The Secret Michigan Blog of Quarterback Tom Brady
Part 3 of an Ongoing Series
What was I doing at in the basement of a college drug house nervously thumbing the leather of a bull whip? I was painfully aware then of the precipice where I had no choice but to wait and look down. Call me Indiana Jones, not Tom Brady. Cracks of that whip were keeping me going.
The future beyond Ann Arbor smelled something like the stale beer staining the floors with clingy films underfoot. Somehow my paranoia had sent me to this room to make love out of violent sex with my sweetheart’s roommate, who was rapidly taking on that status as well, minus the sweet part. Anything to take my mind from its rightful preoccupation that week with the future of football. The month before the NFL draft had flowed like a viscous liquid, as if I were wading in malodorous sludge whose opacity made anxiety inevitable. There was no way to tell if my next step would plunge me into the depths of toxic thickness and some vile and toxic purgatory that would be life without my sport. My pained chest and pulsing breath suggested a cardiac event when I knew there was none. Twisted by the prospect of a life outside the NFL, I had to do what I could to relieve the stabbing angina pectoris, a low-level ongoing panic attack.
The air in the basement reeked of skunks as well as piss poor lager. I have rarely cared for the stupefying charms of marijuana. When I was repeatedly finding my body enveloped by a feminist who seemed to be made irate by my mere existence, to say nothing of the power structures that existence represented, I needed to get high. I was in the right place to do that. How else was I to bear the cross of all of patriarchy? What I had to take upon shoulders lacerated by the scratches of rough sex as soon as I pulled out and rolled over would break most constitutions, but I have ever been feign to acquiesce in the face of arguments without balls behind them. Brave though Sage might be, her arguments would ever lack the inherent virility ideas need to seed the world. So Sage only disseminated her passions through the frequent sweat and occasional blood that would moisten our sheets. The rest of her enthusiasm spread nowhere.
I looked over at Sage then, curled supine yet still stiffened by her dominant confidence, and asked her how she lived with this mess.
Sage crossed the moist sheets just then and asked how I lived with myself.
In a ringing made faint by deafening anticipation, I heard the phone, maybe my agent, maybe another girl. I reached for it. Sage caught my arm. A smirk. Average lips pursed into thickness by a pout. That dyed hair shuddering under the box fan in the window carrying the smoke and fumes outside. Sage punched me hard in the cheek then, small fist, sharp strike placed just right to not leave a mark. She had been hitting men since they were boys. We entwined again. After, as the haze settled from her cigarette, I thought of Joe Montana and started to cry, eyes only, otherwise smiling. I still don’t know if those tears were happy. Then I looked at the healing cigarette burn on my chest, still smiling, and thought about that Indiana Jones villain with scalding amulet in hand, and that spunky woman behind the singeing, and the meaning of scars.