Excerpt
PROLOGUE PICTURE IT. A six-foot-four dude with the upper-body definition of a clarinet player, jogging in slow motion through the NFL Combine like he just learned what legs are. He’s got a weak 40 time, a tucked-in shirt, and a face that says “Yes, I will take that internship at State Farm.” This is Tom Brady. At least, that’s what the name tag says. To the scouts, he’s forgettable. To the camera, he’s meme-worthy. To the spreadsheets of the year 2000, he’s just another late-round nothing with a haircut better suited for a dentist’s son who’s about to disappoint you in beer pong. Nobody’s thinking franchise. Nobody’s thinking seven rings. If anything, they’re thinking: “Eh, maybe a decent...