The Secret Michigan Blog of Quarterback Tom Brady

Part 1 of an Ongoing Series

Ann Arbor was riding an ecstasy wave my senior year; the drug was falling from the sky like hail, but not on me - until that night I had writers block while writing a midterm paper on Proust.

It was the day after Drew Henson's second half start cost Michigan a shot at the title, and I couldn't stop thinking about what would've been had I quarterbacked the whole game. The cow-fucking Spartans with their buxom brainless blondes cheering them on, pompoms blazing in their shuddering hands like the flickers of some strange green-white flame, had kept the cheers going as I watched my chance to match the glory of 1997 slip through my fingers like cocaine, numbing me while it slipped away.

I could feel the memories collecting in my imperfections like sweat. I knew the day we lost our first game, as things are known by association with other things, like cookies, how to get that French Lit paper done once and for all. After all, I am Tom Brady. I always figure the game out.

I found the MDMA in a basement on East University. I went to the hippie frat for my drugs like I always did because they were not credible witnesses, didn't care about football, and mostly didn't even know who I was. I met Zac my main contact in there during a British history class discussion section, where we bonded on our love of blow and Rand and our utter contempt for liberal elitism and the institutional Marxism of 1990s Academia.

Zac met me in the Law Quad, around the back where the gothic architecture used to be interrupted by steel panels. The quad has since been expanded, and the aberration of modernism spurting through the stone is gone now, like much of my college town's charm and the looks of my Republican sweetheart at the time. She knew nothing of Zac or even his drugs, but there was stream of consciousness to comprehend and only hard drugs were going to get me there. I had the perfect plan to nail the 12 page paper.

I would take e and rant about Proust into a dictaphone, then transcribe the best thoughts and make the whole thing flow as an essay does best, with a geometric symmetry to its argument's introduction and conclusion. By the time the first wave rolled over my flowing tongue, Swann's Way flew out of me in the sort of pure understanding only psychedelics produce - the false kind of purity that is sure it is true, an NFL referee before the instant replay challenge was implemented in the game.

And for the first time, I thought of the last sentence, and the writing started coalescing, along with a better understanding of how to throw over the Cover 2 defense. I was going to win.