“I’m 45 years old, man. There’s a lot of sh— going on. Just gotta figure out life the best you can.”
Tom Brady, 2022 NFL Preseason
Like Tom (I’d like to think we’d be on a first-name basis), I turn 45 this year.
Tom and I have a lot in common, other than the Hall of Fame football career. We’re about the same height (give or take a few inches), same body build (give or take a few pounds of muscle) and at the same midlife threshold (give or take a couple months).
Tom has become more than a (pretend) friend of mine over the years... He’s become my hero. At 45, he should be in the proverbial NFL senior’s home, nursing arthritic limbs in salt baths for hours every day.
Instead, he’s out chucking footballs in the fiercest sports league of our time. He looks anything but aged. Unlike Peyton Manning, who could barely lift his hand above his shoulder by age 40, or Brett Favre, who got carried off the field at age 41, Tom looks like a spry 39-year-old, ready to prove everyone wrong... again.
I can venture a guess as to why Tom wants to keep playing. In his 40 days (and nights) of “retirement” last spring, he realized what was on the other side. The loss of career. The loss of purpose. The uncertainty of what lies ahead. What will I do with my spare time? Should I pick up a hobby? Are these really my kids?
We’ll steer clear of his family life for a moment, even though it became an issue in the preseason. Someone significant in his life was obviously not in favour of him padding his already phenomenal football statistics. Her name is Gisele and she’s left him – for the moment – but again, it’s not my place to comment...
Other than to say, Tom, you’ve reached middle age. Like the Middle Ages of history, it can be dark. There are no easy answers. You will have to eventually come to terms with your mortality... The death of your football career.
You’ve had your share of ups and downs. Like the time you deflated those footballs to get a better grip – that was definitely a low point. Then you left your one and only football team to start over at age 42. Who would have thought, one year later, you’d be lifting the Lombardi trophy high up in the air with another team? You’re too good, for your own good.
Now you don’t know when to quit. You’re tempting fate – a career ending injury is only one play away. You’re throwing computer tablets on the sidelines again, even when you’re winning. What’s with all the rage, Tom?
I will admit that your return to the NFL is an awe-inspiring display of age-defying guts. Millions have cheered your return. And millions will be clamouring for you to play until you’re carted off in a wheelchair.
Because they really don’t care about you or your career, Tom. They just want to be entertained.
And you do entertain – brilliantly. Don't let anyone tell you differently!
But more than anything, I want you to have a happy, healthy second half of life, whenever that might begin. To start it off right, might I suggest you give Gisele a call?
