rival the days when Hank Aaron and Willie Mays electrified fans with long balls that were the products of hard work, not chemicals.

Since his major league career began in 1994, A–Rod has often been called one of the best all–around baseball players of all time — which, to me, really seems like an oxymoron for someone who started as a shortstop. I mean, when I was growing up, major league shortstops were great athletes — swift, sure–handed, talented in many ways — but rarely were they power hitters.

Power hitters were Bunyanesque figures who were usually seen playing in the outfield. Sure, they needed speed to chase down fly balls, but they also needed considerable arm strength and accuracy for making throws to infielders.

If power hitters played the infield, they were usually at the corners, at first and third, or behind the plate, where they usually didn't have to do much running. Middle infielders, the shortstops and second basemen, needed catlike reflexes, because they were the anchors of a team's defense. They might have to dive in almost any direction with less than a split second's notice in order to snag a liner or stop a grounder, then leap to their feet and make a throw to catch a runner off base — and they frequently did so off balance.

They were graceful, with the moves and stamina of ballet dancers. They weren't expected to hit home runs, and most of them didn't.

I guess that is what I have always liked about baseball. I mean, there are times when a baseball game can be so pedestrian that it can put you to sleep, but baseball has always been an equal opportunity sport. Other sports demanded that you be at least a certain height or a certain weight or able to run a certain distance in a certain time before you could play, but baseball took what you brought to the table and found a place for you.

Sometimes, you hear football fans speak wistfully of the old–timers who used to play offense and defense. To hear them talk, one could easily conclude that it was normal in those days for people to "play both sides," but the guys who did were always the exception to the rule, even then. The truth is that almost no one can excel at both offense and defense in any sport. And baseball has always been better than other sports at using specialization as an excuse for a player's shortcomings.

Pitchers, for example, have long been excused from the responsibility of batting because they needed to focus on their pitching. Thus, it has been noteworthy when a pitcher has been able to contribute at the plate as well.

It's also noteworthy that the phrase "power hitter" — perhaps not in all usages but certainly in the context of hitting home runs — is relatively new, given that records have been kept in baseball since the 19th century.

When my parents were children, only one man in the history of baseball — Babe Ruth — had hit 600 (or more) home runs in a major league career.

And he remained the only member of the so–called 600 Home Run Club for more than two decades after his death. For years, the men who followed him immediately on baseball's all–time home run list had half as many homers as Ruth did — if that many.

Most of the fans of Ruth's day probably believed his career home run total was untouchable. And students of the game will give you several good reasons why they would have believed that — there were fewer teams so the talent wasn't as diluted as it is now; ballparks in the first half of the 20th century were much larger than the ballparks that replaced them; the regular season was shorter.

Those are valid reasons, but expansion and smaller ballparks and longer schedules can't completely explain why other guys, like Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, Ted Williams, Frank Robinson, Mike Schmidt, Willie McCovey and Ernie Banks, never reached that 600–home run plateau.

Nevertheless, when I was in my youth, two players — Mays and Aaron — joined the most exclusive club in sports. And, in 1974, Aaron caught Ruth and surpassed him on the all–time list.

Then things got sort of quiet. No one joined the 600–homer fraternity until nearly three decades after Aaron replaced Ruth as baseball's home run king. But in the last couple of decades, the pace has picked up considerably, and steroids certainly seems to have played a major role in that.

First, Barry Bonds hit his 600th home run in 2002, then Sammy Sosa did it in 2007. And then Ken Griffey Jr. did it in 2008.

And now that club, which for decades consisted of only one member, has six members, three of whom have joined since 2002. When A–Rod hits his next homer, whenever that may be, there will be four new members since 2002.

What's more, there may well be further additions to the club in the years ahead. Minnesota designated hitter Jim Thome needs 23 to reach 600. He's 39 so he might not make it — but many DHs keep playing into their 40s. The Dodgers' Manny Ramirez, who needs 46 homers to reach 600, is a year younger than Thome, but since he plays in the National League, that means he must field as well as hit. That puts more wear and tear on his body; consequently, his career could easily end before Thome's does.

Free agent Gary Sheffield is just barely past 500 home runs. At the age of 41, it seems unlikely that he will find a place to play, so he seems like an unrealistic prospect for 600.

But if steroid use was still unchecked in baseball, you could expect a virtual stampede (by historical standards) of new members of the 600 Club in the coming years. And, I suspect, it would lose what is left of its significance.

If that had come to pass, would baseball still celebrate a player's 600th home run the way it has been poised to do for A–Rod? Or would 700 be the new 600? The 700–Homer Club, after all, is still exclusive, with only three members.

Well, for now, it is still an impressive achievement to hit 600 home runs or more in a major league baseball career. But the shadow of steroids hangs over those who have reached that milestone in the 21st century — including A–Rod — and many fans will always wonder how many of those home runs were the result of the use of performance–enhancing drugs.

Does it seem that I am gloating over the prolonged wait for A–Rod's 600th tater? That is not my intention. Believe me, it isn't. Not really.

Oh, sure, there's that anti–Yankee thing, but just about every baseball fan (except, of course, for Yankee fans) is anti–Yankees.

And there's a certain amount of anti–A–Rod stuff going on, but I'm not anti–A–Rod, not even with all the money he gets to play ball. He's signed contracts with three different clubs in his career, and each new one was willing to give him more money than the one before. If a team is willing to pay that kind of money, a player would be a fool to pass it up.

What's more, it seems to me that to turn down such an offer would have been a betrayal of all the baseball players who were virtual slaves before Curt Flood challenged the reserve clause in the 1970s and launched free agency.

There's even some residual resentment for inactive players like Bonds, who was never particularly popular with most fans, and Jose Canseco, who has admitted to extensive steroids use, fueling a certain bitterness that gets transferred to others.

But I don't feel that way about A–Rod. Sure, there have been times when I have been sympathetic to those who have called him "A–Fraud," largely because his enormous reservoir of talent has seldom led a team to a championship.

No, I don't hold it against him that he's getting all that money. Personally, I think many of the complaints about A–Rod's contract stem from nothing more than jealousy. After all, who wouldn't like to get that kind of money for doing whatever it is that they do well?

And I can understand how fans can feel betrayed when so much is invested in a player and so little return is seen. But it doesn't seem fair to me to blame one player, no matter how talented he may be, for not dragging his teammates to a title. Baseball really is a team sport.

But neither do I think that it's a tragedy that he's been mired at 599. Home runs are exciting to watch (although I knew a guy who asserted that a triple was actually the most exciting play to watch in baseball — and, from a dramatic perspective, I have to admit he was probably right), but they've always been part of the game. Not all of it.

Slumps, it should be remembered, have always been part of the game, too. Just because the man is on the brink of an accomplishment that only seven others in baseball's long history could claim doesn't mean it should be handed to him. And it hasn't been.

A–Rod was the youngest man to hit his 500th career major league homer. Unless this dry spell goes on much longer than anyone believes it will, he is likely to be the youngest man ever to hit his 600th homer as well.

And, after he retires, few will remember that he struggled to get his 600th dinger.

But, in the long run, baseball may be better off because he did.