THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME

SOMEWHERE ON ROTTEN BAYOU, Miss. — Marty Robbins on one radio station, a gospel song on the other, the rental car twists through rows of tall pine trees, past shadowy swamps.

Above a desolate crossroads, where the street turns from pavement to dirt, stands an official-looking green sign.

Irvin Farve Road.

It is named after the only family that lives there.

And yes, it is misspelled.

You drive half a mile farther through more tall trees, until the dirt becomes pavement again, circling through the woods and into a clearing of three modest wooden homes and a trailer.

There is murky water on three sides. Trees dipping into the water, cackling sounds coming out of it. The air is thick enough to taste.

A hornets’ nest hovers in a tree. Is that a snake coming out of the bush? Maybe this was not such a good idea.

One knock on the front door and it is too late.

Out pops the mother of the NFL’s best player, a cat nipping one leg, a dog nuzzling the other.

Sorry to drop by, you say. But you are in search of something.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “Third time it’s happened this week.”

Third time this week? And what have you done before?

“Just like I’m doing now,” she says, shrugging. “Walked outside and said, ‘Hey.’ ”

*

It is the eve of the first playoff game for the NFL’s best player, and you have come to the Mississippi bayou in search of something solid.

You are in search of that player.

He is Brett Favre, quarterback of the Green Bay Packers, not long ago celebrated as our last unaffected hero.

His face dotted with beard stubble, his voice rich in southern Mississippi twang, he regaled America with tales of footballs eaten by alligators, of writing his name on his underwear, of the wonders of life in a town of several hundred.

Then last summer, after winning his first of consecutive MVP awards, he was treated for an addiction to painkillers. He was accused of drinking too much. A brother and sister later had legal troubles.

Suddenly, our beloved hayseed was holding secret weddings and hiding from fans and talking about retirement.

On the eve of his return to the national spotlight against the San Francisco 49ers, you have driven an hour east of New Orleans to see if any trace of Brett Favre still exists.

To see if, somehow, the monster created around each of this country’s sports superstars has not yet swallowed his whole.

Your destination is the home where he grew up and hangs out during the off-season.

“You have never witnessed anything like you are fixin’ to witness,” says Al Jones, a family friend, before leading you to the Favre compound.

You quickly discover that he is right.

And that you are not alone.

“People come here from all over the country,” Bonita Favre says, popping the top on a Coke. “A lot from up north, people just driving right up in front of the house.”

And what do they want?

“Just want to see if this place really exists, I guess,” she says.

Not only have the Favres refused to build a security gate, but some visitors even end up like that lucky elderly couple from Green Bay recently.

They pulled up during a Packer game, which Favre’s family and friends watch during weekly parties here.

“They poked their heads inside, looked at me, and I thought, what the heck,” Bonita recalls. “I yelled, ‘Put a couple of more burgers on.’ What we’re we supposed to do? We are not rude people.”

That couple came to the unexpected realization of every visitor here.

The mixture of strength and flexibility that Brett Favre uses to survive his constant NFL storms was learned at home.

Wherever that is.

The Favres’ mailing address is a small city called Pass Christian, but they don’t live there.

Favre tells people he is from “The Kiln,” a town of a couple of thousand, pronounced “The Kill.” But that is only the location of the nearest bar; a one-room, wooden-floor, wood-stove joint called “The Broke Spoke.”

In reality, the Favres live in a little speck called Fenton.

But who’s counting? They are 12 miles from the Gulf of Mexico, and one long leap from Rotten Bayou, and around here, not much else matters.

“They still have our name misspelled on the road sign?” Bonita asks. “You know, I never really much notice.”

About Rotten Bayou . . . it is really a small river that runs along the front of Favre’s house. According to legend, it was given that name when the Indians dumped their old pelts there, causing it to stink.

Irv and Bonita Favre had a rule that none of their four children could swim there.

A tribute to Brett is that rope still hanging from a nearby tree, a perfect location for someone to swing his way into the muck.

“Any time one of our children were gone, I would run to the bayou, thinking it had taken one of them,” Bonita says.

The bayou left the children alone, choosing, among other things, to swallow errant Favre throws during pickup football games in the 50-yard field alongside the main house.

Favre told some it also may have taken a favorite dog last year when that dog, inappropriately named “Lucky,” was chasing one of those balls by the drink.

If the threat of the bayou didn’t make Favre strong, then the beast that his family once pulled out of it certainly did.

“We lured an alligator out of there and tied it to a swing set,” Bonita says. “We put it back in only after we found it was a $500 fine.”

Recently, officials discovered a dead body in the middle of the forest on the other side of the bayou.

“I told somebody, ‘If they are going to be dropping bodies there, I can go somewhere else,’ ” Bonita says.

There is a story with every nook of this family compound, built by Bonita’s father in 1943 with money he was making as the owner of Benny French’s Tavern.

Across the clearing from the main house is a trailer where Favre’s grandmother lives.

She’s “Mee-Maw.”

Next door to the trailer is a tiny house where Favre’s aunt lives.

That’s “Kay-Kay.”

At the end of the clearing is an even bigger testament to the Favre’s sense of family.

The quarterback built a “party house” where his friends and family can watch him play.

There is a reason that TV cameras at Packer games may pan the stands for Favre’s dad, but never his mom. She’s rarely there.

She stays home to supervise those parties.

“Excuse me a second,” she says on the eve of the 49er contest. “I have to tend to my red beans. Fixing them up for tomorrow.”

The parties are never official, nobody is ever invited, no plans are ever made.

Everyone in the family circle just shows up.

Somebody brings crawfish, somebody else brings redfish, somebody fires up the grill, and Bonita brings out the red beans and rice.

The usual games draw 30-40 folks. The bigger ones attract as many as 200, with acquaintances from all over the area showing up.

“That party in these parts has as much tradition as ‘the frozen tundra’ in Green Bay,” Al Jones says.

Lest anyone think she is a pushover, however, Bonita always demands a seat directly in front of the TV behind the bar.

And lest anyone think all of this down-home stuff makes her a simpleton, she taught for nearly 20 years and earned her master’s degree while raising four children.

“Where we come from, family is just important, that’s all,” she said.

So important that Favre was recently quoted as saying he would think about returning to southern Mississippi full time if the Packers won the Super Bowl.

Later, he amended that comment to, “a couple” of Super Bowls.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately,” Bonita says. “He’s been calling four or five times.”

A week?

“A day,” she says.

The last time Favre was in town, during the Packers’ recent bye week after the regular season, he risked wrist injury by shucking oysters at a friend’s party.

But, unlike his appearance would suggest, that’s about as rough as he plays.

“I remember Brett walking out of those woods once, and a deer was walking the other way, and they scared each other half to death,” Bonita says. “Things were a lot more simpler back then.”

Not like they are now, when not only Favre, but his family, makes news with every move.

In August, older brother Scott was charged with a felony count of driving under the influence during an automobile accident that killed a close family friend.

A month later, younger sister Brandi was arrested for allegedly taking part in a drive-by shooting at a Louisiana motel. She was not charged with actually firing the shots.

“I’m not saying anything anybody did was right,” Bonita says. “But to have everything always in the press because of the Favre name, that makes it hard.”

She sighs. “It’s been a tough year for all of us. But what family do you know doesn’t have trouble?”

And how have the Favres handled theirs? By refusing to hide, refusing to point fingers, refusing to do anything but keep walking to the front door every day to say, “Hey.”

“The way we look at life, you just keep doing it,” Bonita says. “You don’t think about it, you just do it.”

As you are walking through the dirt and brush to your car, you thank the mother of the NFL’s best player.

She doesn’t know what you were searching for, but senses you have found it, and smiles.

“Well, now, maybe it’s time you visit some of the casinos down on the gulf,” she says. “You know, they have great entertainment down there. Mickey Rooney is even coming to town.”

Mickey Rooney?

“I thought he was dead,” she says. “But shoot, now I’m going to have to buy Mama some tickets.”