"He is the John F. Kennedy of athletes."--Dan Shaughnessy
He's ours. You can't have him. He belongs to us. Fuck off, Tara Reid. Unhand him, Bridget Moynehan. Bill Belichik, we love you, but you're blocking our view.
For all the talk about T-E-A-M, for all the talk about modesty and work ethic and wholesomeness, an entire six-state region showed their true colors today as City Hall Plaza began to resemble Vatican City during an audience with the Pope. To be honest, I doubt the Presidential motorcade would have drawn as much attention as a Duck Boat carrying Our Precious down Tremont Street. I say this with only the slightest garnish of hyperbole: Tom Brady could probably start his own cult religion in Boston, MA right now.
Because the rest of the world may admire him, praise him, or, in the case of some (AHEM--Michael Irvin), grudgingly acknowledge him after Super Bowl XXXVIII, but Boston absolutely worships him.
It wasn't until I was watching the frenzy on NECN today (has there ever been a more ghetto station? Honestly) that I realized the sheer scope and seriousness of the matter. I realized that I am not the only one who surfs the Net like crazy, sometimes while at work, even, just to make sure that I see the most recent photos of You Know Who as they grace the Internet. Not the only one who feels the same way about her No.12 jersey as she used to feel about a security blanket. Not the only one who'd slap my own momma just to meet him. (OK, that one is a bit harsh. But I'd at least seriously consider it).
Tom Brady is a rock star, pop star, movie star, star athlete and politician all rolled into one. Forget John Kerry and Ted Kennedy--Brady is our representative in Washington D.C. Forget Mayor Menino--today Brady said, thanks, Tom, I'll take this city from here. Forget about everybody else--in the Metro-Boston area, at least, Brady is more popular than Jesus.
We talk about team, and I think most of the time, we mean it. But when all the chips are down, well--we're going to have some trouble as our beloved QB is raised to the next level of fame and fortune (if there even is such a thing). Because he's Our Tommy. We're watching the rest of the world closing in, and we're thinking: you can't have him. He belongs to us.
Or for today, at least, it's probably more like we belong to him.