Peyton Manning

by Mark Kiszla

  In Denver, he was PFM from the start. Social media made the call, and there was no turning back. The people had spoken. Throughout the Rocky Mountain region, with fans passing instant judgment on all things Broncos, the shorthand for the $18 million QB became as popular on Twitter as SMH or LMAO.

  Thomas Edison did not actually invent the lightbulb, but he gets the credit. Vic Lombardi, lead sports anchor at the CBS affiliate in Denver, might not have been the first man to dub Manning “PFM.” Lombardi, however, put the edgy acronym of endearment squarely in the local sporting vernacular, and did so without incurring the wrath of any Federal Communication Commission censors. It was beautifully subversive. Whenever asked what the F in PFM stood for, Lombardi would cleverly reply: “Peyton Freaking Manning. Birth name.”

  PFM made throws that Tebow could not dream. Broncos coach John Fox gave credence to the PFM craze during an interview with the Los Angeles Times, when reviewed the performance of Manning by declaring: “What Peyton is doing, in my brain, is not just remarkable, it’s freaking historical.”

  PFM was the football equivalent of a Chuck Norris joke. Peyton Freaking Manning doesn’t need to check the scoreboard clock; he decides what time it is.

  “To refer to PFM simply as PM is shortsighted, disrespectful, and quite demeaning,” Lombardi once tweeted.

  “No Plan B” was immortalized on a T-shirt as the unofficial motto of Manning’s debut season in Denver. It was only a matter of time before “PFM” garnered the same honor of 21st-century pop culture.

  The seller of the PFM shirts harbored a dirty little secret. A large part of the appeal in the football flea market that sets up outside Sports Authority Field is sticking it to the man. Plunk down a buck for peanuts on the street, and that is money never seen by an NFL franchise owner who had his stadium subsidized by the taxpayers’ dime. Buy a stocking cap or a bottled water from a rack along the Broncos Walk and you can feel good about helping out a small local businessman. Know what I mean, Mr. Farmer?

  “Well, I’m from Ohio. Cleveland, as a matter of fact,” said Farmer, lowering his voice to keep his admission from spreading. “You know, the Broncos have been tearing my heart out my whole life. But I come up here and sell T-shirts for the money. I come in to Denver for the game. Sell the shirts at every home game on this exact spot. And, when the game’s over, I go right back home.”

  There was a temptation to rat out Farmer. I suppressed it. Hey, even a dude from Cleveland needs a way to put food on the table. But here was a Browns fan, profiting at the expense of Broncomaniacs? Only in America. Before Farmer could continue with his story of entrepreneurial success, however, two more customers interrupted.

  “We’re not even going to the game,” announced Jameson France, looking as if finding these orange shirts was a more historic discovery than Indiana Jones getting his mitts on the Holy Grail. “We parked in the lot behind the REI store and walked over here for only one reason: To get this shirt!”

  France was on a quest. He did not grow up loving the Broncos. But his grip on a wad of cash was tight, and France braved the game-day traffic jam to complete a mission that had been on his to-do list for more than two months. For him, buying PFM T-shirts wasn’t a whim. Those orange shirts were an absolute necessity for a red-blooded American football fan, a necessity like air . . . a high-definition television . . . or cold beers in the fridge.

  “I’m from Tennessee. I grew up in Johnson City, and have always been a huge Peyton Manning fan,” confessed France, a 2009 University of Tennessee graduate. “I had tickets to the Raiders game in September, but didn’t have enough cash on me. So I came back. I’m sending shirts home to my family.”

  Hey, nothing says Merry Christmas like a PFM T-shirt.

  “See?” said Farmer, creator of the gift on everyone’s list. “I’ve got a cult following.”

  On his way to becoming the most beloved sports hero in Colorado history, John Elway picked up a handle accurately reflecting the gunslinger mentality that made him the last hero standing during wild west shows in the fourth quarter. He was affectionately called the Duke for winning more shoot-outs on the field in the final reel of highlights than John Wayne ever did in the movies.

  Manning is far from a gunslinger. He is clinical, carving up the will of a defense with surgical precision. He is PFM. It fits him perfectly. He is the freaking boss.

  When Manning talks, even rowdy Broncomaniacs shut up and listen.

  Chuck Norris doesn’t read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants. That is nothing, however, compared to the spell PFM cast on Denver.

  Back in the day, Moses parted the Red Sea. Only Peyton Freaking Manning can stop the wave in his home stadium.

  He told Broncomaniacs to pipe down. They obeyed faster than you can move a finger to your lips and say “Shush!” Guess we know who gives the orders around here.

  The Tampa Bay Bucs were in town on that pleasant late-autumn afternoon, apparently summoned so Manning would have a defense to toy with, as he added more impressive factoids to his PowerPoint presentation as a Most Valuable Player candidate.

  Manning completed 27 passes for 242 yards against the Bucs, including a touchdown throw to Thomas that appeared as if the football vaporized out of the quarterback’s right hand, not to be seen by anyone again again until the end zone during D.T.’s celebration, as if instead of being thrown, the pigskin had been dematerialized and beamed up to its intended target, like something straight from the imagination of Gene Roddenberry.

  For comic relief, Manning picked up another first down by scrambling from the pocket with all the grace of a man tumbling down the basement stairs in the dark. But as he stumbled toward the Tampa Bay sideline, Manning somehow spotted Broncos running back Knowshon Moreno, who had aborted his pattern by falling on his rump beyond the first-down stick.

  With a delicate touch, Manning dropped a pass softly into the lap of Moreno, as the running back sat nonchalantly on the grass. A second later, when the whistle blew the play dead, Manning unexpectedly found himself looking directly into the eyes of Bucs coach Greg Schiano on the Tampa Bay sideline. Schiano responded involuntarily, in the manner any good football coach does when witnessing unexpected greatness on the field. He excitedly patted Manning on the helmet, the way you see a coach applaud a peewee QB in Pop Warner League.

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever had an opposing coach tell me that was a good play in the middle of the game,” Manning admitted.

  Early in the fourth quarter, with the Broncos in possession of the football and a commanding 15-point lead, it was all over except the shouting, the nacho-munching, and the playful, mindless hijinks of the crowd. In his relentless perfection, Manning had drained all the drama from the proceedings to the point his audience was bored.

  With a one-two-three, fans stood, threw up their hands and shouted, as the wave flowed from section to section in the stadium. Sure, the wave is a cliché. But it is mindless good fun, a stadium tradition that reaches back at least 30 years, when a professional cheerleader known as Krazy George Henderson began the craze by accident at a hockey game in Canada.

  As the wave crashed around him, Manning operated the Denver offense from the no-huddle attack, completing a short pass on third down to Eric Decker and kept the drive alive.

  Manning, however, was ticked. And when he gets miffed, we all know what happens next: a bad case of Peyton Manning face. This time, it was directed at every man, woman, and child in the crowd.

  Before hurrying to give teammates instruction, the quarterback turned away from the line of scrimmage and with both hands, gestured with agitation at Broncomaniacs to stop the stupid wave. On the Fox television broadcast, color analyst John Lynch quickly dissected a replay of Manning’s objection to the wave and hilariously observed: “He tells the fans: ‘Please! C’mon, I’m trying to do some work out here!’ He’s staring at them. Look at him!”

  Responded play-by-play commentator Dick Stockton: “You think he
’s in charge?”

  Lynch: “I think so.”

  The camera panned the people in the stands, all looking as guilty as kids waiting in the principal’s office.

  “Fans doing nothing,” Stockton noted. “Folding their arms.”

  “You would, too,” added Lynch, “if he told you to be quiet.”

  Got it? Good.

  When the wave began rolling, what words crossed the mind of Manning?

  “Oh, I don’t know. I probably can’t repeat it,” confessed Manning, suppressing a grin. That is the beauty of PFM. Everybody knows he means business, without Manning needing to say a single word.

  Does a theater audience do the wave when a Shakespearean actor launches into a monologue from Macbeth? Tiger Woods demands silence when he lines up a 20-foot putt for a birdie. We all know better than to burp in church.

  “I’m all for excitement, but in a no-huddle offense, when you are calling something at the line, the quieter the crowd can be, it is certainly helpful,” Manning said. “But I appreciate the spirit, so I don’t want to tame that at all.”

  At the exact moment when that beautiful hush enveloped the stadium, Tebowmania tippy-toed unnoticed out the exit gates, never to be seen or heard from again in Colorado.

  “He’s a first-ballot Hall of Famer,” said Tampa Bay’s Schiano, setting aside his competitive ire after a tough defeat long enough to show reverent appreciation for Manning, “and there’s a reason why.”

  Manning told 76,432 Broncomaniacs to sit down and shut up.

  And they liked it.

  This was the house that Elway built on the basis of back-to-back Super Bowl victories. This was the house that Tebow brought back to happy life after years of football that sometimes made fans cover their eyes in disgust.

  But the day he stopped the wave, the new quarterback in town took possession and the stadium officially became Peyton Freaking Manning’s House.

  Keep quiet when the master is at work.

  Behave yourself. Or else.

  Only a fool messes with PFM.

  Got it? Good.

  Chapter 5

  Mr. Noodle Arm

  Manning heard. Oh, he heard the whispers that screamed: As a quarterback, he was toast. The accusation? His throwing arm was as sturdy as overcooked fettuccine. But that did not mean his brain had turned to mush. The wit of Manning remained as sharp as infinity knives.

  “Watch out,” Manning warned reporters standing behind the end zone, as he and the Broncos worked on a passing drill during the early stages of a practice in late September. “Those wobblers still hurt if they hit you in the head.”

  The message of the zinger was delivered with the velocity of a Justin Verlander fastball. Looking in the direction of his pals in the Denver media, Manning pointed to his helmet and gave a visual clue: Be smart. Manning knew: A man has to use his noodle, especially if his passing arm is dissed as no more threatening than Mom’s spaghetti.

  Maybe the most remarkable aspect of Manning’s comeback is how much he relied on guile, as he adjusted to his body’s limitations.

  “I am what I am. It is what it is,” Manning once said, at the height of his exasperation over the unending speculation on the strength of his passing arm.

  Look, the truth is, the Broncos had a pretty good idea they were signing Mr. Noodle Arm, yet offered Manning a $96 million contract with full confidence the best QB mind in the business would find a way to adapt.

  Fewer than 72 hours before Manning telephoned Elway on a Monday morning with that happy news of his choice to join the Broncos, Denver management flew from Colorado to North Carolina on a secret mission to inspect the quarterback at Duke University. There was a big stack of franchise owner Pat Bowlen’s money on the line. So the Broncos airlifted the best minds in their organization to the East Coast, bringing in everybody from Elway and general manager Brian Xanders, to offensive coordinator Mike McCoy and trainer Steve Antonopulos.

  After the private workout, Elway tweeted: “He threw the ball great and looked very comfortable out there.” The positive review got Broncos Country geeked. But those glowing words were less than the 100 percent truth. Had Manning been a rookie being poked, prodded, and evaluated at the NFL Combine, his grade would not have matched the expectations of a franchise quarterback. Only months removed from watching the Colt’s 2011 season-opener from a hospital bed, Manning’s passes were still a work in progress of a long, difficult rehabilitation.

  “The way he threw the football when we saw him at Duke? That wasn’t what sold us,” Elway admitted to me months later. “He looked fine there at Duke. But he wasn’t ready to go out and play in an NFL game there. He wasn’t ready to go.”

  The Broncos would have to take it on faith that Manning could be the same as he ever was, a worthy foe for Ben Roethlisberger, the Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback who was scheduled in Denver for the 2012 season-opener, fewer than six months down the road from this workout at Duke. The medical chart pointed upward, but the only 100 percent solid promise was Manning’s word to give the comeback his best shot.

  So you mean to tell me, I asked Elway, that he changed the direction of the team and bet his reputation on a damaged quarterback, not so much on what Manning physically did, but on the conviction with which he talked to you?

  “Absolutely,” Elway replied.

  Elway invested millions of dollars, not on the strength of Manning’s arm, but the strength of Manning’s word. Now that took cojones.

  “I just knew in my heart, knowing him and his career and what he’s about, if any quarterback was ever going to make this deal work, it was Peyton Manning.” Elway said.

  The question was not so much if Manning could stay on the field for 16 regular-season games with the Broncos, but how many times he would resemble the legendary quarterback that Denver fans would expect.

  “There were never any worries with me about his neck. Before John Lynch came to Denver, he had the same surgery with his neck. [Former Tampa Bay star] Mike Alstott had the same surgery. In Lynch and Alstott, you’re talking about a strong safety and a fullback, players who get hit hard all the time. If those guys were fine, then, believe me, a quarterback was going to be fine. I was never worried about the neck,” Elway said.

  Fans and media obsessed about that first hard, blindside hit, to see if Manning could take a licking and keep on ticking. The hearts of those concerned about Manning’s well-being were in the right place. But they were focused on the wrong issue. What makes Phil Mickelson such an astounding golfer is his touch around the greens. What makes Manning so amazing is his uncanny feel for the football, a skill that allows him to loft a pass delicately over the outstretched arms of a linebacker. Nerve damage had robbed Manning of that magic touch.

  “All I was worried about with Peyton was the nerves. And the doctors told us the nerves would come back,” Elwy said. “It was just a matter of when.”

  In the uncharted galaxy of the Twitterverse, and a TV landscape where the never-ending infotainment scroll screams for attention before a couch potato mindlessly reaches for the remote control, however, there is no time for context and nuance, much less contemplation. Fire the shot of a loud opinion, attract the Internet hits, and ask questions later. Hey, as a newspaper columnist unafraid to offend and intent on staying relevant in the modern media circus, I have done it myself, without apology.

  But too many sports commentators have descended into the basement with bloggers for whom they once professed contempt. It is easy to offer analysis from 1,000 miles away, without the mess or effort of actually doing anything that resembles reporting from the stadium or the locker room. But if a potshot from a crackpot draws clicks on a mainstream website, who cares, especially if it is good for business? All that suffers is the football IQ of America.

  A month before the Colts released Manning, outstanding Indianapolis Star columnist Bob Kravitz got the pasta metaphor cooking with an appearance on Tony Kornheiser’s radio show, where Kravitz declared: “The guy
’s arm is a noodle; he can’t throw like an NFL quarterback.” Within days, Kravitz backpedaled from his harsh diagnosis, graciously apologizing, by admitting his thoughts sometimes fall short of being cogent prior to the first cup of coffee in the morning. But if the sound bite sticks, there’s no turning back. In a podcast with ESPN’s Bill Simmons, Mike Lombardi of the NFL Network upped the ante, spreading the notion that Manning could not throw to his left.

  The legend of Mr. Noodle Arm was born.

  In the competition to bust the Broncos for wasting $18 million on Manning’s salary, the shouting game reached a crescendo in the hours after Denver lost by six points at Atlanta in week two of the NFL season. Against the Falcons, Manning came out on the field and looked lost, disoriented by Atlanta’s defensive scheme. He threw interceptions to end each of Denver’s three truly offensive possessions in the opening quarter. He did not look like Peyton Manning. This was a quarterback who did not seem to trust his throws.

  Despite a furious rally led by Manning that fell just short, his demise became a trending topic from coast to coast. And sentimental tears are the first thing cut from a 140-character football obituary. “Manning can’t throw the ball accurately or with zip more than 20 yards. Manning is toast,” wrote Jason Whitlock in his popular NFL Truths column for the Fox Sports website.

  Whitlock blasted Monday Night Football analyst Jon Gruden for gutlessly and willfully ignoring the elephant in the room during the telecast. His theory? Manning was being propped up, in a conspiracy to fool television viewers too dumb to see the ugly truth. “I get that Manning is ratings gold for TV networks, but Gruden took a dump on his own credibility shilling for Manning in such an obvious manner. Manning used to make the opposition defend the entire field. That’s over. He can’t take the top off a defense,” Whitlock insisted.