Associated Press

In his recent Life of Reilly column (”School for the Uncool“, 9/17/07), Sports Illustrated writer and Tom Brady groupie Rick Reilly mailed in the sort of adulatory filler that makes Parade magazine interviews look like an appearance before the Senate Armed Services Committee.

The piece has little of note amidst the ticking off of Brady’s god-walking-among-mortals attributes — humility, integrity, fidelity to self — until we get to this curious little passage:

O.K., you might say, but how cool is it to get one woman pregnant ([Bridget] Moynahan) and be dating another ([Giselle] Bündchen)? Well, a) Brady says he didn’t know Moynahan was pregnant until after they’d broken up, and b) Brady is aching to be a full-time dad. He was there three weeks ago for the birth of John Edward Thomas Moynahan.
[…]
Personal responsibility. Check.

Cue gagging? Check.

As an actress who’s spent some time in the company of athletes and their adherents, I can’t express much surprise at this sort of specious apologia. Sure, Brady might have been in the dark about Moynahan’s pregnancy. But one presumes that Brady, while having unprotected sex (Or can Tommy Boy blame this one on a breakdown in his protection?), had an idea that his boys would be as committed as Brady in driving to the end zone. Perhaps Brady should have audibled a Quarterback With-draw.

Let it also be said that no man deserves extra credit for choosing to be involved in the life of his child. I appreciate that we’ve insulated professional athletes from personal culpability at a level usually reserved for Congress. But if the definition of personal responsibility for a professional football player is possibly lobbying the front office to take a few days off to be with the son that you fathered with a woman that you were most likely banging while making time with another woman, then I’d just as soon the NFL were re-tooled to mean the “No Fathering League”.

Look, I get it. Tomy Brady’s a dude. Like other non-dudes, Reilly just wants to be a dude-by-association. And, to be fair, Reilly’s column does appear at the end of each issue. He probably doesn’t expect it to receive more than a passing glance before its reader drops the mag on the floor and reaches for the toilet paper. Still, that’s no reason why Reilly should get any more of a pass than the object of his man love.