I want to tell my mother, who is watching in California, how much I love her. I want to tell my dad and big sisters that I love them, too. What was the question?
New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady, in response to a post-game question immediately after the 2017 AFC Championship game
The following is a story told to me in November 2015 by Rick Kimball, a former Montgomery Securities coworker who also happens to be friends with Tom Brady (and Mrs. Tom Brady, whom he affectionally calls “G”).
May 2002
The spartan apartment, decorated in Early Pizza Box, reeked of jockstrap protocol. Barrels of vitamins and nutritional supplements, along with Gatorade in every color of the rainbow, jousted for space in the filthy kitchen. The testosterone-infested living room included a greasy sofa, six folding chairs, a 50-inch television hastily mounted on the wall and a sticky coffee table buried beneath a jumbled assortment of video game controllers and empty beer cans. Meanwhile, back in the malodorous nether regions of the bedrooms, mounds of dirty sneakers and sweaty laundry marked the personal space of each of the four New England Patriot football players residing there, including one named Tom Brady.
Yes, that Tom Brady. Just because you were named MVP of Super Bowl XXXVI, played four months’ prior against the heavily-favored St. Louis Rams in beautiful downtown New Orleans, doesn’t mean you can’t live like a frat rat with your teammates for a few weeks during OTA’s.
Visiting “Tommy” during an East Coast flyby was Tom Brady Sr. (a.k.a. “The Original,” as he refers to himself). On the night before he was scheduled to return home to San Francisco, Tommy, whose relationship with his father is tighter than the laces on a football, had dinner with dear old dad. Both then returned to Tommy’s apartment to enjoy more father/son bonding time. At one point, while sitting on the sofa, young Tommy suddenly reached underneath it and pulled out a small item. “Here Dad,” he said, “I want you to have this.”
It was Tommy’s Super Bowl ring, which he had sized specifically for his father.
The Original, as one can only imagine, was overcome with emotion. “I can’t take you’re ring,” he said, “You put in the hard work. You had the broken bones.” Despite his father’s objections, twenty-three-year-old Tommy Brady insisted, and he proceeded to place the ring in his father’s suitcase.
Later that night, with his son in a Belichick-induced coma, The Original snuck out of his bedroom and put the ring back in the secret hiding place. The next morning, Tommy dropped his Dad off at Boston’s Logan Airport for the flight back to San Francisco. When The Original got home, he called his son. “Tommy,” he said, leaving a message on his son’s voicemail, “I was overwhelmed by your generous gesture, but I couldn’t take your ring. Just so you know, I put it back in that secret hiding place underneath the sofa.”
Minutes later, The Original opens his suitcase. Inside was the ring. Later that day, Tommy calls back. “Dad, I knew you were going to do that.”
Memo to the NFL: the spring NFL Draft Combing indeed serves a purpose, but it does a lousy job when it comes to measuring heart, work ethic and brainpower. When it comes to learning values handed down by your family that help you succeed in life, much less the NFL, Tom Brady is a first round pick.
And one more thing…Tom Brady really, really, really likes to win.
