On an ordinary summer day in 2021, I visited Gillette Stadium for the first time.
The stands were mostly empty, except for parents watching their kids play soccer.
I wandered around in amazement for a while and then finally found a seat behind the post.
I looked out over the field I’d watched on television for so many years. The scene of thrilling victories and painful defeats in overtime. Fourth-and-goal plays. Improbable comebacks. “Let’s go!” rang out.
I closed my eyes and imagined 60,000-plus fans screaming next to me, a sea of red, white and blue jerseys, the smell of soft pretzels and beer, and the sounds of end zone militias firing muskets into the air.
More than anything, I could picture Tom Brady with the ball in his hands with two minutes left in the game.
Beyond all the accolades and trophies, the number 12 has done something special for everyday fans: it has helped us imagine possibilities.
Flash forward to 2024. Brady’s Patriots Hall of Fame induction ceremony on June 12 featured typical sports sentiment, with respect and praise pouring in from teammates and coaches, amusing anecdotes, game highlights, record-breaking statistics and a standing ovation.
It was fun, but after hours of watching the ceremony on TV, I kept waiting. To what end? I wasn’t sure. I wanted to feel like I was looking forward, not looking back.
The moment came at the end of the speech, when Brady went from being a gracious retiree enjoying one last song to once again being a central figure on the team.
His voice sharpened, his brows thinned, and his words became a declaration, a command.
To be successful, he said, “you don’t actually have to be special. You have to be something that most people don’t have. It takes consistency, determination and a willingness to work hard. There are no shortcuts.”
And therein lies the simple but powerful statement that defined his career and gave New Englanders reason to believe their next win would be their greatest.
There are many reasons why we watch sports: because they are entertaining, because they are dramatic, and because they are often unpredictable.
They give us something to root for in the mundane reality of waking up every morning and working for a paycheck, they provide a distraction from the problems we face, and they offer a little hope and motivation in a suffering world.
Above all, team sports make us feel like we are part of something bigger.
On a crisp fall morning, we stroll the aisles of Hannaford in search of game-day snacks, nodding to our jersey-clad buddies as we go.
With a dreary northeast wind blowing, we shoveled the driveway after getting a text from a friend asking, “Are the Patriots playing?”
Sport becomes part of our weekly routine, our shared identity.
In the early decades of the 2000s, the people of New England found a leader who knew how to speak our language.
He made us buy big-ticket items, cancel weekend plans, and bring the confetti and celebrations.
And my dad still keeps us up past our bedtime on a weekday night in June, hoping to hear some words that will give us some pride in where we live, what we do, and who we are.
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