I WANT me some Eli. When it comes to men, there is no com petition. Eli Manning is New York’s new super stud – an “aw shucks, ma’am” hottie with jug ears, an infectious grin, and immaculate breeding to go along with his fast hands and field smarts.
Forget Patriot tenderfoot Tom Brady, a limping advertisement for the Hollywoodization of the playing field.
Photographed in New York with a protective boot on his foot less than two weeks before the Super Bowl, emerging from his supermodel girlfriend’s apartment after a night on the town, he’s become a cautionary tale about the potential hazards of night life, a human warning sign about the dangers of ego.
And he’s boring.
With his chiseled chin and ever-present arm candy – the leggy, Teutonic-Brazilian beauty otherwise known as Gisele Bundchen – Brady has proven that a jock can be every bit as vapid as Leonardo DiCaprio, even while he’s helping himself to Leo’s leftovers.
When choosing a quarterback, I don’t want a playboy, a diva or a modelizer. I want a real man.
I want a man who hasn’t left his stunning girlfriend, starlet Bridget Moynahan, while she was pregnant with his kid, as Brady has, preferring the high life to diaper duty. I want a guy who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. I want someone who wants to be best known for the thing he’s paid to do: play football.
I want a man who doesn’t know what Butter is, let alone how you get into it. And while Manning could spend a bit more time in Manhattan – he prefers living in Hoboken – Brady spends way too much time here.
Why isn’t Brady shacked up in New England, for goodness sake?
Manning is content to romance his college sweetie, Abby McGrew, whom he proposed to in the fall after five years of dating. She’s pretty. She’s clean. She’s a gal who met Eli before he made it big, and it’s a sure bet he won’t trade her in for a free membership in SoHo House.
Here’s a confession: I’m not a big football fan, but you can bet I’ll be watching Eli this Sunday.
He’s the man of New York’s dreams. Go, Giants!