Dick and Jane and Brett Favre
The gunslinger paradox
Ajitpaul Mangat, Staff
Every Sunday in the NFL, an array of quarterback-types take the field.
There is the “franchise” quarterback (think: Tom Brady, New England Patriots), who is so gifted he makes his teammates better, is so clutch he thrives in strenuous situations, is so adroit he makes many important plays while limiting negative ones, is so charismatic he is a leader and role model on and off the field, and is so superlative he leads his team to numerous championship wins.
There is the “game manager” (think: Trent Dilfer, Baltimore Ravens, circa 2000), who relies on his teammates to make him better, struggles in strenuous situations, limits both positive and negative plays, lets his teammates act as leaders and role models, and wins championships due to others.
And then there is the “gunslinger” (think: Tony Romo, Dallas Cowboys), who in many ways defies classification, for he aids and limits his teammates, makes equally positive and negative decisions, and wins and loses games due to his own agency. Yet, despite this gift or curse polarity, he is lauded as a franchise quarterback rather than chastised as a pitiable game manager. The gunslinger paradox is about much more than a quarterback’s performance on the field Sundays in the NFL.
This gunslinger classification emerged in the mid-1990s to describe a new breed of quarterback. Offences in the NFL were being muffled and standardized as the dink-and-dunk West Coast style of play began to predominate and dominate the league. Fans hungered for a hero to emerge from this offensive rigor mortis firing footballs as accurately and deadly as a Hollywood Western cowboy — a good ol’ boy, equal parts Clint Eastwood and Johnny Unitas. The wrinkled, aged, white sports-media obliged exalting quarterback Brett Favre. He had the look, he had the mystique and, although he did not have the most precise of arms or canniest of football IQs, he had the backing (read: hype-machine, league and media).
So his gifts were aggrandized: “look at all those yards and touchdowns.” And his faults (interceptions, fumbles, poor completion percentage) were invalidated: “He’s just a good ol’ boy havin’ a little fun.” Favre won three regular season MVP awards from 1995-97, although his quarterback rating was much lower (nearly 15 points lower) than the other five quarterbacks who have won MVPs since 1992, save for Rich Gannon in 2002, and won a Super Bowl in 1997, although he failed to capture MVP honours (return specialist Desmond Howard won).
So, why was there a desire to anoint the Southern, white Favre, with the gunslinger moniker when there were other exciting quarterbacks thrilling fans in the West Coast era?
It seems no coincidence that at this same time black players were increasingly emerging as viable options at the quarterback position. And there was stand-offishness at this notion from the predominantly white owners, management, coaches and media. The NFL is not inherently racist, evidenced by the fact that 69 per cent of the players are black, but at its most hallowed position their remains an antiquated, obstinate prejudice, as articulated by Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Donovan McNabb: “There’s not that many African-American quarterbacks, so we have to do a little bit extra. Because the percentage of us playing this position, which people didn’t want us to play . . . is low, so we do a little extra.”
In actuality, there is little difference between the gunslinger style of play and that of a number of black quarterbacks, such as McNabb, and former Atlanta Falcon Michael Vick. Because of their athleticism McNabb and Vick run with the ball more, which leads to very positive plays, the aiding of teammates, who have time to get open, and wins. But it also leads to a lower quarterback rating, very negative plays — interceptions, fumbles . . . and losses. However, black quarterbacks are never christened with the heroic gunslinger moniker.
For instance, at the beginning of the 2007 NFL season, Len Pasquarelli, an ESPN columnist, wrote the article “Ode to a Couple of NFL Gunslingers.” His ode was to NFL gunslingers who are all white: Favre, Romo, Carson Palmer, Jake Delhomme and the retired Dan Marino. It seems the intrinsic latent racism of the “old white men of the media” has manifested itself in the construction of the subordinated nameless “other.” Whereas the white gunslinger is deified as a lovable maverick, the moniker-less black quarterback is harshly personified as an overrated incompetent: “I pass for 300 yards. Our team wins by seven, [mimicking] ‘Ah, he could’ve made this throw, they would have scored if he did this,’ ” says McNabb. As a result, the African-Americans that play quarterback in the NFL do not have to be consciously good; they must be, per W. E. B. Du Bois, “double consciousness” superior.
Favre had a very good football career and is an unequivocally fine role model in his personal life, as evidenced by his philanthropy. However, his career acted as a seminal touchstone for the racism that still pervades many of the NFL’s creaky, aged crevices. Therefore, Favre’s retirement should act as an opportunity to right the wrongs that the paradoxical, inherently bigoted gunslinger moniker has caused an otherwise progressive league. Favre should be the last gunslinger, because only then will future quarterbacks be honestly judged for their hard-earned gifts, rather than be racially gifted judgement.
