Fishing for Answers Is Whopper of a Task

Gilbert Brown is agged. His word. Short for “aggravated.” You can see it on his face. Great face. A wisp of goatee. Long, thin sideburns. Triple chins. Connected to a size-24 neck. Connected to arms as large as logs, with a bulldog tattoo on the right biceps. Connected to a trunk that takes a size-64 suit coat. A body that could hurt you, so get out of his face.

“How big are you, Gilbert?”

“Next question.”

“How fast are you?”

“If I was chasin’ you, I’d catch

you.”

What’s eating Gilbert Brown? Oh, not a lot. Gilbert is a good-humored man. Gilbert can take a joke. Except, the next pinheaded, pencil-pushing busybody who grills this meat-packin’ Green Bay Packer about his bulk is begging to be flattened like a patty.

“What do you usually eat, Gilbert?”

“Next question.”

“How many Whoppers can you eat?

“How many Whoppers can you eat?”

No man from Wisconsin has raised so many questions about his diet since Jeffrey Dahmer. A football game Sunday? What football game? Gilbert, what’s it like being large? Gilbert, how big were you when you were small? Gilbert, do they still sell a “Gilbertburger” at your neighborhood Burger King? How many Gilbertburgers can you eat, Gilbert? What goes into a Gilbertburger, Gilbert?

“OK, for the last time: Two patties. Four slices of cheese. A whole tomato. Lettuce. Onions. Two buns. Cut it in half. No pickles. Next question.”

“Why cut it in half, Gilbert?”

“Why not? Next question.”

On and on it goes. Gilbert gets a question about being a defensive tackle? Next question, Gilbert is asked if a tackle of his size can play a full game. Gilbert gets a question about what his dad did for a living? (He worked on the Chrysler assembly line, in Detroit.) Next question, Gilbert is asked what his mom gave him for dinner.

“My mom’s a good cook. That’s why I’m so big. She made me eat everything on my plate. Next question.”

“Got any hobbies, Gilbert?”

“Hobbies. Yes. I work on my cars. I like to read comic books with my son. I like to watch cartoons with my son.”

“How old’s your son?”

“Four.”

“How big is he?”

Oh, the look on that face. Amazement. Amusement. Total ag.

Gilbert gives a guy the eye, like: Are you for real? Is there some reason that the result of Sunday’s game between Green Bay and Denver depends on how big Jamal Brown is getting to be, a few weeks before he turns 5?

“Got any superstitions, Gilbert?”

“Yeah. Talkin’ to y’all.”

His patience is the only thing that is growing thin. Gilbert Brown is one fine football player. He is fat, but he is fast. If he chases you, he can catch you.

Nobody needs to remind a Denver Bronco of this. Take, for instance, Tom Nalen, the center. After he snaps the ball, he still has his hands full. Nalen is 280 pounds, but around Brown, he feels like Kate Moss.

“You really can’t move him,” Nalen says. “You have to basically hold him and not let him slide out. Between me and the guards, I hope we can make him tired and hopefully wear him down. He’s 6-1 and about 375 and there’s nobody really like him. He’s in a class by himself, as far as I’m concerned.”

Mike Shanahan, the Bronco coach, has similar sentiments.

“Shanahan says you look like a 400-pound force on film, Gilbert.”

“Oh, OK. Maybe not 400, but I appreciate it.”

Mike Holmgren, the Packer coach, has serious reservations.

Is he Gilbert’s biggest fan? Yes. Is he a little concerned? You bet. Holmgren says, trying to be sensitive to a sore subject, “I think we’d all like to see Gilbert lose a little weight. We know it’s difficult. But during games, if he gets tired, he can’t do all the things he normally does. And then he gets vulnerable.

“For big people like Gilbert, it’s hard. He’s never been small. He’s never going to be small.”

In high school, Gilbert packed 300, 305 pounds. He was a shotputter. He threw the discus. He also ran. . .

. . . the 100-yard dash.

“I run pretty good. I can run with a football pretty well, when I get motoring.”

“Gilbert, will you run a running play in the Super Bowl? You know, like Refrigerator Perry?”

“No. I don’t think that’s even in Coach Mike’s vocabulary.”

Next question.

“Gilbert, does the coach harp about your weight?”

“Everybody’s harping on my weight. You harping on it. Am I sensitive about it? No. Next question.”

After winning Super Bowl XXXI, he could have gone to another team, the way the game’s MVP, Desmond Howard, did. He did not. He likes Green Bay. He likes the people there.

One day, a little girl, not much older than his son, melted Gilbert’s heart. She looked up at him and said, “Don’t leave.”

So, he stayed.

“Gilbert, did you ever wish you were small?”

“In second grade. I sat down on a chair and it broke. That’s the only time I wished I was small.”

Next question.

“Gilbert, other than your bulk, what do you think makes you a superior player?”

“My teammates,” Gilbert says, totally fed up.