The Wheel Has Turned

It was a strange call to get at five o’clock on a Monday morning. The Judge, a well-known gambling and legal figure in Canberra circles and a close personal friend, was screaming incoherently into the receiver, behaving in a manner very similar to that of an ice addict in the throes of a two-week binge. It quickly became apparent the receiver that my esteemed colleague was yelling into was located deep in the bowels of the Canberra City Police Station.

“Ye Gods Tedeschi, are you up? Tom Brady is dead. Or seriously maimed. A sniper has taken him down from the stands. A hitman has been paid. The NFL had him taken out. This is Roger Goodell’s sick attempt at humour. I knew he was a vindictive and dirty bastard who should have been drowned at birth. His eyes are too close together. This is vengeance for Spygate.”

“What? Where are you? What are you talking about? I haven’t slept in three days and you wake me up with some crazed, whiskey-induced conspiracy theory about the Commissioner of the National Football League putting the quarterback of the best team in the league out of business?” I replied.

“Brady is gone. Kapoof. And so am I. I have just been taken down with capsicum spray and two heavy-booted sergeants seem ready to squash my testicles into the thinnest pancakes you have ever seen. Call Dr. Fleming. I need a lawyer.”

The line suddenly went dead and it would be a good few hours and any number of long-distance phone calls before any form of clarity was bought to the situation.

The Judge, who had picked up Tom Brady in our fantasy football draft as well as having invested heavily in the Patriots winning the Super Bowl, had seemingly suffered some form of nervous breakdown while watching the Patriots-Chiefs game on the illegal, high-powered satellite dish of the Officers Club. After seeing his hero’s left knee collapse only seven minutes into the season, something snapped inside His Honour. He was found atop the OC screaming obscenities and hurling highly valuable artworks to the wind, cursing The Fates who had deemed him too foul a beast to taste victory or success. The stars shone off his balding dome and sweat covered his thick neck. Mr. Plod was soon called by concerned neighbours and after a brief struggle, he had his wrists cuffed behind his back and his rights read to him before being hauled in “to face the music”. His only phone call, allowed to him more out of deference to his standing in society than out of any legitimate legal reason, was not to his attorney or the standing magistrate or the police commissioner but to your ever-faithful storyteller to unleash the bile located within caused by a no-name safety taking down the best player in the NFL. Football can do strange things to a man.

It would be easy to blame Tom Brady’s season-ending knee injury on The Judge’s nervous breakdown. It was, however, merely a catalyst. His Honour had been riding The Edge for any number of years and this was merely the metaphorical straw that left the camel a cripple. But this is all by the by, I guess, as is the fact The Judge pulled a few strings and released without charge and was subsequently seen in a deep, late-night discussion with his attorney, Dr. Fleming, about taking legal action against Roger Goodell and the National Football League.

The real story, of course, is not The Judge but the ramifications of Tom Brady’s now bum knee. Brady is done for 2008, his season running shorter than it takes to get a gyoza set from Momo Taro. In terms of football, the news could not be much worse for the New England Patriots; they have lost the reigning MVP, a two-time Super Bowl MVP, a three-time Super Bowl champion and the single most important cog in the single most dominant offensive machine in the history of pro football. As Boston’s greatest modern day hero lay screaming on the turf and clutching what was once a working knee, the Patriots hopes of winning the Super Bowl took a sharp turn southwards. Those who had wagered heavily on the Pats are now riding Matt Cassell, a quarterback who has not started a game since high school, and a case of severe unders. The Patriots still have a borderline genius calling the plays and a pretty handy team but without Brady, they cannot make it to the Big Dance. Brady is too important, too critical, the best player at the singular most important position in any team sport.

Brady’s wrecked knee may also represent something greater: A critical Karmic turn in the history of Boston sports.

The rejuvenation of Boston sports has been a painful experience for all those outside of New England who, quite logically, despise their teams. I am one such gentleman, a sports fanatic who has a deep loathing for nearly everything Boston. The New England Patriots are tolerable: they have a Machiavellian coach who understands that winning is the only end and I respect that as that is how sport should be conducted. The Boston Red Sox and the Boston Celtics and their fans, on the other hand, are utterly contemptible. The six championships won across the three major sports in the last decade have made the entire Boston scene unbearable. There is a total arrogance that is stomach churning.

I yearn for the days of the mid-nineties when the Curse of the Bambino left most Red Sox fans emotional cripples and the ineptitude of the Celtics caused many to abandon the most storied franchise in NBA history and the third-tier nature of the New England Patriots had the team on par with the New England Revolution or the Hartford Whalers. Boston, as a sports city, had failed itself and was suffering at the hands of some vengeful force. Everybody knew it and the penance for upsetting the gods was long and painful and painted with some very recognisable scars. Bill Buckner. Tony Perez. Bucky Dent. Len Bias. The Celtics leaving the Garden. It was a highly entertaining tale of woe for those who wished the city nothing but the worst.

They were grand times and they kept Bostonians, a naturally arrogant type, grounded. Their woe-me attitude was irritating and their belief that they were the only city to suffer failure was egotistical but for the most part their self-loathing was highly satisfying to most outsiders. These days, it is just unchecked arrogance and a belief that total domination is the only end.

That attitude may be about to change now. The wheel has turned. The Fates seem displeased by the attitude of Boston sports fans and have signaled that the crops ahead may not be as bountiful as those reaped recently. Desolation may also lay on the horizon as punishment for a town who too quickly forgot about what it was like to lose. Those fans who prayed for just one Red Sox World Series title are now fat and stupid with greed, memories of the destitute days of yore long forgotten, replaced with a carnivorous desire for blood and more blood.

Like the Great Flood cleansed the earth, Tom Brady’s crippling injury will start the cleansing of Boston sports. The city has had its fun and now it is time to buckle down and prepare for the worst. The Fates have spoken.

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