Tom Brady turns 40 today.
He looks like he’s 30.
Plays like he’s 25.
There is no comeback he can’t author. No cliffhanger from which he can’t extricate himself, in Marvel Comic-hero fashion.
Chuck Norris tells envious jokes about him.
He’s so hip it hurts. Popular almost beyond measure. When the NFL Players Association released the latest list of the top 50 in merchandise sales – from March 1 to May 31 – the old guy Brady was No. 1, surpassing Dallas youngsters Ezekiel Elliott and Dak Prescott. The reigning MVP, the Falcons Matt Ryan, was nowhere to be found on the list (the lone Falcon was No. 26 Julio Jones). Social activist Colin Kaepernick, famed for his kneeling and sitting, was No. 39.
The Dorian Gray-like bargain the New England Patriots quarterback so obviously has struck with the devil is working beyond anyone’s wildest imaginings. Then, whenever it comes time for him to pay his share, Brady no doubt will successfully renegotiate.
He’ll probably play football until he’s 45, adding at least a couple more championships to a wall already filled with the stuffed and mounted remains of Falcons, Seahawks, Eagles, Panthers and Rams. And only then begin his successful run to the White House.
For his birthday – whenever Brady gets a break from training camp – his super model wife will probably cook him a gourmet meal and serve it in bed.
Then gently wipe away any trace of the sauce bearnaise that falls into his craterous dimples.
What do you get such a man for his birthday? Any jewelry would pale next to his blinding collection of Super Bowl rings. Somehow, a new tie or a box of golf balls would seem inadequate. Given his special diet, the miracle food dehydrator is of little use.
Is there a birthday card that could possibly convey a good wish to Brady that has not already been fulfilled? The Hallmark writer has yet to be born who can pen a sufficient sonnet to a quarterback such as this. And Shakespeare is accepting no new commissions.
No, I’m not jealous.
Happy freakin’ 40th, Brady.
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