That's When Motherfuckers Accidentally Get Shot

The debate about the relative merits of Peyton Manning and Tom Brady is played out, and there's probably not too much that we can add to it. It's also been obscured by the Patriots' development into arguably the most unlikeable team in modern sports. Not only did the media bend the definition of the term "dynasty" to accommodate a team that didn't even make the playoffs in 02-03, and not only was it shoved down our throats how they won "the right way," but in the aftermath of CameraGate, they somehow decided that it was the fault of the rest of the league; since the league didn't apologize to them, it was their personal mission to embarrass it (and although it's a different subject, it's no answer to say "you play for 60 minutes," when you're throwing on 4th-and-2 from the 37 yard line, up 45-0 with 7 minutes left in the game). But, digressing, we ain't ones to let the score speak for itself, so to the point:

Peyton Manning is aristocracy. His destiny was pre-determined for him; it's no accident that the networks actually managed to find footage of him playing football at age 3. He's the trust-fund-baby; establishment all the way. Compare this with Brady, an unheralded 6th-round pick out of Michigan, a bench-warmer who got his shot and made the most out of it. He's the little engine that could; the bedtime story you tell your child letting him know he can be whatever he wants. He's the frontier spirit embodied, in the American sport. Baseball is the pasttime, but football is the present. Baseball is Buddy Holly; football is Soulja Boy.



And this is what makes their careers so fascinating, especially the last few seasons. Brady, for all the we're-a-team-not-individuals-publicity the Patriots receive, is Hollywood, on and off the field. He's got the celebrity baby's-momma, the Gap ads, the supermodel girlfriend, and no matter what he says to try and dispel that image, the picture gives it away. And that's what he is on the field. He stands in the pocket for months at a time, cool, breeze. His spiral is tighter than Omar Little is with his shotgun. He makes everything look N'awlins (which it can be, when Randy Moss spends his Sundays telling Sir Isaac Newton where to shove his theories). And when he takes his helmet off on the sideline, he looks 10 seconds away from a photo shoot. He's Snoop/Dre G-Funk, lowriding his way to the record book.



For all his commercials (and even those are almost invariably of the goofy, common-man variety), Manning's game is anti-Hollywood. Nothing he does is smooth, and his game is as much intellectual as physical; he's Def Jux meets Gang Starr. He's got the happiest feet in the pocket this side of your DVD player, his passes wobble; nothing about his game, physically, looks like the prince of the league that he was born to be. He's got the arm strength, but he ain't no Jeff George. The signature of him on the sideline is the helmet-imprint on his forehead.

And this, really, is the reason that Manning is the alpha dog in the NFL, why he's all over your TV while Brady just stops by on Sundays. Manning's game has rejected his status as the favored son and made his name itself. We're talking Prince Akeem-leaving-Zamunda-for-Lisa McDowell, and if you ain't on the train, then George Bush will fucking bomb you. The two best facets of his game are beyond the physical: the way he out-mentals the defense pre-snap, and his absolutely uncanny feel for moving just enough in the pocket to avoid the blitz. These are skills he developed through perseverance, nothing natural and unearned. He's become the bedtime story, the folklore of the New American Dream. And when Brady makes it look so effortless, he's letting us all know that we ain't him, and we ain't never gonna be him. Gisele's probably not that into you, anyway.