I don’t have a Plan B.
I was planning on writing this brilliantly funny column about how I’m no match for Tom Brady, and how it’s not fair for just one person to possess good looks, intelligence and athletic prowess, while making the rest of us males feel, well, inadequate.
From the dimpled chin to the pearly white teeth, the guy’s got it all. I was going to say how hard it was on us guys who had to listen to our significant others after Tom Terrific brought Gisele a bouquet of flowers, while he was limping and in pain.
“Would it kill you to bring me some flowers once in a while,” women across America were all snapping.
“Maybe it’s her birthday,” men lamely lamented.
Brady can go for four days without shaving and he still looks good. I don’t shave for four days and I look nothing like Brady. More like Grady from Sanford and Son.
Anyway, I was going to go on and on about the four Super Bowl rings and Brady’s place in gridiron history. I planned on seeing him hoist up the MVP Trophy. I was going to say how the guy could do anything he wanted to do after his football career ends. Politics? He could be the People’s Choice. Movies? The next matinee idol. Does the guy sing? He probably does to Gisele.
I had every intention of laying bare my Brady envy and admit, once and for all, that I was developing a man-crush on Number 12.
But something happened on the way to a perfect season and a Super Bowl championship Sunday night in Arizona, and I was caught off guard. Brady fell back down to Earth. He is human.
The hopes and dreams of Patriots Nation crumbled as quickly as Brady’s offensive line. And just like Bill Belichick, I didn’t make any adjustments at halftime. I just waited.
Surely Tom would come through and throw the long bomb to Randy Moss. Surely the second half would tell the story. Sure, the first half was nothing like what we all thought we’d see, but Bill Belichick and Tedy Bruschi and Wes Welker and Junior Seau and Kevin Faulk and Randy Moss would turn it all around. And Tom will lead them. Just wait. You’ll see.
But it didn’t happen. And when Plaxico Burress burned Ellis Hobbs in the end zone with 35 seconds left in the game, I started scrambling for a backup column to write. Maybe I can do something on the Super Bowl ads. I had been taking notes all night.
Will Ferrell for Bud Light was kind of funny. The E*Trade baby. Cute. The guy drinking Amp Energy Drink with the jumper cables on his chest was probably my favorite. But they was nothing to write about, really. Nothing even compared to Cat Rustling or Terry Tate, Office Linebacker from years ago.
Halftime? Maybe Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers should have downed some of that Amp. Poor Tom looked like he needed an autopsy. Hey, buddy, are we keeping you awake?
In the end, I suppose you couldn’t come up with a better choice of entertainment. After all, we all endured 60 minutes of Tom Brady and the Heartbreakers.
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