To say that I have had a complicated relationship with Tom Brady over the last few years would be an understatement. It’s been tumultuous. It’s been rocky and rough and frustrating. There have been lots of tears, lots of feelings about his decisions, and lots of soul searching to find out what exactly he means to me. There have been lots of twists and turns that have ultimately lead me to where I am now.
All this drama started with the 2019 season. We had just beaten the Rams in the Super Bowl. The “Still Here” tour, bookmarked by some of the most iconic videos ever to grace Instagram, was a glorious time to be a Patriots fan. Being able to say that your team had been to four out of the last five Super Bowls? No wonder everyone hated us. Even though the Super Bowl was lackluster, the AFC Championship thriller against the Chiefs made up for it.
We felt unbeatable, unstoppable, untouchable.
Then the season started. We kicked things off by going 8-0, but the energy from last season had long fallen flat. We were out there beating bad opponents. We weren’t humming, we weren’t grinding, we weren’t trying to prove anything. We were on autopilot. So when the hot in the streets Ravens showed up on the schedule, a loss felt a little inevitable. But the inevitability didn’t stop it from being crushing.
From there the losses came more often, it was a miracle we had that early season cushion to help us win the division.
I was very lucky that winter. My brother and I, a few days before Christmas, saw Tom’s last win as a Patriot against the Buffalo Bills. It was a contentious match until the very last moment. It all felt like the perfect Patriots game: a tough defensive battle in the cold against a surging AFC team. It was thrilling and it reminded me what the last year had felt like. Tough games, a tough team, tough defense. Maybe, I thought with a shining glimmer of hope, we were back.
Then we lost to the Dolphins and I was quick to make excuses: “Hey, we usually do this once a year anyway. We made the playoffs so everything was fine.”
Only it wasn’t. I hadn’t enjoyed watching the Patriots that year. Tom felt off. The air felt like it was out of our tires. So when we lost to the Titans in the playoffs, I felt a bizarre sense of relief. Relief beneath layers of tension and anger. Oh, and beneath the stinging hurt of loss that you experience when you care way too much about a football team.
Next thing you know, Tom Brady was a Tampa Bay Buccaneer. It felt wrong to say, like I was pronouncing something wrong. Seeing him in the jersey felt uncomfortable, like I was wearing an ill-fitting shirt. It was a feeling so unfamiliar I can only liken it to other feelings. Yet, still it feels as if I can’t quite capture it.
Whatever feeling it was, it washed over me. I told myself what every Patriots told themselves: “We were so lucky to have him all those years and win all those Super Bowls. Thank you Tom.” And I meant it.
I meant it until the Gronk news came out.
If you haven’t already picked up on the fact that I am a wildly dramatic person, you will soon. I’m dramatic in all aspects of my life, but there is something special about the Patriots that brings a new level of drama out of me.
I remember exactly where I was when Gronk announced his retirement. Allow me to set the scene: I was mid-workout in my bedroom with my obnoxiously pink yoga mat laid out on the floor in front of me, and my phone would not stop vibrating. For a bit, I powered through it and just ignored it. But truth be told, it was the vibrating of my Apple Watch that really pushed me over the edge. Finally, I gave in to my annoyance and checked my phone.
There it was, a screenshot of an instagram post in my family group chat. The tears came immediately. Even though we all knew it was coming, it still hurt to see it in writing. I had cried during the Super Bowl when he came crashing down with the ball just feet from the end zone, his mechanical arm like a battering ram. “That is Gronk’s last catch ever,” I had thought at the time. I had just witnessed a bittersweet moment in history.
The fact that Gronk came out of retirement to join his old pal Tom down in the tropics, lit a fire in me. With that decision he had soiled all of those memories. Instead of feeling warm contentment when I thought about his Super Bowl catch, I felt tricked. The pride I had felt for him retiring as a Patriot and listening to his body washed away.
And I blamed it all on Tom. I hated Tom for taking him. The joy and the gratitude for all Tom had done for us was replaced by a bitter anger. I found myself furious at him for abandoning us and convincing little numb-skull Gronk to come with him.
It didn’t help that the Patriots season went the way it did. After years of having the GOAT in the pocket we were forced to depend on the man-who-used-to-be-Cam-Newton throwing to a bunch of no names and more often than not, just throwing the ball into the ground. It helped even less that the Buccaneers season went the way it did. It was as if it was perfectly drawn out to make me feel as much pain as possible (I warned you about the drama). During the Super Bowl I actually cheered for the Chiefs – our bitter AFC rivals who were now leaps and bounds ahead of us in their skills and their record. I was one of those people who said that despite losing, Patrick Mahomes put on perhaps his greatest performance yet. ME, a proud Patriots fan, actually rooted for the powers of evil to claim victory.
But my spiteful little efforts didn’t matter. Tom and Gronk won – connecting for a few touchdowns along the way for good measure. It stung to see him leave us for all of one season and claim victory. It stung to read all the articles and posts about how it was Tom and not Bill all along. That we drove him away.
For the entirety of last season, I was one of those bitter Patriots fans who, instead of being grateful for all the success we had, was whining about not having it anymore.
The bitterness flowed through the offseason and into this season. As if one Super Bowl victory the year immediately following his departure from New England and the explosion of all of sports media as a reaction wasn’t enough, we played the Bucs this year. How lucky are we that the NFL schedule worked out so perfectly that we would be playing the NFL South on the second year Tom was on the Bucs. The year they were reigning Super Bowl champions.
The storylines were endless, the drama was insurmountable, and I was having a nervous breakdown just thinking about it. This was the moment of the year and Tom was going to crush us with a big, fat smirk on his face proving once and for all that we meant nothing to him.
Turns out – and brace yourself for a real shocker here – I was blowing the situation way out of proportion in my head. When the game arrived he showed up gracefully, thankful to the Patriots fans who cheered for him as he stepped onto the field. He was emotional at his return to a place that had brought him such happiness and where he had achieved such success. I had expected to be angry and emotional as I watched each down unfold. Cringing as they dominated us.
But the boys showed up and fought hard. In the end, Tom won the game and he finally won me back over. After all the drama and all the bitterness, I felt a familiar feeling watching Tom play at Gillette that day: joy.
Earlier this week, Tom retired from the NFL.
It was something I wanted him to do so badly last year after hoisting the Lombardi. I had fantasized about the Instagram post letting us all know that he would be going out on top. I reveled in the idea that in retirement, I could finally be content with Tom again. But instead – and again, prepare to be shocked – I cried on my sofa.
I cried because when the time hit zero in his last game against the Rams, I was sad. Sad that he didn’t get the comeback I had gotten so used to seeing from him. Sad that I wouldn’t get to watch another Tom Brady playoff performance next week.
I cried because I remember being awoken from a nap when I was six years old to my mom screaming at the TV during the Tuck Rule game. Because I remember Tom’s hands on his head after winning his first Lombardi on that turf nightmare of a field. Because I remember me and my brother asking my parents if we could skip school the day after the Giants beat us for the first time out of fear that people would make fun of us (spoiler alert: they didn’t let us and people did make fun of us). Because I remember the way Tom’s face lit up when Malcolm Butler made that pick.
I cried because I have seen him through his baby face phase, his long-hair phase, his Bridget Moynihan scandal, his season-ending injury, his cult-like fitness program, his near perfect season. I saw him through all of that and I loved every minute of it.
I cried because he is the reason that I fell in love with football. He baptized me into the NFL fandom. All the memories I have had watching him over the years helped grow this interest into a love that has evolved into an (unhealthy?) obsession.
It’s all thanks to him and all the joy he has brought me.
I cried because imagining football without Tom is like imagining football without a field, without the ball itself. It might be dramatic, but it’s just one girl’s opinion.
After the ups, the downs, the love, the resentment, the frustration, and the joy, I am left with nothing but thanks for Thomas Edward Patrick Brady. Apparently, all it took was him retiring for me to finally understand exactly what he means to me.
Just One Girl's Opinion 
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