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Denver Broncos' Peyton Manning named SI's Sportsman of the

Yearby LEE JENKINSPosted: Sun December 15, 2013 10:11PM; Updated: Sun December 15, 2013 11:26PM

All the apple-cheeked babies, captured for eternity in Creamsicle onesies three sizestoo big, are nearly grown. They are high school valedictorians and college athletes,

Eagle Scouts and black belts, yearbook editors and engineering majors. They are in theNational Honor Society. They lead Bible study. They raise money for cancer research.They lifeguard in the summer. They work part-time at Cracker Barrel. One directsshort films. One blew the trumpet in a high school band at President Barack Obama'ssecond inaugural parade. One earned a marketing award for helping develop a projectto sell reusable popcorn containers at football games. One is a linebacker and a

defensive end recruited by half the SEC, one is a three handicap, one runs a 5K in18:20, and one hit an unforgettable grand slam in the ninth. One became the first girl inan all-male wrestling club, as well as the first deaf member of that club. She thencaptured the state championship in her weight class. Most hail from Tennessee, butyou can find them as far away as lacrosse fields on Long Island. Some know each


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other. They were born in the same hospitals, attended the same schools, played on thesame teams. Beyond that, they don't have much in common -- besides, of course, theirfirst name.

It is an unusual name, or at least it used to be. According to the Social SecurityAdministration, which started tracking the popularity of names in 1960, Peyton hadnever cracked the top 100 in Tennessee. But in 1994 the state's flagship universitywelcomed a freshman quarterback from New Orleans named after his uncle Peyton, aMississippi farmer who grew cotton and soybeans, raised cattle and loved sports.When Peyton Manning enrolled at Tennessee, he took an orientation seminar with

freshman football players, overseen by associate athletic director Carmen Tegano. Theplayers were instructed to take notes. Afterward, Tegano collected their spiralnotebooks and perused what they wrote. Manning had filled 30 pages. That night,Tegano told his wife, "If God is willing and I live long enough, I'll either work for thatkid or I'll vote for him." A year later Manning directed Tennessee to its first winagainst Alabama in 10 years, and roughly 10 months after that Southern hospitalsnoted the first outbreak of Peytons. Call them Bama Boomers. "It was an epidemic,"says Manning's older brother, Cooper, who was forced to quit football at Ole Missbecause of a spinal injury. From 1996 through '98, a total of 68 Peytons were born atthe University of Tennessee Medical Center alone, compared with 10 the decade


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before. By 1997, according to babynames.com, Peyton was the 51st-most-popular-newborn boy name in the state.

Families showed up to Volunteers practices, orange-clad infants in tow, and thrust

them into Manning's reluctant arms for photos. "What am I supposed to say?" he askedhis father, Archie, the iconic Ole Miss quarterback. "I don't know," his dad replied. "Ionly had dogs and cats named after me." Twins in Knoxville were named Peyton andManning. A boy outside Nashville was named Peyton Cooper as a reminder that"there's nothing guaranteed in life." Doctors in Kentucky lobbied a woman in labor tocall her son Tim, after Wildcats quarterback Tim Couch. "It will be a much more

prosperous name," they told her. "He'll be so much more successful." They grudginglydelivered yet another Peyton. The unorthodox spelling caused confusion. Dr. TaraBurnette, a neonatologist at the UT Medical Center, once saw payton written on a notecard attached to a baby's incubator in the NICU. "You misspelled the name," she toldthe nurse on duty. "No, the nurse insisted. "The mom spelled it for us." Burnette shookher head. "That baby is a Peyton," she said. Twenty-four hours later, the card had beenchanged.

There is no more personal display of fan devotion than naming one's progeny after anathlete, but the gesture carries inordinate risk, especially when the player is only a


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sophomore in college. Who knows what controversy lies ahead? Names becomesynonymous with scandals. Think of the Lances and McGwires running around. Youcan always buy a new jersey or hang a new Fathead, but rewriting a birth certificate ismore difficult. "Sure, he could have been a dud," says Kim Dukes. "But I kind of

knew, deep down inside, that he'd be special." Dukes was diagnosed with Hodgkinslymphoma as a sophomore in Knoxville, underwent chemotherapy, and was informedby doctors that the treatment had left her incapable of bearing children. She had PeytonDukes anyway. "He's not a quarterback -- he's not even a football player," Kim says."But we raised him to be a good, honest person, and that's the most important thing heshares with his namesake."

Though Uncle Peyton died a bachelor, his name will live forever. Archie remembersreading an article, in the early 2000s, in an education newspaper about a first-gradeteacher with nine Peytons in her class. In 2007 theKnoxville News-Sentinelput out aquery for Peytons and received more than 160 responses. "You hope your children aregoing to do great things no matter what you name them," says Dana Lara. "Going intoit, you do think maybe this will give them a leg up by association." Peyton Lara is nowa senior at West High and an aspiring nuclear engineer with a 4.46 grade pointaverage.


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A name doesn't ensure anything. Peyton Dukes cares more about arts than sports.Peyton Prowse's favorite player is Manning's younger brother, Giants quarterback Eli.Elaina Peyton Engel took her 5.0 GPA at Hereford (Md.) High to Alabama. "C'mon,Dad," she said. "Even Peyton Manning didn't go where his father wanted." But

commitment is a thread -- whether orange or crimson -- that links the Peytons. "Tohave the name of someone who has accomplished so much," says Peyton Robinette, abiology major with a black belt in taekwondo who is attending Tennessee on theprestigious Volunteer Scholarship, "means I can be special."

For two decades Peyton Manning has methodically elevated the standards of

everybody from NFL quarterbacks to video-room interns to offspring named in hishonor -- one film session, one spiral notebook, one dummy audible at a time. Themother of an eighth-grade classmate once told Manning's mom, Olivia, "Peyton reallyhas to study for his A's. My child just goes in and takes the test." The remark, whilerude, was revealing. Manning always did the work, and as a result he neverdisappointed the families who put so much faith in him. He is still the striver whoscored a modest 1030 on his SAT yet graduated with the highest GPA that year inTennessee's College of Communication and Information.


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At the combine in Indianapolis leading up to the 1998 draft, strength coaches from the49ers, Raiders and Bills took Manning's measurements. When they finished, he askedhow his body fat compared with other players', and reminded them to note that one ofhis knees was swollen. The trainers stifled laughs. "He's the first pick in the draft," one

muttered under his breath. "Why does he give a s---?" Then Washington Statequarterback Ryan Leaf, Manning's competition for the top spot, stepped on the scale.He triumphantly flexed both biceps even though he was 30 pounds overweight. "Thatwas the difference," says Jon Torine, who was then a Buffalo strength coach beforejoining the Colts. "When Peyton Manning dies, this is what they ought to write on hisgravestone: it all mattered to me."

Chosen by Indianapolis, Manning turned the quarterbacks meeting room into hispersonal office. He installed a film projector with a Beta dock in the basement of hishouse. He watched every practice. On Saturdays after walk-through, he cleared theequipment room and shut the door so he could select his 12 game balls in peace. First,he washed his hands. Then he hurled one ball after another at the equipment manager,barking "game" if it made the cut, "pregame" if it didn't. "Why can't the seams beperfect?" he asked. He'd have sewn them himself if he could.


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He owns only one Super Bowl trophy, which constitutes some kind of moral failing inthis all-or-nothing age, but he remains the reigning champion of the everyday. Thelaser rocket arm -- Manning's description in that famous Sprint commercial -- is morelike a cap gun now. Yet he is currently piloting the best team in the AFC and the most

bountiful offense in the NFL while threatening single-season passing records for yardsand touchdowns. Still, that's not why Manning is Sportsman of the Year for 2013. Toexplain the choice, we defer to Peyton Robinette's valedictorian speech, delivered atthe Rockwood High gymnasium outside Knoxville in June. "I urge you all to alwaysremember the experiences you've had," Robinette told his fellow graduates. "But beready to write your sequel. Be prepared to face consequences. Be prepared for

adversity. Be prepared for change."

Manning was the son of a New Orleans celebrity and a Mississippi homecomingqueen, raised in the historic Garden District and educated at illustrious IsidoreNewman School. He was the No. 1 recruit in the country and the No. 1 pick in thedraft. The first time he walked onto the Colts' practice field, offensive coordinator TomMoore told starting quarterback Kelly Holcomb, "You come over here and stand nextto me now." In 23 years of organized football, Manning missed one snap. Sure, he waslaid bare a few times in Gainesville and Foxboro, and he occasionally told familymembers it would be easier to go 9-7 and just miss the playoffs than risk more January


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heartbreak. But compared with the beaten and concussed, he was beyond privileged.He had 13-3 on autopilot, along with 4,000 yards and 30 touchdowns, a first-round byeand home field throughout. His career was fantasy football.

Then he woke up. It was Sept. 11, 2011, and he was lying in a hotel bed in Marina delRey, Calif. He had just undergone his fourth neck operation in two years, to remove aherniated disk from his spinal cord that all but killed the nerve running down his fabledright arm. The Colts were playing the Texans, starting somebody else at quarterbackfor the first time in 13 years. They lost 34-7. Nothing was perfect anymore. "It washard to watch," Manning recalls. "I was disappointed, I was down, because I wasn't

able to do what I love and I didn't know where I was headed. I didn't know if I'd everbe able to perform again. I had those thoughts. They were real." The nerve was soravaged in the summer of '11 that he couldn't push himself out of bed. He couldn't lift athree-pound dumbbell. When he tried to play catch with Tennessee alum and formerRockies first baseman Todd Helton at Coors Field, he one-hopped him from eightyards away. "He walked different," Helton says. "He carried himself different. He hada hard time turning around to look at you."

Manning went to his family's annual passing academy in southern Louisiana, but hebarely picked up a ball. "Why can't you throw me one pass?" a crestfallen high school


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receiver asked. "I just can't," Manning muttered. "Eli will throw you one." He wouldn'teven throw when only maintenance workers were around. He couldn't stand thethought of anybody witnessing his wounded ducks. "He's not very good at disguisinghow he feels," Cooper says. "You can hear it in the first hello and the last goodbye. I

saw him vulnerable for the first time. And then I saw him get emotionally around theidea that, Hey, this may be too much to battle back from." In high school Manningwould stroll into his parents' bedroom at 10:30 p.m. and sprawl across the foot of theirbed to discuss his college choices. Before the final operation he flew back to NewOrleans and lay across the foot of the bed again. "I'll listen to the doctors," he toldthem. "If they say after this that I still can't play, then it's been a good trip." The fourth

surgery was fourth down.

He was shockingly at peace. "Who am I to complain?" Manning asked himself. "Whoam I to say, Why is this happening to me? I had 20 years of unbelievable luck. Allthese other players had careers cut short. Cooper didn't even get to start his career."Peyton's wife, Ashley, had just given birth to their first children, twins Marshall andMosley. Home movies suddenly seemed more appealing than Patriots tape. "I'vestudied enough for a couple of careers," Manning says. "My brain could use a littlerest." Ashley, who has been with Manning since they were in college but has stayed far


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from public view, was the one to offer the gentle nudge he needed. "You've got to try,"she said.

So began a sequel that would make Peyton Robinette proud.

A GRAY SUV rolls across suburban Denver, through the shadow of the Flatirons, pastthe aspen trees and alfalfa farms. The best quarterback in the world, yet again, sits inthe backseat. He is wearing a half-zip beige sweater over a white button-down shirt,fresh off an appearance at the Alexander Dawson School in Lafayette, where akindergartner raised his hand during an all-school assembly and asked Manning how

he plays football. Standing in the middle of the gym, facing 450 students in thebleachers, Manning paused for a moment. There was so much he could tell the boy.Archie rarely discussed strategy at home, but he did share one crucial lesson: "You'vegot to know what you're doing out there because then you can get rid of the ball, andwhen you get rid of the ball, you don't get hit."

Archie didn't always heed that advice, but his son did. Peyton approaches the line ofscrimmage and takes a snapshot of the defensive alignment, then scans an extensivemental catalog to recall where he has seen the alignment before and what it wrought.Manning cannot predict what the defenders are going to do, but he can predict what


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they're not going to do. "What will happen here?" he asks himself, hands framing hisface, as if he's peering through an imaginary camera. "I'm not sure, but I do know thelinebacker over on the outside is not going to blitz. I can tell you that will not happen.I'm trying to narrow things down." He selects the play, and orders the protection, with

the best chance to counter the alignment. "And he does it in 10 seconds," Mooremarvels.

But the kindergartner doesn't need to hear all that, at least not yet. "I try to throw theball really quickly," Manning responded, in his distinctive country-Cajun mash-up,"before those big, ugly defensive linemen come tackle me." There it is, kids, the

elementary version of how a 37-year-old who couldn't uncork a 10-yard out in 2011and was cut in '12 now directs the NFL's most prolific offense while leading the leaguein almost every meaningful passing category. He's tossed touchdowns in 37 straightgames. He's outgained 19 whole teams. According to Broncos quarterbacks coachGreg Knapp, he forced one throw in the first half of the season.

Fans are understandably wary of athletes aging in reverse, but Manning lacks the armstrength he had in his prime. He still can't run. His upper body is so lean that sixmonths ago he texted Broncos trainers a beefcake shot from his college days with the


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message, "At one point I did look good." The mind, which enables the rapid-firerelease, is the only part that hasn't lost power.

When Manning was a rookie, the Colts installed a no-huddle package called Lightning,

which they deployed when they trailed. One day, around 2000, Moore asked Manning,"Why are we waiting to be down 10-0? Why don't we start in Lightning?" Thatquestion changed football. At first, Moore would call two plays from the sideline andlet Manning pick one. Then Moore gave Manning four plays and let him switch fromruns to passes. Finally he let him call entire games. "It's always been a cerebralposition, but Peyton made it more cerebral," says former Broncos quarterback and

current executive vice president John Elway. "He was the first one to get in the hurry-up, figure out the coverage at the line, find the right play against the coverage and calleverything himself. He really started the no-huddle. Now everybody does it." FromPop Warner on, quarterbacks are asked to think faster because Manning showed whatwas possible. "He set the standard," says the Patriots' Tom Brady. Manning still runsLightning in Denver, as well as a superspeed variation called Bolt.

The injury made him a different quarterback. Manning relies more on his legs togenerate velocity, like a pitcher pushing off the rubber, and focuses more on hisfootwork, an area Knapp believes he let lapse. Manning can no longer fling post


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patterns between two safeties. He must be precise with his delivery, stepping towardhis target, one stride if he's firing to the first read, two if it's the second and so on. Hechecks down more liberally and unleashes more feverishly. "To quote Hank Stram,"Manning says, "I matriculate down the field."

The injury also made him a different person. He used to fidget when people told himthey were praying for him. "I'm fine," he'd say. "You don't have to do that." Now hethanks them for their prayers. He doesn't stay up until 1 a.m. watching one-on-onesanymore. He and Ashley play with the twins, put them to bed, eat dinner and pour aglass of wine. He is usually asleep around 10. He lets his backup, Brock Osweiler, take

some of his snaps in practice. Manning is often portrayed as a signal-callingautomaton, jogging robotically to the sideline while teammates celebrate touchdowns,but he has turned sentimental. He tears up at movies he's seen before.

On the trip to New Orleans two years ago, Manning asked his mother to take him on adriving tour of old friends' houses. At the end, he asked to stop at his own childhoodhome, six blocks from his parents' current uptown residence. He knocked on the frontdoor and told the new owner, "Hi, I'm Peyton Manning and I'd like to see my room."Recently, he sold his house in Indianapolis, and Ashley flew back for the closing. Shewalked the halls narrating a video shot with her phone. In the basement she said,


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"Here's where Peyton spent a lot of nights helping the Colts win a lot of games." Hechokes on the words as he repeats them.

He never thought he would leave that place.

The fourth surgery, a single-level anterior fusion, immediately alleviated the pain butdid not regenerate the nerve. "People with nerve injuries told me, 'You could wake uptomorrow and be fine,' " Manning says. "It was encouraging, but it left you prettydisappointed every day around one." He tried to view his rehab as a game, which didn'twork, because he never knew how much time was on the clock. Colts trainers,

accustomed to an indestructible quarterback, hid their concern. "He couldn't throw aball," says Torine. "I was scared for him, scared for everything. To be up and downand happy and pissed and sad and anxious is all part of the process he went through."

Manning flew to Durham, N.C., in November 2011 and moved in with Duke coachDavid Cutcliffe, his offensive coordinator at Tennessee. "I'd never seen him throw inperson where it wasn't perfection," Cutcliffe says. "He was so out of whack, I had toask him to quit throwing. He was on the way to hurting himself. We're all products ofwhat our nerves allow us to do. He had to rebuild his mechanics from the ground up.He had to relearn everything." They worked in the Blue Devils' locker room, watching


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old Indy tapes, Manning trying to impersonate Manning. "When I was on, I wasshocked when the ball didn't go exactly where I wanted," Manning says. "It got to thepoint where I was shocked when it did go where I wanted." Driving back to Cutcliffe'shouse one evening, he asked, "Should I even be doing this?"

Manning stayed at Duke, on and off, for more than three months, and the nerve startedfiring again. "You hear and read about people who overcome things they shouldn't,"Cutcliffe says. "I saw it with my own eyes." They eventually moved from the lockerroom to the indoor facility. Manning ran 10 plays at a Duke spring practice wearing aColts helmet. He invited several former Indianapolis teammates -- center Jeff Saturday,

tight end Dallas Clark, receivers Brandon Stokley and Austin Collie -- and on March 3,2012, they simulated every detail of the 2010 AFC championship game against theJets. "It was a little over the top," says Stokley, recounting the Gatorade breaks on thesideline when the invisible Colts defense was on the field. "But that's how he operates.You could tell he was on his way."

Four days later the Colts -- who had the first pick in the draft and were eyeing Stanfordquarterback Andrew Luck -- cut him. "I think it broke his heart," Archie says. "I thinkhe understood the reality [was], It's time for me to go. And then I think he reconsideredand said, 'No, I'm supposed to play my whole career here.' So he went back and told


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them, 'I'll help Andrew, and we'll make it work. I want to stay.' " He couldn't bear to beJohnny Unitas in San Diego, Joe Namath in L.A. The Colts, however, had alreadymoved on. Manning could not have been more gracious in the tearful press conferencethat followed, referring to owner Jim Irsay as "my friend," but when he arrived at

Broncos headquarters the next day for a free-agent visit, Elway saw another side. "Hewas in shock," Elway says. "Everybody kept telling him he was going to get released,and he didn't believe them until it happened. He wanted to prove they made the wrongdecision. He wouldn't say that, because he's not that type of guy, but that's the messageI got. When great competitors get scorned, they come back with a vengeance. Wesigned a Hall of Famer with a chip on his shoulder."

Manning, ailing since the lockout, had floated from one training staff to another. He'dbeen treated at Duke and Tennessee, with the Colts and even the Rockies. Finally hehad a home, with the Broncos. They weren't as worried about his arm as the rest of hisbody. "He was really detrained," says Luke Richesson, Denver's strength andconditioning coach. "We broke him down like a car -- take the motor out, get the

alignment straight, then focus on the horsepower." His alignment was his coordination.The Broncos limited Manning to 40 throws at practice instead of the typical 80. In two-a-days they let him throw during only one session. They focused on exercises torestore his body control, including one called "dead bug," in which Manning lay on a


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roller, simultaneously extending his left arm and right leg, then his right arm and leftleg, with weights attached to his wrists and ankles. "The first time, he couldn't hold it,"says head trainer Steve (Greek) Antonopulos. "Remember, this was a neurologicalinjury. It affected everything." Manning's physical therapy continued through the

season, but Denver still went 13-3. Most players lose strength over a 16-gameschedule, yet in the week before the Broncos faced the Ravens in the divisional round,Manning set personal bests for squats, dumbbell presses and medicine-ball throws.Thirteen-year-old Emily Cutcliffe, following Manning's resurgence from afar, askedher father, "Dad, this is incredible, isn't it?"

Growing up, Manning yearned to be a senior. He asked his dad what senior year waslike at Ole Miss, and he bypassed the draft as a junior at Tennessee to find out forhimself. In Denver, Manning is a senior once again, and the underclassmen are in awe."You want to be better because it's Peyton Manning," says the Broncos' leadingreceiver, Demaryius Thomas. "I know I'm a better player because he's here." "That'sthe secret of football with Peyton Manning," adds tight end Jacob Tamme. "How much

he demands of himself seeps into everybody else." They watch him charge onto thefield with a knee brace, matching high-ankle sprains and a glove protecting a righthand that still sometimes feels numb. He fights off a limp. The mind is so dominant,it's easy to miss the heart.


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In the backseat of the SUV, a stack of letters rests at Manning's feet: from a motherwhose son was injured in a motorcycle accident and is learning to walk again, from a90-year-old woman who picks college games against her friend but needs a new

opponent because her friend just died, from a man who can't move his neck and doesn'tknow what to do. Every professional athlete receives reams of tear-stained letters, butthey sound different when Manning reads them now. "I didn't have a serious illness,"he says. "My life was never in danger. But I feel like I can write to these families, ortalk to them, with more of a connection than I had before."

A son of the genteel South, Manning learned early on the power of the handwrittennote, unsurpassed by text or tweet. He still remembers the college coaches who wrotehim during his recruitment (like Florida State's Bobby Bowden) as opposed to the oneswho resorted to thoughtless form letters. He would lick his thumb and rub it against thesignatures to determine whether they were real. When Manning left for college, Archiewrote him before every fall semester.

Throughout his career Manning has written coaches and players who retire, as well aswidows of coaches and players who pass away. He writes subjects of documentarieshe's seen and victims of tragedies he's heard about. He writes his children every six


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months, even though they are years away from deciphering his cursive. Ashley buyshis stationery, cream-colored cards with Peyton W. Manning in block letters at the top.He adds an arrow when a message continues to the back. "I don't know if that's properor not," he says. It's hard to find any coach, teammate or staffer who hasn't received a

note from Manning. "I got one when my dad passed," says Stokley, "and another whenPeyton stayed at my house." "I got one when I retired," says former Colts videodirector Marty Heckscher. "It almost brought me to tears." "I got one when the Coltslet me go," says Torine, the former strength coach. "It meant more than any paycheck."

All the support that Manning sent to others came flooding back in the year he missed:

calls from friends such as Fox broadcaster Joe Buck, who nearly lost his voice becauseof a nerve ailment in his left vocal cord, but also from rivals like Brady and Patriotscoach Bill Belichick. "We've been playing a long time in the same era, and there aren'ttoo many people who can relate to what I go through on a daily basis and what he goesthrough, besides each other," Brady says. "There's mutual appreciation. I've alwayslooked up to him and admired him." Manning considered the impact those well-

wishers made and was reminded of the influence he could have.

On his first day as a Bronco, he sought out staffers Adam Newman and Josh Bruning."I'm going to need you to help me with my mail," he said. Every Tuesday, Newman


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and Bruning read the roughly 300 pieces addressed to Manning in a given week,determining which ones he will want to see. Autograph requests go in one pile.Double-dippers are discarded. Heartfelt letters are marked read in red pen. Manningreviews them over lunch in the office Newman and Bruning share. The notes that

move him, or that entertain him, he takes home. He has installed a hospital tray next tohis bed -- "My wife finds it very attractive," he says -- so he can work there withoutcraning his neck. He uses the tray to watch video on his iPad, an upgrade from theBeta. But he often pulls out the stationery instead and writes.

To Charlie Johnson, a 63-year-old in Indiana nervous about neck-fusion surgery: "My

neck pain went away immediately after my surgery. I believe you will be able toresume your normal activities rather quickly. I took it slow on doctors' orders, but I feltbetter right away. I can't give you a definite time frame. I would encourage you to bepatient to avoid any setbacks. But you should be back lifting soon. Good luck andhealth."

To Jack Benson, an eight-year-old in California with cancer: "I just wanted you toknow that you are in my thoughts and prayers. Your cousin, Skip Hanke, wrote to meand told me of the tough fight you are having. You have a lot of people pulling for you.


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I am glad to know you are a Bronco fan! Keep fighting, stay positive, and say yourprayers."

To Clint Taylor, a high school quarterback in Texas who broke his leg: "I just wanted

to encourage you to keep working hard and keep the faith. I have read your blog and Ican tell you that your positive attitude and your strong work ethic will take you a longway. Keep it up."

To Chris Harris, widow of David Harris, a pastor in Arkansas who was killed in a caraccident along with his granddaughter Maci: "I am sorry for your loss. Please know

that you are in my thoughts and prayers. 'Blessed are those who mourn, for they will becomforted' (Matthew 5:4). I learned that Pastor Harris was an avid Colts fan and hadan autographed picture of me in his office. I read an article about Pastor Harris, and Ican tell he was very special. Maci sounded very special as well. I am proud that he wasa fan of mine. May God's peace be with you."

To Shannon West, who married Bill Sydlowski in New Jersey this summer: "Bestwishes to you on your wedding day. I wish you eternal happiness. Your dad says thatyou are a fan of mine (he said commercials, maybe football too?). I appreciate yoursupport. I can tell that he is very proud of you. All my best to you and Bill."


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Manning keeps a list of those he has contacted, with descriptions of thecorrespondence on the back of the their envelopes. "Letter from a woman whose bestfriend had cancer and is a big fan. . . . Husband has MS and they are naming their first

born Peyton. . . . Sick man. Call ASAP." Sometimes, instead of a note, he picks up thephone on the 25-minute drive home after practice. "I cold-call them," he says. "I blockmy number, and they don't answer, so then you have to call back at night. They thinkit's a prank call, but after that, you just take a moment and listen. I've always done that,but it is a little different this year." Many of the voices on the other end are strugglingwith neck injuries. "I have to be careful about giving medical advice," Manning says,

"but these people are hurting and I was able to overcome the same thing. I tell them,'These are my symptoms. These are the doctors I saw.' " He asks Antonopulos, theBroncos' trainer, for guidance. "If someone is from Texas, he will give me a doctor inDallas."

It is an overcast Friday morning in Indianapolis, the Colts beat the Titans the night

before in Nashville, and the equipment managers are spinning 30 loads of laundry onthree hours' sleep. "It doesn't smell as bad when you win," says Jon Scott, who hasbeen scrubbing grass stains since the team's Baltimore days. He met Manning in 1998,when the hotshot prospect visited the Colts' headquarters. On the way out, Manning


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said, "Hey, Jon, it was nice to meet you." The Mannings may be American royalty, butthey relate best to workers. "My mom drove a station wagon, my dad drove anOldsmobile," Cooper says. "We were around fame but we weren't entrenched in it. Weweren't going to Europe on private planes. We did what everybody else did." Archie

told the boys that the most important people on any football team were the trainers andequipment managers. When Saints trainer Dean Kleinschmidt was married, Archie wasthe best man. When Archie was traded to Houston, assistant equipment managerGlennon (Silky) Powell cried as he walked him to his car.

The Colts' equipment managers -- Scott, Brian Seabrooks and Sean (Frog) Sullivan --

caught more of Manning's passes than Reggie Wayne or Marvin Harrison. Theyreviewed the rough cuts of his commercials. They ate with him late at night in thefacility when everyone else was gone. After Manning got tripped up in a game againstthe Texans one year, costing the Colts a touchdown, he asked Sullivan and Seabrooksto lie on the practice field the next day and try to trip him again. Manning once letSeabrooks watch film with him. "He ran the same play back and forth for 30 minutes,"

Seabrooks recalls. "By the time he got to the end of it, I was asleep. I never found outif it was a run or a pass." Seabrooks also flew with Manning to the Pro Bowl inHonolulu the day after the Colts beat the Bears in the 2007 Super Bowl, and he dozedoff again as Manning narrated the entire game.


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"He's your everyday, sit-down, have-a-cold-beer kind of guy who just happens to bethe best quarterback in the past 25 years," says Sullivan. Speaking of beer, when theColts trained at Rose-Hulman Institute of Technology in Terre Haute, Ind., video

director Marty Heckscher stocked a cooler in the corner of the gym where he editedtapes. Manning sat with him, and over a Budweiser he mentioned that his first beer hadbeen a can of Milwaukee's Best. The next year the cooler contained a six-pack ofMilwaukee's Best tall boys. "He connects with everybody," Heckscher says, "but he'salso demanding, and you don't want to let him down."

Outside of Manning's family, support staffers might know him better than anybody.They know that he studies opposing defensive coordinators, and their history againsthim, as much as opposing teams. They know that he likes a baseball cap handed to himthe moment he walks off the field after third down, and collected the moment it's timeto walk back on. They know that he doesn't wear a chinstrap in pregame warmups, soit has to be attached when he retreats to the locker room. The equipment managers

laugh about staffers having to be reassigned from chinstrap and baseball-cap duty."Oh, he's demanding," says Heckscher. "There were times I got an intern to shoot awalk-through, and it's boring as hell, and the intern starts daydreaming and misses asnap. Most people don't notice. Peyton walks in an hour later and says, 'Things moving


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too fast for you guys out there today?' " Likewise, if Sullivan and Seabrooks flubbed acouple of passes, Manning would crack, "How about we mix in some catches withthese drops?"

He barred his beloved equipment guys from the goodbye press conference, for fearhe'd break down even faster than he did. But when it was over, he requested that theydrive him to the airport, Sullivan behind the wheel of a Toyota Sequoia, Seabrooksriding shotgun, Scott and Manning in the backseat. "There were a lot of tears," Scottsays. "I gave him a handwritten note because that's what he gives everybody else. Hethought it was a joke. I just wrote the record of my first 15 years with the Colts and my

record after he came." Without Manning there might not even be an NFL team inIndianapolis, and there would certainly be no Lucas Oil Stadium and no downtownrenaissance. Scott glances at a picture of Lucas Oil, lit up for the 2012 Super Bowl,hanging in the Colts' facility. "It wouldn't have been here without that guy," he says.

They returned from the airport and cleaned out his office, pausing to send him a picture

of the whiteboard, filled with his scribbles. Manning still calls the Colts' equipmentroom every few weeks and asks to go on speakerphone. He texted Indianapolis staffersa video of the first preseason out pattern he completed for the Broncos. He mailedChristmas cards, with donations enclosed. Given the angry politics of modern sports, it


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is nearly impossible for an iconic athlete to remain on good terms with a city leftbehind. But Manning has accomplished what Brett Favre could not. After signing withDenver he called Vince Caponi, executive chairman of the board for St. VincentHealth, which oversees 22 hospitals in Indiana, including the Peyton Manning

Children's Hospital in Indianapolis. People were asking Caponi if he'd rename it afterLuck. "I want you to know I'm committed to St. Vincent," Manning said. "That won'twaver." His Peyback Foundation still hands out 800 bags of groceries in Indy forThanksgiving, as well as 800 in Denver.

When Manning started the foundation, in 1999, he was advised to address one specific

area of need. "But I like to say yes more than I say no," he explains. Peyback hasawarded $5.5 million in grants to nonprofit organizations benefiting underprivilegedchildren in Louisiana, Tennessee, Indiana and, now, Colorado. Most of the donationsare relatively modest, around $10,000, but they are earmarked for roughly 90organizations per year. Some want to buy school uniforms. Some want to launchafternoon programs. Some want to build gardens and grow vegetables. Online

applications are due Feb. 1 and are graded by a board. Manning and his wife pick thewinners.


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Sportsmanship wasn't always his specialty. When Manning was five and his coachpitch team lost every game by about 20 runs, the coach would invariably tell the boysit was a tie. "He thinks we're stupid," Manning griped to his parents. "It was not a tie."When he was eight and Archie coached his youth basketball team, they sparred

because Archie drafted his friends' sons even though many of them couldn't shoot.Archie vowed never to coach him again. When Peyton was 12 he had a new basketballcoach with a curious substitution pattern. After one loss, the coach told the team, "Thereason we didn't win the game is because you weren't ready to play." Manning pointeda finger in his face. "No," he protested, "the reason we didn't win the game is becauseyou don't know what you're doing." Archie drove him to the coach's house that night,

in tears, to apologize.

Contrast that image with the scene in the visiting locker room at Sports Authority Fieldafter the Broncos' 38-35 playoff loss to the Ravens in double overtime. Manning,coping with another round of January heartbreak, waited to congratulate retiringlinebacker Ray Lewis. He held little Marshall's hand, setting the example that his dad

set for him.

Peyton Williams hobbles through the front door of his grandfather's house inLewisburg, Tenn., a town of 10,000 nestled amid rolling hills along the Duck River in


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the middle of the state. The leaves, Volunteer orange, have fallen from the sugar-mapletrees. The Marshall County High football field, just down the road, has already beenconverted to a baseball diamond. Williams grew up in Lewisburg, flipping tractor tiresin the backyard to build strength and hunting turkey in his spare time. He enrolled in

the Cornersville Youth Football League when he was seven, and two years ago heplayed at Chase Field in Phoenix as an eighth-grade All-America. He is 6-feet and 211pounds, and he squats 425.

Only a sophomore, Williams has received letters from Tennessee, Nebraska, FloridaState, Mississippi State, Arkansas, USC, North Carolina and Louisville. He's taken

unofficial visits to Tennessee, Vanderbilt and Ole Miss. His dream is to playlinebacker or defensive end in the SEC. Though stats are hard to come by inLewisburg, coaches told Williams he had 14 sacks and 48 tackles in nine games thisseason. He blocked two punts against Cascade. He had a strip-sack on a fourth downagainst Page. But in the regular-season finale, against Giles County, Williams wasblocking on the kickoff team when his return man reversed field. Williams tried to

change direction, but his left knee couldn't keep up. The ACL gave out.

Roger Williams used to run a convenience store off Interstate 65, at exit 32. Now, heworks at the GM plant in Spring Hill. Sixteen years ago he named his son after Peyton


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Williams Manning. By then, the name was common around here. Marshall County hasthree Peytons on the roster. One of Roger's friends unofficially renamed his streetPeyton Manning Drive.

Peyton Williams is a Tennessee fan, down to his orange sneakers. He has been to twoNFL games, both Colts at Titans. He plays as Manning's teams on Madden. But he isnot as zealous as his dad. He doesn't study his namesake every Sunday. He wearsnumber 49 instead of 18. And yet he is a Peyton, which means he is inextricablylinked. In a week, he will undergo surgery, followed by months of painstaking physicaltherapy, followed by inevitable anxiety and doubt. Sitting at the head of his

grandfather's dining room table, he eyes the bulky brace on his left knee and wipes thebrown bangs from his forehead. Like most teenage boys, he doesn't speak much, butthe words carry weight. "When you think that Peyton Manning wasn't able to throw a10-yard pass, you realize that he really could have quit," Williams says. "It's on you todo the therapy. It's on you to do the work. You decide how you turn out."

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