Peyton Manning Broke my (foot)Balls
I love Peyton Manning. I have the orange #16 jersey. This is a longstanding affair.
I’d fight my momma over it. I’d even shovel snow at Lucas Oil Stadium. I’d buy a twenty-dollar hand puppet in the year that the guy doesn’t even play. Shut up.
I’ve taken grief. I’ve had a bunch of Saints super-teens break my sparkly horseshoe cookies. I’ve defended and exalted and now, here I am with my (foot)balls broken.
I’ve gone from Win-At-All-Costs to Weeeeeeeeeeeeee! Everyone should win!
I no longer dance over sacks; I wonder if the quarterback is okay. I can’t squeal for interceptions because I know the qb and/or receiver is probably really sad that he’s disappointed his team. Fumbles make me cry. Touchdowns are bittersweet. Even a climactic Hail Mary is as bad as it is good. Don’t even get me started on game-winning field goals; I’ll need two Xanax and a shot of Patron.
Instead of memorizing stats, I wonder about bicep measurements and how much dental maintenance it takes to keep Tom Brady’s smile so perfect. I see Warren Sapp on the NFL channel and think he’s adorable. If the Colts had lost all of their games, I’d probably be up for calling TO and Ochocinco the “Dream Team” or “Sonny and Cher” or tossing Steve Smith into the mix and referring to them all as “The Jonas Brothers”.
One time this season, I even thought Herm Edwards was making sense.
The Year Without Peyton (to air in claymation during halftime of the Super Bowl) has robbed me of my balls–my will to fight–and it couldn’t have come along at a worse time. It’s bad enough that my uterus see every player under twenty-five as a little boy: Ryan Succop, Sam Bradford, Colt McCoy, Clay Matthews, Shady McCoy, Tim Tebow, Cam Newton, Dexter MacCluster. I want to knit mittens and scarfs for half of the damn NFL. Even Andrew Luck. Yes, Even Andrew Luck gets mittens and a scarf.
What have I become? And will the return of #18 be the hysterectomy my superfandom needs to live a full and healthy life ?
Only time will tell. Until then, I have things to knit.
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Annie, Annie, Annie. Herm Edwards never makes sense.
I saw Peyton before Christmas. It was not appropriate for me to ask him about his neck. But he looked good and was in great spirits. Hope that brings you some small comfort.
“Annie, Annie, Annie. Herm Edwards never makes sense.”
And yet …
I’m in bad shape. I just twisted a cookie cutter into the shape of Tebow.
oooh the dream team….I love that idea…I’m sorry for your peyton loss…I think it was just the whole year. I am fed up with Romo…I don’t watch religeiously anymore. I am thankful I didn’t buy the romo jersey.. I feel you…Every week Ryan would quiz me to see who the cowboys have to beat to make it to the playoffs..I just was blah…then when they lost the damn game and I went on my bitching tirade of romo, he said at least your team made it to the playoffs…it just wasnt our year football annie…
Har. It has been a bad year. Oh, and did you see that rumor about the NFL player cheating on his pregnant wife with one of the Twilight girls? Speculators point to Romo (who is married to Chace Crawford’s pregnant sister) or Flacco (which is a second choice for controversy). It’s always something.
Bahar, don’t waste one breath on Romo. What a bum.
Sorry about your year, Annie. Send the knit items to Clio’s place in SF. The street people will appreciate them more.
JD
andrew will be so grateful for his cardinal red anniescarf. (i’m ignoring the “even.”)