Boston: Brady? Eh, Fuck Him
BOSTON, MA — Emotions are still raw in Boston nearly a month after Tom Brady skipped town to sign with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. After spending the entirety of his twenty year Hall of Fame career in New England, the news of his departure came as a shock to Pats fans everywhere. On an ordinary night at Boston’s famous Green Dragon Tavern the grumblings of resentful Patriots fans filled the establishment. In a matter of weeks, the quarterback’s staunchest defenders have become his harshest critics. The irreverence with which Patriot fans now treated the name of Brady would have been considered blasphemy in the city of Boston just weeks prior. Yet, the resentment for #12 has quietly infected the Patriots’ hivemind, like a virus that spreads underneath the shadows of dimly lit bars and through the whispers shared at high top tables. Such is life for the Boston sports star, where the fans give the warmest embrace and the coldest shoulder. A slurred, gravelly voice breaks out above the general bar clamor.
“If he didn’t want to be a Pat so bad, maybe he can return those rings too while he’s at it. *burp* Brady was just the poster boy, this was always Billy’s team. Hope you didn’t let the door hit you on your way out, Tommy. Good riddance.”
As he finished his outburst, the elderly man swiveled around in his bar stool to face the crowd. He scanned the masses for sympathetic nods. A middle aged man put a hand on his shoulder. “Please Dad, not again, the grandkids are here.” The younger man points to his boys, aged 12 and 10, quietly sipping on beers at the far end of the counter. The older boy wears a #12 Patriots jersey with the name on the back covered up with masking tape. Grandpa takes one last look at the crowd before conceding to his son’s request. As he turns away another voice emerges from the crowd.
“If Pippen was Jordan’s Robin, then Tommy boy was the Pinky to Bellichick’s the Brain. He’s going to regret leaving, he’s going to look back and wonder what the hell he was thinking. I’d take Billy over Tom every time.”
And then another one.
“Frankly if it weren’t for Brady’s late game choking we’d have three more fucking Super Bowl wins. Manning made a Hall of Fame career out of beating us! Bledsoe wouldn’t have lost to Eli. Bledsoe was tough as nails, except for that one time. I’d even bet my soul that White Cassel would have had his way with those New York teams AND stuck it to Philly. I don’t know why we ever got rid of ol’ Matty. “Ol’ Reliable” is what I always called him.
Suddenly, a woman wearing a Tom Brady jersey stood up to face the hostile congregation. “I can’t believe what I am hearing. Do you even remember what it was like to be a Patriots fan before the year 2000? Do you? Or am I talking to a bunch of bandwagon babies? I’ve been a Pats fan all my life and in the first forty years of our existence, we won our division five times and made the Super Bowl twice. The Bears mopped the floor with us and your beloved Drew Bledsoe threw four picks that cost us Super Bowl XXXI.”
“PARCELS THREW HIM TO THE WOLVES TO GET BACK AT KRAFT AND TERRY GLENN WAS DOUBLE COVERED ALL NIGHT…”
“Shut the fuck up, I’m not finished. The Patriots were an embarrassment to the city of Boston. Our former owner almost moved the team to ST. LOUIS before ultimately deciding to sell the team to the venerable Robert Kraft. Kraft then formed the Third Triumvirate with Bellichick and Brady. The best goddamn power trio to ever grace the city since we were British colony. And just like that we went from being the dog everyone loved to kick to the team nobody wanted to play. All thanks to those three beautiful men. Tom will go down as the greatest quarterback to ever play the game and we were lucky enough to have him in New England for most of his career. I, for one, am thankful to him for everything he has done for this franchise. So let’s raise one for Tommy: the greatest quarterback, Patriot, and American this city has ever seen.”
Her final words echoed through the poignant silence of the crowd. The woman’s impassioned speech seemed to strike a chord with her inebriated audience. A single tear ran down Grandpa’s cheek… or was it sweat? It’s hard to say…but the silence was profound nonetheless. Perhaps, the reputation of Boston fans is unearned. Maybe deep down, below the hard exterior, there is a sentimental side…
“Boooo! Fuck him! Your boyfriend misses you in Tampa,” Grandpa hollered from the bar, now dripping with sweat. And just like that, the floodgates opened. A wave of boos descended upon the woman, along with a rain of bar food. Onion rings, French fries, and miniature hot dogs bounced off the defenseless woman. The more mean-spirited patrons even dipped their food in sauce before tossing them at the lady. After the edible stoning of Brady’s last defender, the besmirching of the quarterback continued without any further interruptions.
“First Kyrie, then Tommy, now Mookie… fuck ‘em all to be honest. If they don’t want to be here we don’t want ‘em anyway. You’re either with Boston till the bitter end or you’re dead to us. That’s how it’s always been. Sam Adams lived and died in Boston and that’s why we got a beer named after him.”
“I’m going to be honest, Big Papi has always been my favorite Boston athlete,” said a man wearing a TB12 branded shirt and hat.
“It sounds weird but, I actually feel good about next year. We got rid of some deadweight at quarterback that was holding us back. Tommy-boy couldn’t throw more than 20 yards downfield. Edelman was tearing his hair out! Now that kid Stidham, he’s got a cannon. The boys are going to love catching those spicy rockets! I still think we clinch the division easy. Our defense is one of the most underrated in the league.”
“Brady said all the right stuff, sure, but I never knew if he really loved Boston, ya know? Well, now I know. I wouldn’t brake if I saw him in a crosswalk.”
“I saw Tommy down at Neptune Oyster a couple of years ago and you know what that son of a bitch was eating? Fucking Manhattan style clam chowder. I couldn’t fucking believe it. As soon as the free agency rumors began, I was just waiting for him to sink the knife in Boston’s back. Never trust a man that eats Manhattan style chowder.”
“Can we talk about what a bastard David Tyree is?”
From there, the conversation (if drunken ramblings could even be called “conversation”) devolved into a nasty chant about David Tyree’s genealogy involving his mother and the barkeeper’s dog. The crowd then went on to attack the usual antagonists in Patriots lore (Eli Manning, Tom Coughlin, Nick Foles, Doug Pederson, and Chris Long) through the wee hours of the night. As Grandpa staggered out of the bar with his family just before daybreak, he gave what remained of the crowd one last, “Brady…eh, fuck him” before his 10-year-old grandson drove the family home.
