Tom
Tom Brady is the greatest quarterback of all time. I started writing this on 2021-02-07, as he just won his 7th Super Bowl (first with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers). I finished writing it a year later, as he retired from playing in the NFL. Tom Brady has done more for more my personality than anything else in my life. Not engineering, not drum corps, not Astranis - nope, they're not taking the gold medal spot. Those were all very, very active influences, but it's the passive ones that creep in and start organizing the hairy mess of personality into finely woven strands of character.
I wish I could claim to distinctly remember every one of his Super Bowls over the last 20+ years, but I'll try and build some stories from what I still have.
Super Bowl XXXVI in 2002. I'm nine years old. 9/11 happened just a few months ago. We're at a friend of my parent's house, they're hosting a big party and I don't really know anyone. They have one of those arcade basketball games, I spend most of my time trying to achieving a personal high score in the double digits. Folks are trailing off by the end of the game. A final field goal by someone who's name I can't quite pronounce yet (but will memorize over the next decade). That's one.
Super Bowl XXXVIII in 2004. I'm eleven years old. I'm at my uncle's house, and maybe this is where I first learned of the phrase “man cave”. The game is hazy, but the halftime show is not. The players names are not just random phrases anymore, instead, they are core aspects of schoolyard pride. Vrabel, Faulk, Brady, and of course, Vinatieri. That's two.
Super Bowl XXXIX in 2005. I'm twelve years old. It's amazing how looking at the third win in four years means you have more, not less, to prove. Today is a not a win, nor is it a ring. It'll be a landmark. This year you learned that it took a whole team: names like Bruschi and McGinest were just as high as Deion Branch or Mike Vrabel. That's three. That's a dynasty.
The following summer, my mom took me to a practice session and tried to get my #12 jersey signed by #12 when I was 12 years old. It didn't work out, but it was a good try. Luckily, you can have an amazing story without any singular life changing experience.
There were no Super Bowl wins for the next 10 years. There were many, many wins, but no Super Bowl wins. There were tough losses, but no one ever really thought it was over. Every time someone said that, weeks 1-4 of the following seasons were just a beautiful riposte. It wasn't enough to just be right. You had to prove them wrong.
Super Bowl XLIX in 2015. I'm twenty two years old. I'm now in college, my junior year. I learned how to move halfway across the country and make some new friends and new homes. I am attending house parties that my friends are hosting, not my parents friend's. I can (and do) drink up. I've seen some tough losses and it was hard to keep hope up. But then, in the span of no more than one hundred milliseconds, Malcom Butler snatched victory from the jaws. We were back on top. That's four.
Super Bowl LI in 2017. I'm twenty four years old. The greatest week of my life. I'm in my second year of grad school. I flew out to San Francisco to attend ISSCC, the premier circuits conference, with the rest of my research group. I've been there before once before, but now I'm comfortable and not as intimidated. I'm also there to interview with Astranis for something, it wasn't clear to me even then. I crash a watch party with one of my best friends. I vaguely know a few people from school, but mostly second and third degree links. Overwhelming, folks were there as a social event (the “sportsball” ““jokes”” were abound). I'm the only Patriots fan there, as many folks happily remind me. I brought two six packs of Sam Adams: one for the party, one for me. As we got into the dark depths of that 28-3 lead, I didn't give up hope, although I did start picking up glass bottles faster. As the turnaround began, I kept quiet. When the victory happened, I jumped up and began my own victory parade. Every single person got a finger pointing right in their face and a “Fuck You” from me. I was not invited back. I proudly wear my jersey to the conference all week, eschewing norms for pride. That's five.
Super Bowl LII in 2018. I'm twenty five years old. Another year where simply showing up meant the world to the other team, but it was just a checkbox for our side. Instead, we had conversations about being the greatest ever. I hung out with a group of friends down in San Mateo - friends who I was always on again, off again with due to my own inability to respond. What I remember the most about this Super Bowl was that my brother got to attend it. Sports writers may have called it “one of the worst ever”, but their team wasn't the one winning it all, so we can sideline their opinion. That's six.
In 2020 my heart broke in half twice. In the playoffs, I watched that last painful interception. It had been close so many times before, but I just knew that this one was going to be the end. I stormed out of a bar and grappled with trees, sidewalks, and the inability to explain why it hurt so much. A few months later, they parted ways and Tom left. I wanted it to be over: do not try and go out blazing, there's nothing left to prove. I can't handle a year of living in the shadow of another's star.
Super Bowl LV in 2021. I'm twenty eight years old. We've been living in a pandemic for a year now. Normalcy is either gone or just re-defined depending on what level of acceptance you had reached with yourself. I spent the day setting up an EMI/EMC test setup at the office for all our flight hardware - 317 messages were sent on Slack that day (that I could see). He did it. Even with a world as broken and upside-down as this one, he did it. In this strange world, he made it happen. That's seven.
Every year my mom would cut out every newspaper clipping from the Boston Globe. She'd stitch them into birthday cards, holiday greetings, fridge magnets:
CHAMPIONS
WIN FOR THE AGES
RETURN TO GLORY
DYNASTY
GOAT
NO ONE LIKE HIM
They were just absolutely insane stories, year after year. Every single piece of sports radio, television, and online coverage would always say the same thing: “Brady is the Greatest Of All Time". If he can do it, I should be able to do it. When he gets back up, I'll get back up. I can make the impossible happen because I watched him do it for 20 years.
He's the GOAT. My name's Brady. Thanks for everything, Tom.
