We here at Modern Jackass are a lot of things. We’re ugly, we’re insecure, we’re short and we’re lazy. One thing we are not, however, is petty. Though we have our allegiances – the Brewers, the Packers, Obama and Favre – we are not averse to recognizing the things in life that transcend man-made divisions. Though sport relies on factions with conflicting interests competing against each other, it is at its core a celebration of human achievement and a metaphor for the subjugation of the human will to rules, discipline, strategy and team. That is why, in the name of sport, in the name of football, and in the name of excellence, we here at Modern Jackass can mourn the loss of Tom Brady.
We know, how melodramatic of us. He’s not dead. Perhaps not literally, but the injury to his knee that will sideline him for an entire year is an emotional blow to any fan of football. Unless you are of the petty, partisan mold who cheers the injury of opponents and believes what’s bad for Tom Brady is good for your team, you know the loss of New England is not their own to bear. Tom Brady, you were a joy to watch last season. No other Quarterback operated with the cool, incisive execution you brought to each and every play. You were stoic. You were inscrutable. You were, in short, the man.
We will miss you this season. We will miss your fuck-you gravitas as you marched 81 yards down the field emotionless, 2 minutes left on the game clock with the unstoppable conviction of Darth Vader’s Empire. In the shadow of your play men looked like boys, stars looked like rocks, and Pro-Bowl defensive tackles looked like fat Eagles fans. Your prowess was poetry in an ugly game that relies on very few tenets: shut up and perform. That you did. You were good enough to hate. But you were great enough to love. Way homo. For Brady. For Football.