Dear Coach Bill Belichick,
I should have told you this before, but my life is not turning out the way I had hoped.
You see, all I ever wanted was to be the fourth son of Mike Brady on that killer 1970's TV show, The Brady Bunch.
It has always been my fantasy to have been the lone athlete among Mike’s sons, because we learned by watching the show that the other sons, Greg, Peter, and Bobby, were not good athletes.
I could have been the alpha male in that famous family, the one people would talk about fondly to this day. As you know, The Brady Bunch turned into one of the hottest TV shows in the history of TV shows. People would have remembered me as “Tom Brady, the lone athlete among the Brady Bunch boys.”
Behind the scenes, I could have dated my oldest half-sister, Marcia Brady, who was just an actress like I would have been, so she would not have actually been my half-sister. Marcia and I could have double-dated with my cool brother, Greg, and his mother, Mrs. Brady. Greg wrote about their dating escapades in a best-seller he penned a few years ago titled Growing Up Brady. I haven’t even had time to read the book because you have been pressuring me to spend so much of my time watching NFL game films, which has gotten really boring after doing it night and day for 17 straight years.
As the bombshell Brady, my romantic trysts could have extended beyond Marcia. I could have dated the fourth Brady sister, Giselle Bundchen, who went on to become a super model.
Instead, my life veered sideways. I lost my way, as some people do, often for inexplicable reasons. I ended up being the quarterback of the shady NFL team you coach, the New England Patriots. Our team became notorious for deception and deceit.
I had a pedestrian career: five Super Bowl championships, a gaggle of Super Bowl MVPs, a collection of NFL MVPs, and a bunch of NFL all-time quarterback passing records. In a couple of weeks you and I will snag another Super Bowl ring, making us the greatest Super Bowl champions ever.
But I could have done better, Coach. I sold out for something beneath myself. I deflated footballs, which was against the rules, just to make it easier to throw the ball accurately. Last week I was not forthcoming with reporters at press conferences about the nature of the injury to my hand. It made me feel dirty. I covered all that up by wearing gloves to the press conference even though it was warm inside that room.
Well past my playing days I will have regrets about rising to the top of a league that, frankly, only cares about making money for itself. A league that lacks soul and character, vitality and substance.
I could have had all those things, had I only been a star on The Brady Bunch. Instead, I became the king of nothing.
So after we win our sixth Super Bowl in less than two weeks, I will retire from this league, overwhelmed with misgivings. You can have all my Super Bowl rings. They mean nothing to me. My sole ambition in life going forward is to land a date with Marcia Brady.