Tom Brady Is a Man Out of Time
Somewhere, maybe in the attic of his childhood home in San Mateo, California, or perhaps in an alcove of a Florida bunker, I imagine there must be a portrait of Thomas Edward Patrick Brady Jr. that shows him gnarled and gray, his throwing arm wizened, the twinkle in his eye occluded by glaucoma and cataracts. Because what, other than some dark Dorian Gray sorcery, some sinister Faustian bargain, can account for the Methuselahian magic of Tom Brady’s geriatric greatness (Super Bowl MVP last year, for a gobsmacking fifth time, at age 43! Conceivably the regular-season MVP candidate again this year, for what would be the fourth time, at age 44!) as a football player? This can’t all have been avocado ice cream and his fitness guru Alex Guerrero’s “pliability” exercises, can it?
Yesterday, that Brady would shortly be announcing his retirement sparked confusion and disbelief all over. Brady has been playing so long, and has been so good for so long—years past the typical expiration date for professional athletes—that it’s started to seem he might stick around forever. He had previously said he would play until he was at least 45, or —neither of which, quite
