I pay attention to Tom Brady the same way I do to most of the bland rabble of superstar douchebros: he exists, his unquestionable success means he has his very own personality cult, and his wealth and fame make him invincible. Which is to say I didn’t realize that just a few months after his non-retirement, Brady signed a nine-figure, decade-long contract with Fox Sports to join their NFL broadcast team whenever he decided to actually hang up the ‘ole cleats-n-jock. For the past year, all the Brady-related chatter that filtered through to me and my dumb distracted brain sounded like simple speculation that Brady would likely become a color commentator. Since I am always the last one to the party, I didn’t give this another thought.
So I know now that I straight-up missed the initial story – Brady signed Fox’s contract in May of 2022 – because it seemed so ludicrous on the surface. Tom Brady? The most decorated and acclaimed quarterback in the sport of football’s whole-ass history? The man responsible for moving the goal posts of what even qualifies as a “decorated and acclaimed quarterback”? The guy whose dominance lasted for so long the only legitimate comparisons to be made are with people named Michael Jordan and Wayne Gretzky and Serena Williams? Is going to become…Tony Romo?
Which isn’t even a dig at Romo! He was, at one point, a well-respected NFL analyst. This season, Greg Olsen inherited the “well-respected” mantle from him. Cris Carter’s been doing this gig for years. Peyton and Eli Manning do it without even coming in to the studio. Shaquille O’ Neal and Charles Barkley and Kenny Smith have such natural chemistry they make Inside the NBA’s in-studio segments genuine fun to watch (even if that’s less for any analytical superpowers and more for the shit-talking). Countless other former superstars do the same thing for their respective sports.
Tom Brady, though, is not Kenny Smith or Chuck or Shaq or Cris or Greg. He’s the GOAT. And color commentary is decidedly anti-GOAT behavior. MJ didn’t stop playing basketball so he could become the Lexus dealership’s Most Valuable Floor Salesman. Guys at Brady’s level are not bound by banal labor of this sort. They have would-be business partners lined up for the chance to work with them. They sequester themselves in estates and on private islands the world over, surround themselves with advisors, and do…whatever the fuck they want, I assume?
So the question becomes why Brady would want to keep rubbing elbows with mere mortals and wear a(n exquisitely tailored) suit every day like some run-of-the-mill executive. It can’t be for the money: Brady only lost about $45 million when FTX ate shit. Tom Brady can suffer a $45 million hit the same way we normies gasp and bitch about an unexpected vet bill after the dog eats a pool cue or a bird carcass from the backyard. He’s still wealthy enough to be in sweatpants and hoodies or lounge pants and cardigans every single second for the rest of his Chris Traegerish life. Who among us, given the chance, would ever choose a suit-and-tie existence over that?
In fact, the more I describe it, the more this period in a former superstar’s life is eerily similar to that of a supervillain. Tom Brady isn’t supposed to keep hanging out with commoners. Brady 2.0 should be off on an uncharted island with a custom low-tide dock, flying famous sycophants in to fawn over him during elaborate weekend parties he throws in spur-of-the-moment honor of himself. He’s meant to be Miles Bron from Glass Onion: too stupid to live; too rich to die.
I’m sure professional color commentary and halftime analysis and general TV personality-being are exactly as cushy and fun as they seem. If you spent your entire first career palling around with a bunch of like-minded jocks and then between all the palling around you played a game with a ball alongside those same pals for an audience of roaring thousands, I could never blame you for wanting to keep the adrenaline and camaraderie going well after your body could no longer keep up. The broadcast booth is a reward for the guys who were good enough to be respected as athletes and who are smart and charming enough to generate patter under studio lights.
But it’s still a thing you have to go do all the time – a job with regular hours that you are therefore required to work. It’s a reminder of mortality. GOATs are immortal. The games are immortal. The broadcast booth is a burst of lungs for the last gasp. This job makes no sense. Unless, of course, Brady is nothing more than another midlife crisis guy who needs people to hang out with all day every day ’cause he knows what it feels like when he gets caught alone with his thoughts. If you haven’t got a crowd’s deafening roar to block those out, the guffaws and back-slaps of your co-workers have to suffice.
