Each week this season, New England celebrity Tom Brady will enhance his bank account by fielding questions on local sports radio shows.
After his first 2011 preseason appearance, Tom gave his usual affable and standard answers to the press.
During another pointless interview, the fawning minions that have graduated from unimpressed press corps to media communicators (no one is a writer or reporter any longer) will spend time tossing cream puffs at Tom to show how friendly the objective sports writer can be.
Tom Brady is not fooled, and he is no one’s fool.
To listen to Tom handle with adept aplomb the alleged set-up “tough” questions thrown by his so-called media pals is a lesson in Belichick’s school of disinformation.
When one old-time erudite reporter of yore recently asked Tom about whether it’s different in preseason for a veteran quarterback and a veteran coach, Tom adroitly did not answer.
He noted how all teams have new players and new coaches and all seasons are new.
Tom’s tone is terrific. Brady has a dishy sound that almost convinces you that he knows who you are or may even like you.
It is acting that once made Cary Grant a star. The charm oozes off him with all the effort of tossing a pass to Chad Ochocinco in an exhibition game.
Tom knows something about sound bytes and modulation, but there is blackness in his all-seeing eyes. He may as well be a great white shark stalking a drop of blood in the water.
Tom shows no chemistry with his radio interviewers. They may think he is pleasant, but he smiles insincerely as blank and generic sweet sauce is poured on them. Tom does not laugh and is not spontaneous, and even his ad libs seem to have a calculation.
Tom Brady is a brilliant media manipulator. It’s part of his job.
Brady is a sharp and ironic wit when he wants to be, but the sports media are humorless dullards for whom wit is lost. Only when Wes Welker worked “foot” into a press conference 40 times did the press catch on.
Tom is more of a star than the other Tom—named Cruise—and Brady knows his power. He flashes only a little, knowing how little will satisfy the minions of media.
Those who are lucky enough to chat with Tom over a game of backgammon may see the real competitor whose scoff would wilt a rookie receiver.
Those who have met him while retracting the automatic convertible roof of an SLK 320 Benz into the trunk know how powerful his wattage is and how competitive his heart is. When he smiles at you and confesses he likes your car and wants to get one, you want to give him the keys.
