On Sunday, as Farve looked into the mirror in the locker room, he must have been shocked. He did not see his face, but he saw a young new gunslinger, Drew Brees. He rubbed his eyes, and suddenly the image was gone. What he didn't realize was, that he was looking at himself. As he walked though that immortal tunnel to the field, memories of battles, some won, some lost, rushed through his mind. He had enjoyed his greatest season ever, all his critics were now saying "This old, aging Gunslinger still has the touch". He battled for four quarters, but that face in the mirror was still haunting him. In the moment of truth, running with the ball in his hands, he had but a split second to decide; to throw or to run. Did age tell him to throw or fear tell him to throw? Did aging legs betray him? He must have thought how fickle is fate, it all comes down to this. He threw, he did what gunslingers do. 31 to 28 is the score, and the Saints advance. He walks to the middle of the field feeling beaten and betrayed by fate, hand outstretched, there standing before him he recognizes the man in the mirror, Drew Brees!
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