I Stole Tom Brady’s Jersey

I'm sure most of you watched the Super Bowl, last night. I'm sure all of you know that the Patriots won, whether you watched or not. Furthermore, you may know that after winning, Tom Brady lost his jersey. What none of you knew at the time was that I was the one who stole it.

I happen to be the starting quarterback for the Vikings, my high school football team. I hate to brag, but I am the star player – the talk of the town after every big game. I had quite the winning streak going for a while; several wins under my belt and not a single loss. That all changed after last Friday's game against our rival high school's team, the Bulldogs. I'd played them twice before and won by the skin of my neck each time. They were worthy adversaries, and even more worthy after our third bout. I was crushed. Defeat was a bitter pill to swallow.

After losing that fateful match, the atmosphere in the school changed. The usual pats on the back were replaced with awkward glances and blank stares. I knew it was most likely all in my head, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd let everyone down, even if we were still leading the division. I was a winner – that was my identity in school, and without it I was nothing. Nothing at all.

My wounds from the match remained fresh and unforgiving. I had to do something to placate my need for comfort. I needed anything that would cure the blow to my pride that I'd endured. As such, I decided to do a little research.

I was already over-exerting myself practice-wise, so I knew I needed something else to aid me in my hunt for athletic prowess. The internet offered me a lot of results in the way of steroids. If I'm being completely honest, I did consider it. I was desperate, but reeled myself back in before venturing down that avenue. Not only was it considered cheating, but the side effects frightened me. I would need an alternative method to up my game.

Hours and hours of bullshit tutorials and bogus fitness regimens later, I came across something different. A website by the name of "High End Rituals" offered a "foolproof method to become a better athlete". I immediately thought it was another scam. Just another site that would eventually ask for my credit card information to "unlock my full potential". This, however, was not the case. The site required no money, no information, no nothing. You just had to follow a unique set of steps:

STEP ONE

On a flat surface, outline a circle in chalk. Within this circle, draw seven, straight lines. These lines must touch the edge of the circle twice, and intersect with each other at one, central point.

STEP TWO

Place a symbol of the desired sport where the lines intersect. This symbol must have sentimental value to you in order for the ritual to work.

STEP THREE

DNA from desired athlete must be placed on the sports symbol. Burn the symbol. The ritual is complete.

That was the extent of it, more or less. It went on to say that the spell caster would absorb the ability of the intended target – whose ever DNA you were to place within the circle. A load of fucking bullshit. Nonetheless, it was entertaining.

As I was about to leave the site, I noticed a sidebar filled with video reviews of the spell in question. Seeking further entertainment, I clicked on one. Then another. And another. What I found in each video disturbed and excited me. I was dumbfounded.

Each user in their respective video praised the website and the spell, saying that it not only worked, but exceeded their wildest expectations. I laughed at first, but each testimony also provided proof of the spell's power. Like actual, legitimate proof.

One guy, maybe a little older than me, provided some facebook pictures that he'd uploaded the week previous. It showed him, lanky and unfit as ever. He then flexed for the camera, showing off his great muscle mass- something no one could have gained in the course of such a short period of time.

Another guy, maybe in his late 30s, played back some footage from a softball game he'd played a month beforehand. This guy struck out every time he went up to bat. He then played footage of a tournament he took part in a few days before filming the review. It was astonishing. Homerun after homerun, and even a broken bat from hitting too hard. I shit you not.

There were dozens of review videos and they were all essentially the same. Sucky player casts spell and suddenly becomes a great athlete. Either the site put a lot of money into these videos to further troll their audience, or the spell really worked. Whether it was the convincing vids or my own desperation, I was leaning towards the latter.

What made me even more intrigued was that all of the users seemed to suck at their chosen sport. I didn't suck – I was pretty damn good. I could only imagine the great skill someone like me would attain upon using such magic. And that's when another revelation struck.

The Super Bowl.

My dad, much like myself, was a football fanatic. On top of this, we were both diehard Patriots fans. Because of this, we were of course going to attend Super Bowl LI. We would have to sit in the nosebleed section due to financial issues, but we didn't care. We attended every Pats Super Bowl game, and this would be no different.

And that was the clincher. If I was going to try this ridiculous spell out for myself, I was going to go all out. I would have to somehow get DNA from fellow quarterback, Tom Brady, the greatest player of all time.

Crazy, weird, and obsessive, I know. But hey, it was an exciting adventure if nothing else. Something I could look back on fondly and laugh. If the spell really worked, then that would make the memory even better. I would throw caution to wind and hope for a miracle, like I'd done at many a Pats game. It was nuts, but I had to give it a try.


Fast forward to the day of the game. My dad and I were beyond excited, but for different reasons. He was excited for the prospects of a fifth super bowl ring, and I was excited to conduct my heist. It was all I could think about.

I'll spare you the details of the game, as most of you already know what happened. Just know that it was roughly halfway into the third quarter, spirits were down, and I used this as my opportun moment to remove myself from the festivities. I told my dad I needed to use the bathroom and excused myself. The first step of my plan was complete, but there were many obstacles ahead.

If you've ever been to a sporting event, then you're probably familiar with the layout of the stadium. I'll explain for those who are unfamiliar. Enclosed underneath the bleachers is a winding circuit of concession stands, gift shops, and bathrooms. At least, that's all a normal bystander can see. There are actually many more hallways and rooms within the stadium where the general public are not allowed to tread – anything from the generator room to the security offices.

There was only one room in particular that interested me and that was the Pats locker room. I needed to get down there in order to acquire and Tom Brady DNA I might find. Common sense told me that there had to be some way to get down there from the rest of the stadium. I knew the teams had their own entrance/exit, but I felt that there had to be another way for stadium employees to get down there for maintenance or what have you. It was only a hunch, but it was all I had to go off of.

I wandered around for a while. I stuck close to the Patriots' side of the stadium and mapped out my surroundings. I tried opening the various doors opposite the concession stands and found only one to be locked. I decided that this had to be the one that would somehow lead me into the depths of the stadium.

I waited and waited. I even bought some popcorn and a drink so as not to seem more suspicious than I already did. Eventually, the door opened and someone came out.

I was lucky as all hell. The stadium employee rushed out from behind the door and I was able to sneak in before it shut without him noticing. I couldn't believe I'd made it even that far and my adrenaline reflected this.

Staying focused on the task at hand, I pushed forward. I snuck past doors, windows, and a couple of other employees along the way and walked down many a staircase. I felt I was on the right track, and eventually I spotted something that confirmed it.

Standing at the bottom of one final staircase was a security guard. I kept myself hidden so as to privately celebrate before pressing on. This was it. This was the locker room. Why else would there be a guard down this far? I knew where I was, and better yet, I knew what to do.

I clawed my arm open carefully using nothing but my finger nails. I waited until blood oozed out and my wound looked grotesque. Grotesque enough to cause alarm. I then faked some tears and ran ahead in a sporadic motion, all the while screaming in agony.

"PLEASE, PLEASE! I NEED HELP!" I yelled as I approached the guard.

"How did you get down here?" He demanded.

"I don't know! I got lost. I was looking for the bathroom. I'm bleeding. I need help. Please!"

"Okay, okay. Calm down."

The guard then radioed for some help. I screamed some more.

"Oh god! I need bandages now. Please get me some bandages. I need something. I don't want to bleed out!"

By this point, the guard looked flustered.

"Okay! Wait here. Don't move."

I nodded while fake tears rolled down my face. The guard took off up the stairs in search of a first aid kit. I was in.

I walked a little further down the hall, and to my delight, I was smack dab in the middle of the Patriots locker room. I took it all in for a second, but I heard the guard coming back. I didn't think he'd make it back that quick. Without giving it a second thought, I opened up one of the lockers and jammed myself in. To my surprise, I actually fit.

I watched through the locker's slits as the guard came running in. He looked confused, but also relieved that I was gone. He would probably be fired if anyone knew I was there. Still perplexed, he walked back to his post, bandages in hand.

I stayed in that locker for the rest of the night. I heard the uproar of fans up above and I knew I was missing one hell of a game. I could only hope that the Pats performed a miracle and turned things around. I now know that they did.

More to the point, I didn't know what to do next. I couldn't exactly roam around the locker room in search of something with Brady's DNA on it, not with the guard right down the hall. I'd be caught for sure. Instead, I stayed in the locker. Even though I was without a game plan, I was proud that I'd made it that far. If that was the end of the line for me, then so be it.

As luck would have it, something happened that would breathe new hope into my half-baked heist. After the game ended and the crowd ceased cheering for the winners, Tom fucking Brady himself walked into the locker room. No one else, just Tom.

I rubbed my eyes and peered through the slits closely, while making sure not to breathe too heavy. Sure enough, it was him. My hero in the flesh, just a few inches from my grasp. The legend took off his jersey, placed it on a bench, and changed into a t-shirt before walking back out to the field. Holy shit, this was my chance.

Before anyone else could come in, I exited my cozy locker, grabbed the jersey, and shut myself back in. Fortunately, the guard didn't hear anything.

It might sound a little weird, but I'll admit it. I sniffed the jersey. I wanted to know what victory smelled like. Answer; sweat and body odor. Pretty much what I expected.

After snorting a line of Brady-brand battle sweat, I began scanning the thing for hairs. It was hard to see in the dark of the locker, so I couldn't be sure if there were any hairs on it. I would have to take the damned thing. The only thing left to do was to make a run for it.

I quickly threw the jersey on over my own, left the locker, and ran past the guard. He tried yelling for me, but I ignored him. I ran up the many flights of stairs and back to the stadium where I found my father, still in his seat. He was furious.

My dad demanded to know where I'd been, saying that he called a million times and even went so far as to check some of the bathrooms. I told him I fell asleep on the shitter. It was a crappy excuse, but I acted like I was truly bummed out from missing the game, so he bought it. And that was that.

I've since performed the ritual with one of the many hairs I found on Tom's jersey. Nobody noticed me wearing it back at the game, as lots of fans were wearing team jerseys. For all they knew, I bought it at a department store. It was even the same color as the one I was already wearing, so my dad didn't even notice. I was safe. I just hope that I didn't bleed on anything down there.

There is one thing I failed to mention. On the site, there is a disclaimer. Apparently "High End Rituals" is not responsible for any death or injury resulting from successfully casting the spell. You see, I'm not just gaining the athletic ability of my idol, I'm actually absorbing it from him. The site warns that multiple uses of the spell on the same target is not recommended. If you keep siphoning the same person's energy, they will eventually fall ill and die.

I'd like to think I wouldn't do that to Tom, but as I type this I feel my muscles expanding and my entire body changing. It's sensational. I don't think I want to give this up. I want to be the greatest of all time. It's my turn to bask in the spotlight.

I'm sorry, Tom.

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