The day after the big Patriots-Ravens game, everyone was talking about the Patriots victory, and about Tom Brady.
This is an approximation of the conversation between me and my workfriends Cathleen and Apollonia:
“I didn’t think he was cute before. I’m sort of coming around to him.”
“Oh, he’s just fine.”
“Meh. Not my type.”
“Well, but he’s growing into his looks, finally. He used to look kind of gangling and boyish. He’s filled out very nicely.”
“I’ll say.”
“Do you remember when he hosted Saturday Night Live ten years ago? He was cute. He did a sketch about sexual harassment, and he just wore his underwear, and none of the women in the office considered it sexual harassment.”
“What kind of underwear?” (Okay, that was Apollonia.)
“Tighty whiteys.” (This was me. The vision is stamped on my memory. See the above photo if you’ve never seen the sketch itself; I couldn’t find the clip online. NBC guards its property jealously.)
“Oh,” said Cathleen (okay, we’re all out of the closet now). “I would have pictured something more elegant. You know.” She gestured downward. “Not boxers, but something really nice and form-fitting.”
“These were mighty form-fitting,” I said.
“Oh my God!” Apollonia burst out. “What are we doing? What kind of people are we? Why are we having this conversation?”
Cathleen and I paused for a moment. Then we both smiled. “Because,” I said, “we find the subject fascinating.”
(And to think I spent all those years not caring about sports!)
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