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At the demarcation point of voters in Georgia remembering how he dazzled and delighted their Saturdays through the early 1980s while also remembering their ballot isn't a football trading card.
Brett Favre was a great quarterback. Certainly the greatest to play at the University of Southern Mississippi and arguably one of the greatest in NFL history. If only it would end right there.
At the demarcation point of citizens - and politicians - of his native Mississippi recalling how he helped reinvent the position in the late '80s and '90s while also protecting public assistance from greedy gunslingers, even if they're pretty good at throwing footballs.
There should be a line. But as sports fans we keep blurring the boundaries between the player and the person. Superstar athletes amaze us with their otherworldly feats, and as a show of appreciation we then construct altars on which they can spend the rest of their lives feeling loved, admired - and removed from reality. Once on top, they are all but certain to let us down - because human beings tend to make terrible gods. This hasn't stopped the sports-obsessed among us from desperately wanting our heroes' characters to match their athletic skills.
It's how a bumbling candidate such as Walker could make it this far. After winning the 1982 Heisman Trophy, Walker must have been rewarded with a lifetime of open doors, indulged by yes men and sycophants, many of whom have propped him up to represent the GOP in a race against Sen. Raphael G. Warnock (D). His exaggerations and downright lies are the kind of jokes that would be rejected inside the "Saturday Night Live" writer's room for lack of originality, and yet he is still being seriously considered as Georgia's next senator.
But there's a real man behind the giant bronze statue that depicts a young running back frozen in the Heisman pose. The man beneath the UGA helmet has lived in a messy and troubling world.
Away from the serenade, his ex-wife has accused him of pointing a gun at her head. Outside of the football field in Wrightsville, Ga., that bears his name, he has fathered children with several women. And this week, a former girlfriend told the Daily Beast he paid for her abortion in 2009, an allegation Walker has denied. The New York Times subsequently reported Walker urged her to terminate a second pregnancy two years later.
These claims, if true, expose Walker, the hypocrite, considering his hard line, antiabortion views as a candidate. Worse, these stories air the dirty laundry of Walker, the deadbeat.
Enraged by stories of his father's indiscretions, Christian Walker publicized his pain for the world to see. The son may have his own personality flaws; he brands himself as a conservative social media influencer and it seems as if he vocalizes half of the nonsense he says to sell T-shirts or land a reality TV show. Still, watching Christian cements one thought: As a devoted and present father, Herschel sure was a great running back.
"I stayed silent when it came out that my father Herschel Walker had all these random kids across the country, none of whom he raised. And you know my favorite issue to talk about is father absence - surprise! 'Cause it affected me," Christian ranted in a pair of videos posted to his Twitter account this week.
Voters in Georgia can always revere Walker the football player; that's their right. But they would do the Peach State and the nation a favor if they stopped transferring this admiration onto Walker the senatorial candidate and instead noticed Walker the violent ex, Walker the reluctant father, Walker the man. If they opened their eyes and saw that dysfunction can lurk beneath the burnished statues and stadium signage bearing a favorite athlete's name.
Indeed, following his own scandal, Favre will never again resemble the chiseled and valiant figure portrayed in his Pro Football Hall of Fame bust. After football, Favre should have returned to his home state of Mississippi as its favorite son and savior. He had the money and the cachet to truly help people and funnel resources into his foundation, which claims to support "underserved and disabled children and breast cancer patients."
Instead, he wrongfully received $1.1 million intended for welfare recipients who live in the poorest state in the nation. Favre displayed no basic human decency as he angled to direct $5 million of other people's money toward the construction of a volleyball stadium for his daughter's school.
Favre is not a broke man.
In 2001 he became the first player to earn more than $100 million in the NFL, and he has raked in more money in his lucrative post-football career as a pitchman. He didn't need his neighbors to pass around an offering plate for him, but as one of the greatest living athletes from Mississippi, Favre must have felt entitled to the money. It's easy for an ego like his to grow wings and fly when, even as a washed-up quarterback, an NFL coach grovels for your services. In 2008, Eric Mangini, then with the New York Jets, recruited Favre by promising to name his unborn son after him.
When praise goes unchecked and real life gets warped, a running back past his glory becomes a U.S. Senate hopeful. And a gray-haired, wealthy quarterback thinks he deserves government aid.
Their lives should be warnings against elevating flawed people into untouchable idols. And this should prompt us to re-examine the very idea of role models in sports - and reel in our natural instincts to deify men.
The great young players of today haven't lived long enough to disappoint us yet. Josh Allen brandishes a big arm. Patrick Mahomes makes grown men giggle while they watch his on-field savvy. And Lamar Jackson plays like a human video game on the advanced setting.
But our celebration of their athletic feats should end there. When we're tempted to build them into superhuman stars, we're only waiting to be disillusioned by their shortcomings.
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