Tom Brady turned to Patriots media relations director Stacey James, and called one final timeout. It was 40 minutes after he'd extended his season one more week, this time a miracle via instant replay.

"They can wait five minutes," he said.

"They" were the media, who waited about 75 feet away. There were just a couple of us hanging around Brady at this point, and just chatting. Brady turned to a teammate's locker and started brushing his teeth. He brushed hard. He must have known that he was going to be asked about his (choose one) incomplete pass/fumble/unquenchable amount of luck. He knew he was going to smile.

Sure enough: "Tom, did you fumble?"

"You know," he said, smiling, "he hit me."

Pause. Uh ... and?

"I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure."

Smile.

"He hit me as I was going to throw. How do you like that?"

Suits us. Why not? Sure, it looked like a fumble. You could see that from Escondido. You could see it when Brady himself, on the ground after being decked by Charles Woodson, saw the ball in the Raiders' hands and plopped his head into five inches of snow.

But as we've learned with Brady this year, don't trust anything you see with your eyes.

At this point, we almost yawn at what Brady's done this year. It's easy to forget that he is, in all sensible terms, a rookie playing quarterback. I suppose 39 second-half passes, in a blizzard, in the biggest game of the year, after a Grbac-ish first half, help us forget. Running off the field, he put his arm around J.R. Redmond and yelled, "We did it!"

While the rest of the team was practicing victory dances, Brady stood at his locker gleaming. He put on his sneakers, his jeans, his ratty blue Polo shirt, then a beret and a slick leather jacket. He was half Jersey and half Madison Avenue. He put his arm around me when he saw me and beamed at his night. He looked like a normal 24 year old, half surprised at his accomplishment and half not, still with the glow of a college kid after his first game.

But the media was gnawing, so he grabbed his toothbrush and headed for the mirror.

He was off to become the polished quarterback he already is.

E-mail Seth Wickersham at seth.wickersham@espnmag.com.