On an inconspicuous summer day in 2021, I visited Gillette Stadium for the first time.

The stands were mostly empty except for some parents watching their children play in a soccer tournament.

I ambled around for a while in amazement before finally taking a seat behind the uprights.

I looked out across the field that I had seen for so many years on TV — a place of thrilling overtime victories and agonizing defeats. There were fourth-and-goal plays. Improbable comebacks. A voice booming, “Let’s gooooo!”

I closed my eyes and imagined over 60,000 fans screaming beside me — a sea of red, white and blue jerseys. I could smell soft pretzels and beer, could hear the muskets of the End Zone Militia firing into the air.

Most of all, I could picture Tom Brady with the ball in his hands with two minutes left in the game.

Beyond all the accolades and trophies, No. 12 did something special for the common fan: He helped us imagine what could be.

Fast forward to 2024. Brady’s Patriots Hall of Fame ceremony on June 12 featured all the classic sentimentality that comes with sports. There were outpourings of respect and admiration from teammates and coaches. There were funny anecdotes, game highlights, record-breaking statistics and standing ovations.

Although enjoyable, as I streamed the ceremony on my TV and the hours rolled by, I kept waiting. For what? I didn’t quite know. I was searching for a feeling — one that wouldn’t cause me to look back, but to look forward.

In the closing of his speech, that moment came. Brady stepped away from being the gracious retiree enjoying his swan song and became the leader in the huddle again.

His voice sharpened; eyebrows narrowed. His words became declarations, instructions.

To be successful, he said, “The truth is, you don’t have to be special. You just have to be what most people aren’t. Consistent, determined and willing to work for it. No shortcuts.”

And there it was — the simple but powerful statement that defined his career and gave New Englanders a reason to believe that the best win would be the next one.

We watch sports for different reasons. They’re entertaining. Dramatic. Often unpredictable.

They give us something to root for within the mundane reality of waking up each morning to grind for a paycheck. Or they’re a distraction to the problems we’re facing. Or they’re a little bit of hope and motivation for a suffering world.

Team sports, most of all, make us feel like we’re a part of something bigger.

We stroll down the aisles of Hannaford for game-day snacks, nodding to fellow jersey-wearers on crisp autumn mornings.

We shovel out driveways during dreary Nor’easters after getting a text from our friend: “Pats game on?”

Sports become a part of our weekly routines, our shared identity.

For a couple decades in the early 2000s, New Englanders found a leader who knew how to speak our language.

He got us to buy overpriced merch and to cancel weekend plans. He brought us confetti and celebrations.

And he still gets us to stay up past our bedtimes on a weekday night in June, hoping to hear words that will give us just a bit of pride in where we live, what we do and who we are.