Tim Sweeney Media

AP photo by Paul Sancya

I have been wondering all day what it must be like to be Tom Brady today. This day. The day after losing to the Giants in the Super Bowl for the second time.

Sure, he has a beautiful supermodel wife who has earned nearly a billion dollars. Brady and his family could live off his personal wealth into the next century. He is handsome, intelligent and is probably a really nice guy. He is a sure-fire first ballot Hall of Famer when he retires.

But yesterday the distinction between being considered great at something and achieving greatness in that endeavor came clearly into focus. Three Super Bowl rings — exceptional, amazing, great. Four Super Bowl rings — rarified air, right there with Joe Montana and Terry Bradshaw, greatness. More than four? We may never know.

What we do know is that an opportunity slipped away with the field clock yesterday as time ran out on the Patriots team — and Tom Brady, in particular. Everyone knew what was at stake going in, and everyone knew what had been lost as the Giants celebrated their well-earned victory.

The team was doing it for Myra Kraft; they were doing it for the fans. But it really was Tom Brady’s opportunity to cement his legacy as one of the all-time great quarterbacks, maybe the greatest ever. His name will always be in the discussion, but it likely will never be at the top, unquestioned.

Tom Brady feels bad, Wes Welker feels bad, millions of Patriots fans feel bad about losing a game that the team was favored to win. But the sadness is about much more than that. It’s the recognition that a moment has passed, a singular moment that serves to separate humanity from something supernatural, something permanent and immortal.

It’s reserved for very few and it’s name is Greatness. We know it when we see it.

It’s been coming on for a while, starting as a low, distant whisper that grew louder in the fall.

After a summer performance season working with a revolving cast of band members, I started wondering out loud about what the ukulele-based Tim Sweeney Trio actually looked like (and sounded like).

The ukulele has changed my life, no doubt about it. It has taken me around the globe. In the past few years it has taken me along with it to perform in France, Germany, Canada, New York and Chicago, and helped me have fun in the Dominican Republic, Egypt and Jamaica. It has allowed me to make friends around the world and that I truly treasure.

At home on Cape Cod, I am known as The Ukulele Guy and numerous people have told me that I have inspired them to take up that precious, humble, and unbelievably versatile little instrument. I love the songs on my set list of the past seven years which is primarily comprised of the music of the great American songbook.

I love everything about the ukulele, but that whisper grew to an audible rumble in my head during a performance on new year’s eve in Chatham. It was the realization that the uke need not be the one and only instrument that I play in performance. After all, I have played guitar since I was 13 and still have the Martin D-28 that I bought in 1970. It carries the scars from gigs played over many years in untold numbers of clubs and pubs, and bears witness to the overwhelming satisfaction and gratification that comes from being the lone man in the spotlight.

So where does all this leave me at the present moment? Well, I bought that Telecaster I blogged about last week. Okay, not that one, the solid body ash. With some amount of reasoning in an irrational moment I chose a less expensive alternative, but a Telecaster none the less. I have been rocking out day and night, creating a new set list of old favorites and having a ball. I am even re-working some songs from uke to guitar.

I will continue to play ukulele gigs, but admit I am looking forward to a February 11th gig at the Hot Chocolate Sparrow where the Tim Sweeney Trio will debut a new look and a new sound.

Are you ready to rock and roll?

Okay, here’s what I did today.

On the way to the shopping mall to exchange a pair of pajama bottoms that I got for Christmas, I surprised myself by turning into the Volkswagen dealership across the street from the mall. Without even thinking about it. Just, whoop, right into the parking lot. And there it was – the 2012 Beetle. Red, sleek, swoop-backed and shiny, looking a little retro in all its newness.

I parked my ‘98 Beetle (the first year of the “new” Beetle) and peered in the driver’s window. The old glovebox is back!

Before I could say “fahrvergnügen” a salesman was upon me. Would I like to take a test drive? Would I! I slipped behind the wheel, he started the engine from the passenger’s seat, it purred. The route for the test drive wound around the back roads of this part of Hyannis, past Barnstable Harbor, twisting, shifting – this car is so cool.

Richard, the salesman, pointed to features on the dash. I turned on the radio. The Beatles were singing “Ticket to Ride.” Really. A few more turns and stop signs and we were back at the dealership, and after a swap of business cards and a handshake, I got back into my own sweet little bug that I love so much.

I started for the mall but instead continued on, with my mind suddenly on Charlie’s Music. I usually check out the ukuleles, ask about strings and buy a few picks. But today I wandered through the aisles of electric guitars and amps. Randy approached. Not here for ukes today? He saw me eyeing a Fender Telecaster. That one’s nice, said he, but this is the one you want. He pulled a spanking new ash body Tele off the wall and put it in my hands. It was solid and beautiful.

I’ve played acoustic guitar for most of my life, but never played an electric. Most acoustic players take to the Telecaster, he said, as he plugged the guitar into an amp. It felt good. I didn’t pretend to know what I was doing. Randy said he’d leave me with it and walked away. I started playing The Beatles “You Won’t See Me.” I know no electric guitar licks, but I could get to like this. Randy wandered back a few minutes later to remind me that a uke just isn’t the phallic symbol that a Telecaster is. Point taken. I turned up the volume.

That daydream over, I finally made it to the mall to find that the jammies were bought at an outlet mall and therefore could not be exchanged. I wandered the length of the mall. In the food court, I bought a huge, steaming slice of just-baked tomato/onion pizza and a Dasani. I people watched for a while and then made my way to the bookstore, where I bought a really good-looking oatmeal raisin cookie and ate it as I scanned the bookcovers that I could see from where I was sitting. I flipped through a few tattoo magazines on my way out and turned toward the parking lot.

So today, in my mind, I stretched some boundaries and considered some possibilities. Why limit myself this early in the new year? Who is to say what will be?

Will I switch from strumming ukulele to playing a searing electric guitar? Will I trade in my old faithful ‘98 for something zippier and shiny? Will the next thing to catch my fancy be something other than an oatmeal cookie?

It is 2012, afterall.

Christmas tree bottoms. Photo by Tim Sweeney

I started doing it in 1989. I had bought my Christmas tree that year and was making it ready to place in the tree stand by taking an inch or so off the bottom with my handsaw. Other years I had simply tossed that disc of sappy pine aside, but decided for some yet-to-be-discovered reason to take this one inside and let it dry out on a windowsill.

Some days later I picked the disc up and considered making it into an ornament. It was now dry and white and had a natural flat spot that allowed it to stand on its edge. Then came the bright idea.

Rummaging through cardboard boxes in the basement, I found the long-unused woodburner I was searching for. I plugged it in and waited for it to get hot. Into the cleanest side of the disc I burned a holly leaf and the simple message, “Christmas 1989,” and placed it among the other Christmas decorations.

The following year, I cut and wood-burned the disc from the bottom of my freshly bought Christmas tree. Then there were two.

I have continued to do this every Christmas, with a different message on the tree bottom each year.

And so today is the day I will buy my tree and perpetuate the tradition I started 22 years ago. I know of no one else doing this and I take great pleasure each year lining a windowsill in the house with my little collection of Hope, Joy, Peace and Noel.

Perhaps the tradition will become a legacy when I am no longer around to continue doing it. It makes me very happy to think that there will be a tree bottom added to the others in 2089, and that someone else will take pride in lining their windowsill with 100 wood-burned Christmas tree bottoms.

This year’s message? It’s in the wood and will let me know what it is in a few days.