There was always something about the way Tom Brady stood there in the pocket, feet set just beyond shoulder width, symmetric; spaced perfectly, body upright, straight but fluid; always, both hands on the football. He looked like a statue, or an NFT, less human and more form of art. But Brady wasn’t, as they say, born to throw footballs better than anyone on earth. He was born to pursue throwing them with every ounce of focus, energy, obsession and delusion he could muster.
I’ve written about star athletes over the past 20 years and am often asked about others I’ve profiled. I’ve fielded more questions about Tom Brady than Aaron Rodgers, Roger Federer, Manny Pacquiao and all the rest combined. They want to know the secrets, the routines, whether he really eats avocado ice cream. One prominent NFL quarterback—I didn’t clear this with him, so I won’t use his name—wondered, simply: Where does Brady find the time?
Funny he should ask. Because lately, when thinking of or speaking about one Thomas Edward Patrick Brady Jr., the concept that keeps surfacing is: balance. In some ways—in the pocket, for instance—no one possessed more. On balance, in balance, forever balanced, that was Brady’s football career, an ethos. But staying in balance while playing football required an imbalance everywhere else.
