Convergence

Several years ago I was at my sister and brother-in-law’s for a Super Bowl party when the conversation turned, as conversations do at such occasions, to longstanding team loyalties. I pledged my firm allegiance to the New England Patriots (whom I had recently learned not to call the Boston Patriots). My sister asked “Since when?” with a tone that hit the “when” more crisply than seemed absolutely necessary. “Since,” I replied brightly, “they got that cute boy as quarterback.” My brother-in-law’s shaking head plunged into his hands.

Time has passed. Tom and my sister and my brother-in-law have gotten older (See “My Gift to You”). Each now has a child. Two of them have the same child. I am headed north to visit my family and will spend time at my sister and brother-in-law’s home. How fortuitous to find Tom Brady on the cover of the September issue of Details magazine. Or not. Details? How could that be a good sign? GQ without the pedigree.

It got worse. If you had told me that it would be possible to be embarrassed for Tom Brady under any circumstances … I would have smirked. I soared beyond the idea that neither he nor Bridget Moynihan understood the basic mechanics of contraception. But these pictures!!! There’s one in which Tom Brady is wearing more eyeliner than I wore in three years of doing drag. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew.

There is no one, Tom, no one, male, female, gay, straight or four-legged, who ever again wants to see you depicted as a brawny waif. Is that how you want your son to see you? Although I’m sure there will be times in his life when he will be grateful that you aren’t very bright and can be lead around by the anatomy, when he says “Whew, I am so glad that he didn’t understand about birth control. And I’m so glad that I do.”

And Tom, no matter what kind of hard times they’ve hit, the folks at Esquire would never have done that to you. The photos, I mean.