Tom Brady is, after all, far removed from anything I embody. He is handsome; I am haggard. He is successful beyond precedent; I am mediocre on my best imaginable day. He is wedded to a comely woman; I avoid relationships. He is a Trump supporter; I am a non-voter. He is worth millions; I am a writer. I am literate, and desperately so; with his physical and technical prowess, Tom Brady has transcended language.
But these kinds of contrasts are not a reason to boo Tom Brady. Rather, in the contrast itself lies the reason why the author (and the reader) of this blog should cheer for Tom Brady.
Tom Brady has, after all, bestowed a remarkable gift upon us all. He has so far given us the opportunity to spectate unparalleled greatness—that is, to view a quarterback winning five Super Bowls. This in itself is a once-in-all-existence type of accomplishment. To see him win a sixth (in high definition, no less) would be to witness eminence of otherworldly proportions, far beyond the imagination of the average spectator.
Contemplating greatness of this magnitude, then, you are faced with a choice. You can choose the path of the hater, besmirching the names of Brady-esque luminaries in many an online forum. Or you can acknowledge the superlative talent of any given luminary, and bow down before him or her or them as your superior.
The more mature option is the latter. There comes a time when you can no longer deny that humans are not created equal, and that our world is, in reality, the domain of but a few ascendant superiors. The vast underclass can only be enlightened when its members acknowledge the supremacy of the true elite—athletes, capitalists, and most celebrities—and genuflect before them. In apprehending their acumen and accepting their dominance over us, we are able to make an even more crucial realization about ourselves: that we are slaves, and we work our menial jobs to consume products issued by this extremely select few—our telegenic masters who perform highly abstracted, commercially viable tasks at the highest level.
For this reason, all those who have been cheering for Tom Brady and the Patriots for the past decade-plus should not be passed off as mere bandwagon jumpers. Rather, Patriots fans are the enlightened vassals who have realized their individual inferiority and slavery and given themselves wholly to Brady's team and its licensed apparel, getting blissfully lost in that huddled mass of fandom clad in silver and blue New England merchandise. Their own haggard, lonely, Trump-voting lives are rendered infinitely more meaningful for it.
"Tom Brady is master, and I am slave." This is the mantra of the Pats fan. So this year, I will fight the urge to hate or to cheer for the underdog, and I, too, will repeat this mantra. I, too, will choose the path of the peon, and the profound self-awakening that comes with it. Rather than cheering against Brady, I will not just cheer for him, but actually supplicate before his matchless glory as it graces my television. At the pinnacle of underclass destiny—submitting to the broadcast of dominance—there is pure rapture. I will learn to love my inferiority, and to celebrate it. As Tom Brady moves the chains, I will come to adore my own shackles.
Also, I put all the money I ever made writing on New England. Thirty dollars on the Pats.