Most Peculiar, Mama

Nobody told me there'd be days like these/Strange days, indeed.
-- John Lennon

Back in 1992 I was living in Chicago, preparing to move to Minnesota. Mrs. D and I made a trip up here and we decided to stop at the newly completed Mall of America. As we were walking by Oshman's Super Sports store, I happened to notice that former Viking great Chuck Foreman was sitting at a table in front of the store, signing autographs. At that moment there was no line, so I sidled over to him, shook his hand and then told him the following: "I want you to know that I grew up 30 miles from Green Bay. Thanks for ruining my childhood." I was smiling when I said it, so he just looked at me and started laughing. He knew I was joking.

And I was joking, because it wasn't Chuck Foreman who ruined my childhood. It was Fran Tarkenton. Sir Francis, the scrambling, annoying little fellow who played quarterback for the Vikings through their highly successful reign over the old NFC Central division in the 1970s. That weasel Tarkenton, who seemed always to be just out of the reach of former Packer greats Alden Roche or Clarence "Big Cat" Williams, throwing darts to Stu Voigt or Ahmad Rashad, forever moving the chains and breaking the hearts of the downtrodden Packer fans. We'd watch those games and suffer through them, even though we knew that our heroes were going down. And they did. And it was always Tarkenton at the helm.

A lot has happened since Tarkenton stopped tormenting me. For over half of the 30 intervening years, a swashbuckling quarterback wore the Green and Gold, often tormenting Vikings fans in the way that Sir Francis had done me wrong. Brett Favre became the face of the Green Bay Packers and in some ways the face of the entire National Football League. For 16 mostly happy years, Favre led the Packers to a bunch of winning seasons and a Super Bowl, the prize that had eluded the hated Tarkenton. Last year there was a messy divorce and Favre decamped for New York, where he played intermittently well, then retired after the season.

Favre doesn't really retire, though -- he just blows off the offseason stuff then finds another team to play for. Favre wants to play for the hated Vikings, and it appears that there is mutual interest. And his interest has caught the attention of Fran Tarkenton.

“I think it’s despicable. What he put the Packers through last year was not good. Here’s an organization that was loyal to him for 17, 18 years, provided stability of organization, provided players. It just wasn’t about Brett Favre. In this day and time, we have glorified the Brett Favres of the world so much, they think it’s about them. He goes to New York and bombs. He’s 39 years old. How would you like Ray Nitschke in his last year (playing for) the Vikings, or I retire, and go play for the Packers? I kind of hope it happens, so he can fail.”

So I read this and my head starts to spin. Here he is, the hated Fran Tarkenton, who often left me sputtering like Daffy Duck during my childhood, using Daffy Duck's favorite adjective to describe the quarterback who returned the Packers to glory. And I find myself agreeing with Tarkenton.

John Lennon was right -- nobody told me there'd be days like these.