Brett Favre and I are standing in his long dirt driveway in Hattiesburg, Miss.

The sun is roasting my forehead like a rotisserie chicken.

"Yep, they'll be comin' purdy soon," Favre says.

The hot winds whip up the grit. It paints the back of my throat.

"How much longer, do you think?" I ask.

"Soon," Favre says, his neck craning down the long empty rural road that runs in front of his house. "They always come and get me 'bout this time of the year."

A tumbleweed stumbles by. Birds are so exhausted by the heat that they're walking.

"You think maybe they thought you meant it this time?" I say. "I mean -- about retiring?"

"Aw, hell, no," he says, spitting tobacco. "I say somethin' like that every year. I been sayin' that crap since '03. Nobody ever really believes it. Hell, one year I even held a press conference. Cried and everythin'. But my boys know the truth. My boys'll be along. They need me."