Charlottesville Spotlight:
Peyton Manning is Not a Mobile Quarterback
“Holy Shit That’s Peyton F — -ing Manning,” one guy whispered in drawn out syllables and emphasized consonants after pulling back the flap of the tent enclosing the terrace at Coupe’s, his lips mere inches from Peyton’s ear. A short fence and the transparent tent were all that separated a growing mob of UVA students, mostly guys, a few girls, from the ex-quarterback. Peyton, sporting a navy blue suit and tie that did little to camouflage him among the flannel-clad fraternity brothers swarming to the bar, was deliberating with his entourage about how they would escape to their car. Surveying the Corner Parking Lot, where dark forms were running out of the night towards the bar, they seemed to realize that Coupe’s was maybe not such a good idea. Peyton gave a slight smile — equal parts amused and afraid.
Word of Peyton’s appearance at the favorite bar of underage UVA students travelled fast, at first whispered in huddles, guys hoping to get a jump on the masses: to buy Peyton a beer or take a picture next to him or give him a firm handshake and tell him what a great player he was. But any initial notions of secrecy or cordial interaction were quickly quelled. Hushed voices turned to shouts, and people were running.
I got to the narrow alley outside Coupe’s when it was still quiet: a few guys hovering outside of the terrace, eyeing the fence like they might hop it at any time. Although Peyton was only several feet away, the transparent tent that divided us from him made pointing and staring and loud declarations of the obvious seem somehow appropriate. The Coupe’s bartender had cleared off the terrace of students, pushing everyone back into the bar and locking them all inside so they wouldn’t rush out the other side of the bar and into the crowding alley.
So the terrace was empty apart from Peyton, his entourage, and a few stray students who appeared to have weaseled their way into his posse. Peyton’s wife was on the other side of the fence, motioning that more people were coming — that time was running out. They were moving too slow. Maybe they didn’t realize how fast the fraternity boys were coming. It was not long before students were choking the passageway at both walls, pushing and shoving and shouting and ogling. Guys put swim moves on others to get a closer look.
“I feel pretty bad for him,” and “CAN YOU BELIEVE IT’S PEYTON MANNING?!” were the two most common sentiments, uttered in most cases by the same person, a breath apart.
“I need everyone to go that way,” shouted one bouncer, approaching the fence and motioning towards the front of the bar. “Peyton is going to leave through the front door. He will talk to you there. And take pictures.” After a moment with no response he exhaled, failing to suppress a smile. His lie had been poorly disguised, and Peyton was not getting away that easily. Even as the bouncer spoke, Peyton and his entourage were making moves, albeit slowly, for the back exit of the terrace, the Corner Parking Lot in front of them like the vast expanse of a football field, only the 2013 Seahawks between them and their freedom. The crowd shifted, like a magnet, a few yards left.
Peyton saw that he was cornered and entered the fray. He advanced slowly across the parking lot towards University Avenue, two steps forward, one step back, smiling and walking with a determined step, traveling in wide zigzags, the gang of fans following him like those little fish that assign themselves to sharks. At each turn he saw that his angle had failed, and he was only marginally further from the bar than he had been several minutes before. But at each impasse he would grin and say, “Okay, I’ll do one more,” and at once a jungle of arms would shoot upward, waving cell phones in the air and taking aim for selfies. Peyton Manning was never a mobile quarterback.
The swarm only grew as it advanced towards the Corner: those not yet informed spilled out of bars to see what was happening. Someone started a “F — — Tom Brady” chant. The amorphous swarm turned to a parade, Peyton at the front, an Indian Run trailing behind: those stuck in the rear sprinting a wide arc around the mob to fall in step with Peyton at the front of the pack, and so on and on. Members of the crowd made loud proclamations as if they were the callers for a royal entrance:
“The greatest quarterback of all time!”
“MVP!”
“Super Bowl champion!”
“We are all slaves to celebrity culture!”
“Peyton, take my beer!”
He flashed a genial smile. He answered questions, shook hands, and posed for selfies with characteristic composure. A white Chevrolet pulled up next to him. He ducked inside. The mob spilled into the street, pressing against the sides of the car. We’re sorry. It’s fine. It’s not. It was worth it. The car sped away, a few dumb kids running after it down the street.
