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Brett Favre confronted his moment of truth on live television this week.

In a farewell to the Green Bay Packers and NFL, Favre's tortured soul was stripped naked, his 10-minute speech dotted with tears, sniffles and uncomfortably long pauses. His bouts of silence said as much as his extraordinary words, many of them spoken through a cracking voice.

For 17 years, Favre was the toughest hombre in the NFL, and on the day he left the league, he was reduced to sobbing child. Here was a giant of professional athletics shedding his machismo and baring his vulnerability.

We had seen him grieve for his fallen father, battle his addiction to painkillers and fear for his cancer-stricken wife, but that was real life. With football, Favre's trademark was joy, and there was no joy on Thursday.

Retirement struck with an emotional eruption, and as the quarterback talked about his decision, he gave fans a final memory, a glimpse at an inner conversation that most people do not have with their profession.

Most people put money away and yearn for retirement. Getting there is a race.

Most pro athletes have money put away and deny retirement. In their case, the best is not yet to come.

Retirement happens when something in them surrenders, and cruelly, the piece of Favre that surrendered was his mind, not his body. That is more difficult to explain to a demanding public, and perhaps that is why most fans and commentators expected Favre to return in the summer for one final lap.

The end wasn't obvious because Favre, 38, had not displayed the usual symptoms. His arm is still strong and his feet still nimble, and his performance, particularly in a magical 2007 season, still elite.

Some play for the money, but Favre was always the everyman's superstar, embodying the spirit of a weekend game at the park. He was also a proud pro, and he wasn't going to cheat himself, his teammates or his fans by competing against a conflicted will Monday through Saturday and an NFL opponent on Sunday.

In Favre's case, the moment when to say when came prematurely. That's what made it so compelling. Contemplating retirement normally occurs in private, but Favre took his audience through this painful negotiation by answering every question with revealing answers.

Was he worried about hanging on too long and tainting his reputation?

Yes.

Would he have second thoughts, especially on Sundays in the fall?

Yes.

Was football still fun?

Yes, but not as much.

Why now?

"[Because] I've given football everything I possibly could and I don't think I've got anything left to give it," Favre said. "And that's it. I know I can play, but I don't want to.

"As hard as that is to say, it's over."

Every athlete reaches the game-over conclusion, but arriving at that conclusion is a more intense process than for other pro. Devout as an accountant might be, balance sheets and tax forms do not allow him to prolong youth like the pro athlete who plays the game he loves.

"When you're in the sport, it's like an arrested state of development," said David Paskevich, a sports psychologist at the University of Calgary. "What other job can you act like an 18- or 20-year-old? Ideally, retirement is not something you leave to the last moment."

Favre didn't heed this advice. He didn't have a plan. Asked what he would do to bridge the transition, Favre replied flatly, "Nothing."

Rather than taking ownership of the process, Favre allowed the moment of truth to determine its own timetable. After each of the past few seasons, he left Green Bay for his Mississippi stead and waited for a sign.

The organics of it made it more emotional, and it was clear that a big piece of Favre died this week. He even acknowledged that during his news conference with a line that, at first, drew laughs from the audience until Favre made it clear that he was not joking.

Favre admitted that on Wednesday, he watched the tributes to his career that were airing on television. He turned to his wife, Deanna, and said, "This is what it is like when you die."

That same highlight reel will most likely roll again on the day Favre does die. The point he was making was that pro athletes retire, but their careers die.

"The athlete is the only member of our society who dies twice," said Scott Tinley, a two-time winner of the Ironman Triathlon, who lectures today on the sociology of sport at San Diego State University. "Athletes are overidentified in their roles, and when those roles are gone, there is a loss of self."

David Sapunjis was better prepared than Favre. He never planned on having a long career in the CFL.

While he embraced the game and its emotional rushes, he understood his run as a pro would be limited by injuries or circumstances beyond his control. What he wanted was to get out of the game in time to start what he considered his "real career."

To this day, the former all-star slotback, who was twice the CFL's top Canadian player and was voted the best Canadian in three Grey Cup games, cannot recall his final game as a Calgary Stampeder.

"I know it was a playoff game we lost in 1996," said Sapunjis, who was only 29 when he retired after seven seasons. "But other than that, I don't even remember walking off the field saying that was it."

Within months of his farewell game, Sapunjis was using his University of Western Ontario business degree to find work in the Calgary oil and gas sector. Today, he is the managing partner of Continental Oilfield Supply and a part-owner of the Calgary Stampeders.

"People asked me why I retired after only seven years," Sapunjis said. "It wasn't just seven years. For me, it was 17 years from when I first started playing. I'd had enough.

"Yes, I loved the excitement of the games, but the stuff surrounding the game — fine-tuning the body, the weights, the commitment to physiotherapy, watching film — I was ready mentally for a new challenge."

On that point, Sapunjis and Favre intersect.

The Packers quarterback acknowledged that he loved playing games, but no longer had the desire to prepare for those games.

The preparation burden on quarterbacks is heavier than on other positions. Vast film study and playbook memorization, coupled with a physical toll, creates a job that requires total dedication.

"Up until this point, I have been totally committed," Favre said. "It's more important for me to play the game a certain way and be [dedicated] completely, than it is to admit to myself that maybe I don't have it any more.

"I just don't think I've got anything left to give, except for three hours on Sunday, and in football, you can't do that," he continued. "I'm not up to the challenge any more. I can play, but I'm not up to the challenge."

For Detroit Red Wings defenceman Chris Chelios, the same elements that drove Favre away are what drive him to continue playing past his 46th birthday. The intensity of his workouts, both during and after the season, are legendary in NHL circles and have allowed him to defy a meeting with the moment of truth.

Chelios, who said this week he has already committed to playing next season, watched Favre's news conference and understands the personal nature of a long-time athlete deciding to retire. Chelios, a three-time James Norris Memorial Trophy winner who has reinvented himself over the years to continue his playing career, is the second oldest player in NHL history (Gordie Howe played to 52).

"Have I ever had a moment where I thought of retiring? No," Chelios said. "It's never crossed my mind. There was a point when my right knee really bothered me in Chicago, right when I left for Detroit [in 1999]. I was basically skating on one leg. I had surgery and started training and mountain biking and my leg came around and I got a second life.

"I know one thing: When I do retire, I'll miss the hell out of playing. I want to make sure I play as long as I can on a team that wants me."

That sentiment — feeling unwanted — is normally the final clue. The athlete may have fought off doubts about his ability, may have fought off injury and a failing physique, but most careers end involuntarily at a young age because a coach, general manager or a set of qualification standards exert a form of natural selection.

Favre's retirement was the most obvious one this week, but there were others. Unlike Favre, many athletes' retirements are reduced to a line of text on the transaction wire, a final cruel cut that belies their efforts to stay in the game.

Defensive tackle Warren Sapp, the face of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers' Super Bowl championship team, confirmed that he will not play again. Canadian kicker Steve Christie, who had not played an NFL game since 2004, called it quits with a ceremonial sign-and-retire with the Buffalo Bills. And punter Sean Landeta officially filed his retirement paperwork after 25 professional seasons, his final kick coming in 2005.

With Favre, it was always going to be different. His career was an open book and he lived very much in the public eye, so there was never going to be a puff of white smoke and a disappearance.

Tinley, who has authored a book on retiring athletes entitled Racing the Sunset, also watched Favre's farewell and said several elements were telling. That Favre refused to close the book definitively was typical, but other revelations demonstrated the depth of his contemplation.

For starters, there was this line: "Brett Favre got hard to live up to. … I did it, but it got hard and I don't think it'll be any easier next year or the following year."

Tinley said the use of the third person indicated that Favre had stepped back from the personal emotion and performed a cost-benefit analysis. He no longer derived as much joy from playing, and he had to work harder just to maintain his standard. He recognized his iconic stature, and he realized that the price of living up to expectations, both his own and those of the Packers and their fans, was too steep.

"There's an acceptance," Tinley said. "The denial stage would be: 'I can't quit on myself because that's the behavioural state that has allowed me to be a successful athlete.' "

Tinley called it a "mature" performance because he said Favre showed that he had thought about the second-guessing that is sure to come when he turns on his television set and sees an NFL game.

"The maturity is that he realized he is going to have those feelings in the fall," Tinley said. "That leads me to believe that he won't come back because he realized the emotional challenges he will face."

Favre had always joked that when he retired, he would head back to Mississippi and drive his tractor around on his plot of land while being a husband and a father to his two daughters. Eventually, Tinley said, he will crave more, though the timing of that craving is unpredictable.

For Tinley, it hit in mid-competition. He was running the final stages of a triathlon. He wasn't leading, but was in the top 15 when he gazed upward and saw a red-tailed hawk soaring in all its splendour.

"I just stopped," he said. "It was so beautiful watching this hawk."

Another competitor inquired whether everything was all right, and Tinley couldn't answer with certainty. Years of reflection later, he describes it: "The physical self of me that had been active for more than 20 years was interested in another self. It grabbed me and shook me by the neck while I was engaged in another self.

"I had become chained to the sport. It wasn't my idea of fun any more."