Now can we stop the Brady-and-his-balls talk?

It’s like a bad breakup—this Brady thing. You can’t stop talking about it.

You’ve been dumped. You secretly wish your ex’s next relationship will fail. (C’mon, don’t lie. You do.) Or at least you expect they’ll experience a few initial bumps in the road. You’ve travelled along with them and suddenly you’ve been booted from the bus. They’re riding away. Gone. You hurl that diamond ring off a cliff.    

But then that little band hits air and soars into the next relationship like a Phoenix rising out of the ashes.

I’m not a Patriot fan. In fact, I’m not a football fan so this is fun for me. Seeing millions of people ride the emotional roller coaster over one game, one man, one giant leap of faith; watching two-timing Tommy flip his finger at the masses. It’s revenge. (Writer stops to wipe tears of laughter off her face.)

My husband would sell my soul for another Super Bowl win for the Philadelphia Eagles. Way back before I married this sports fiend, he didn’t show up at a wedding I was in (not ours—hmmm—good or bad?) because the Eagles had made the playoffs.

Why do people adore men who play with their balls?

I’ve tried to explain to him, when his car breaks down, I’m the person who will pick him up on the side of the road. When he’s sick, I’ll bring his soup. When he’s old, I’ll hand him his cane. Still. He worships the Philadelphia Eagles—a big bunch of sweaty guys who don’t know he’s alive.

I’ll never understand this football obsession. Today, millions of people are waking up happy. Millions more are depressed. All are dreaming of better days.

Which makes this year’s football season the year of retribution in so many ways. (Brady. Wentz. Need I say more?)

What will you all talk about for the next 364 days?

Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.

I’m begging you. Not Tom Brady’s balls. Let us learn from the past:


CJ Zahner is a wife, mother, grandmother, writer. She hates football.

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