It’s not that we missed Tom Brady all these years. It’s just that the assessments were incomplete. Earlier in his career, he was thumbnailed as the GQ pretty boy who cavorted with actresses and models. Meanwhile, he was also working his ass off, rehearsing drills until they cemented into muscle memory, and developing good habits. Then, in the latter part of his career, he was cast as the football robot with the maniacally-strict diet, who went to bed around the time of Final Jeopardy. In reality, he has a lot more heart and soul and unpredictability.
Tom Brady contradicts himself. He contains multitudes. This, of course, is at odds with the times. We live in an era defined by binaries—liberal/conservative; you suck/you rock; Netflix subtitles/clean feeds. We resist complexity. Then again, Brady, too, is at odds with times. Here is a 44-year-old—full stop. Forty-four. Closer in age to Dan Marino than to Patrick Mahomes—still winning Super Bowls and mounting an MVP candidacy.
Last year, Brady claimed the Sports Illustrated’s Sportsperson of the Year award for the second time in his career. As part of the honor, Brady and I sat down for what was less an interview than the kind of sprawling conversation befitting two middle-aged men.
