There are two men in my life: Mr. P and Tom Brady.
Mr. P is my husband, the man who was put on Earth for me to meet, love, marry, and eventually egg to the brink of insanity. I cook for him, I clean for him, I offer kind words and a ready ear, and I edit his important English-language emails. In return, he drives us everywhere, purchases the household wine, and handles everything related to cable, internet, home networking, and the trash. We have fun together. It’s a very loving and symbiotic relationship.
Tom Brady is my quarterback, the man who was put on Earth to ignite the passion within me… the passion for football. Up until 2001, I could watch a football game without boredom and appreciate the events of the game, but I was largely apathetic. My dormant fervor was ignited when Tom Brady took over for Drew Bledsoe as quarterback of the Patriots. I didn’t know precisely what I liked about Brady until 2003, when I had a beer-and-football-induced epiphany: Tom Brady was a modern-day deified Greek hero.
My heart, mind, and soul belong completely to Mr. P… except when the Patriots are playing. Then, I’m worshipping Tom Brady, and there’s some French guy next to me on the couch drinking a beer and muttering about pump fakes and punt returns.
Oh, Tom. Tom. All last week, I burst with anticipation at seeing you again. I didn’t expect miracles during the season opener, but I never thought I’d see you vanquished on the field by a safety blitz and replaced by… Matt Cassel? For the entire season?!? The what-what? Boston Globe sports columnist Dan Shaughnessy compared it to “going to a Springsteen concert, waiting for the Boss, then hearing a bow-tied announcer tell you, ‘Bruce cannot be here tonight. Someone else will be fronting the E Street Band'”.
No, not quite. It’s like dying a horrible death and finding out God is actually a bunny rabbit. I mean, egads. The disillusionment.
