Peyton Manning Quotes

Pressure is something you feel when you don't know what the hell you're doing.

There can be neither beauty, nor trust, nor security between a man and a woman if there is not truth.

You hear about how many fourth quarter comebacks that a guy has and I think it means a guy screwed up in the first three quarters

If teams keep playing us this way, it's going to be like this

I bet Eli doesn't even have one touchdown today, ... I'm the best Manning

He only tied it

If every man, ...ceased to hate and blame every other man for his own failures and shortcomings, we would see the end of every evil in the world, from war to backbiting.

Obviously, it was not a good result

They're good, but the Broncos are nothing to sneeze at. Heard of Peyton Manning?" "I liked him better in blue." "We all did.

Miss Peyton,” Lillian Bowman asked, “what kind of man would be the ideal husband for you?” “Oh,” Annabelle said with irreverent lightness, “any peer will do.” “Any peer?” Lillian asked skeptically. “What about good looks?” Annabelle shrugged. “Welcome, but not necessary.” “What about passion?” Daisy inquired. “Decidedly unwelcome.” “Intelligence?” Evangeline suggested. Annabelle shrugged. “Negotiable.” “Charm?” Lillian asked. “Also negotiable.” “You don’t want much,” Lillian remarked dryly. “As for me, I would have to add a few conditions. My peer would have to be dark-haired and handsome, a wonderful dancer…and he would never ask permission before he kissed me.” “I want to marry a man who has read the entire collected works of Shakespeare,” Daisy said. “Someone quiet and romantic—better yet if he wears spectacles— and he should like poetry and nature, and I shouldn’t like him to be too experienced with women.” Her older sister lifted her eyes heavenward. “We won’t be competing for the same men, apparently.” Annabelle looked at Evangeline Jenner. “What kind of husband would suit you, Miss Jenner?” “Evie,” the girl murmured, her blush deepening until it clashed with her fiery hair. She struggled with her reply, extreme bashfulness warring with a strong instinct for privacy. “I suppose…I would like s-s-someone who was kind and…” Stopping, she shook her head with a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t know. Just someone who would l-love me. Really love me.” The words touched Annabelle, and filled her with sudden melancholy. Love was a luxury she had never allowed herself to hope for—a distinctly superfluous issue when her very survival was so much in question. However, she reached out and touched the girl’s gloved hand with her own. “I hope you find him,” she said sincerely. “Perhaps you won’t have to wait for long.

On its surface, the booming market in side bets on subprime mortgage bonds seemed to be the financial equivalent of fantasy football: a benign, if silly, facsimile of investing. Alas, there was a difference between fantasy football and fantasy finance: When a fantasy football player drafts Peyton Manning to be on his team, he doesn’t create a second Peyton Manning. When Mike Burry bought a credit default swap based on a Long Beach Savings subprime–backed bond, he enabled Goldman Sachs to create another bond identical to the original in every respect but one: There were no actual home loans or home buyers. Only the gains and losses from the side bet on the bonds were real.

He’s the opposite of cute. He’s like a cross between an Orc and Ent. He has the big, brutish body of an Orc but he got some Ent genes, probably from his mother’s side. Basically a tree-trunk with good hair.” Peyton’s nose twitched. Lord of the Ring references were not her jam. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.

when you start telling a man he’s got to do this, that or the other thing, you’re coming pretty damned close to infringing on a citizen’s rights.

In fact, picture what happens when a person of genuine hope comes into your life. All it takes is one. In a flash, the whole atmosphere changes. The impossible actually starts to look possible (think Steve Jobs). Defeat starts to look like it could be turned to victory (think Peyton Manning). Difficult things begin to look like they might actually be possible (think Nelson Mandela). Courage replaces fear, and strength chases away powerlessness. Yes, hope is that important

A football dream is easy to spot. Turn on SportsCenter and they’ll show you what it looks like. Tom Brady’s life. Peyton Manning’s life. Fairy tales. Storybooks. The football dream I had as a child unfolded much differently. But it has still unfolded. Every crease and every line, ever grunt and every pop, I’m playing the game I love. The grass is still green, the hits still hurt, and the ball in flight is still the most beautiful sight I know. I will chase it to the ends of the earth.

I would say that if you’re going to slander a lady’s reputation,” Simon said in a dangerously pleasant tone, “you had better have some hard proof of what you’re saying.” “Egads, gossip doesn’t require proof,” the young man replied with a wink. “And time will soon reveal the lady’s true character. Hodgeham doesn’t have the means to keep a prime beauty like that—before long she’ll want more than he can deliver. I predict that at the season’s end, she’ll sail off to the fellow with the deepest pockets.” “Which would be mine,” Simon said softly. Burdick blinked in surprise, his smile fading as he wondered if he had heard correctly. “Wha—” “I’ve watched as you and the pack of idiots you run with have sniffed at her heels for two years,” Simon said, his eyes narrowing. “Now you’ve lost your chance at her.” “Lost my… what do you mean by that?” Burdick asked indignantly. “I mean that I will afflict the most acute kind of pain, mental, physical, and financial, on the first man who dares to trespass on my territory. And the next person who repeats any unsubstantiated rumors about Miss Peyton in my hearing will find it shoved right back in his throat—along with my fist.” Simon’s smile contained a tigerish menace as he beheld Burdick’s stunned face. “Tell that to anyone who may find it of interest,” he advised, and strode away from the pompous, gape-jawed little runt.

Peyton never loved that deeply again. He’d watched from a distance as Shira made a life for herself, watched her love again enough to accept another man as her husband and the father of her children. Watched those children grow and have children. And when the war came between the Realms of Kaeleer and Terreille, Peyton hadn’t stayed in Dhemlan Terreille to help Mephis defend that Territory. He’d gone to Dharo in Kaeleer to defend the family of the woman who had died centuries before—and had taken his heart with her.

NO, I CAN’T AND I WON’T

What separates man from animal is not the things we build or the ideas we stand behind. Its our ability to kill from a distance that makes us different

Peyton had been considering little else since leaving Winchester. He hated the thought of his arrangement with Carrie ending. He couldn’t imagine her going off on her own, unprotected and vulnerable. What’s more, the idea of another man holding Carrie in his arms, kissing her … Peyton felt a vein begin to throb in his neck. Unacceptable!

OMG, I'm so sorry, do you want me to come over? You shouldnt be alone." I'm fine, and I'm staying at Connors tonight, he was with me when I got the call." "Seriously Elle? What the hell is going on between the two of you? Did you sleep with him?" "No! We're just friends, and I'm staying in the guest room." "Shut the f**k up and get into that mans bed, let him make you forget about everything bad, at least for tonight." "LOL, good night Peyton, I'll keep in touch." "Live Elle! Have you ever heard of friends with benefits? Nighty night...

You brought sunshine to my dreary existence, Carrie. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” “You won’t.” Again she kissed him, dousing the last smidgen of his concern. “I’ll never leave you again.” She whispered the promise against his mouth, and at her words, a deep, abiding love burned inside him, a love that would weather life’s storms. Peyton had no doubt that God created Carrie especially for him to love, cherish, and protect—and to make him a better man. “And no matter what,” he promised in return, “I’ll love you till the day I die.

After completing work in December 1950 on Along the Great Divide, Walter Brennan made the first of several appearances on Family Theater, a radio series conceived by Father Patrick Peyton, who convinced the Mutual Broadcasting Corporation to air 540 half hour dramas from 1947 to 1957. No commercial interruptions followed what was a short sermon to the effect that the family who prays together stays together. On January 24, 1951, in “A Star for Helen,” Brennan played a janitor, Mr. Brannigan, a man of devout faith, who provides comfort and counsel to a young girl, Helen Jackson, coping with her mother’s alcoholism. Not all Family Theater dramas had a religious message. On May 16, he starred in an adaptation of the Bret Harte story, “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” on March 5, 1952, in “The Land of Sunshine,” and on October 8 in “Mail Order Missus.

There’s no shame in my game. I’m confident in my masculinity enough to decide I don’t have to conform to society’s expectations on what a man should like and do.

Peyton is every man’s wet dream. She’s sugar, spice, and everything nice…until she’s not. Until she’s a fucking hellcat, a troublemaker in a beautifully strong package. She’s all curves and muscle, with a filthy fucking mouth and an even better mind.

This was Mahomes. He was different at quarterback. He was not about having the perfect technique. He did not need to be trained to throw it like Tom Brady or Peyton Manning. He did not want to be the next Joe Montana or Brett Favre. He wanted to be the first Patrick Mahomes.

There was only one Peyton Manning.

It’s not my name. It’s Lola Sinclair’s name. And right underneath, beside Groom . . . . “Peyton Manning?” I say, looking up at Nate in bewilderment. He nods. “The man is a fucking god. You can’t blame me for wanting to be him for one drunken night, even in a Las Vegas wedding chapel.

Ten months after Jamie’s death, the 2006 football season began. The Colts played peerless football, winning their first nine games, and finishing the year 12–4. They won their first play-off game, and then beat the Baltimore Ravens for the divisional title. At that point, they were one step away from the Super Bowl, playing for the conference championship—the game that Dungy had lost eight times before. The matchup occurred on January 21, 2007, against the New England Patriots, the same team that had snuffed out the Colts’ Super Bowl aspirations twice. The Colts started the game strong, but before the first half ended, they began falling apart. Players were afraid of making mistakes or so eager to get past the final Super Bowl hurdle that they lost track of where they were supposed to be focusing. They stopped relying on their habits and started thinking too much. Sloppy tackling led to turnovers. One of Peyton Manning’s passes was intercepted and returned for a touchdown. Their opponents, the Patriots, pulled ahead 21 to 3. No team in the history of the NFL had ever overcome so big a deficit in a conference championship. Dungy’s team, once again, was going to lose.3.36 At halftime, the team filed into the locker room, and Dungy asked everyone to gather around. The noise from the stadium filtered through the closed doors, but inside everyone was quiet. Dungy looked at his players. They had to believe, he said. “We faced this same situation—against this same team—in 2003,” Dungy told them. In that game, they had come within one yard of winning. One yard. “Get your sword ready because this time we’re going to win. This is our game. It’s our time.”3.37 The Colts came out in the second half and started playing as they had in every preceding game. They stayed focused on their cues and habits. They carefully executed the plays they had spent the past five years practicing until they had become automatic. Their offense, on the opening drive, ground out seventy-six yards over fourteen plays and scored a touchdown. Then, three minutes after taking the next possession, they scored again. As the fourth quarter wound down, the teams traded points. Dungy’s Colts tied the game, but never managed to pull ahead. With 3:49 left in the game, the Patriots scored, putting Dungy’s players at a three-point disadvantage, 34 to 31. The Colts got the ball and began driving down the field. They moved seventy yards in nineteen seconds, and crossed into the end zone. For the first time, the Colts had the lead, 38 to 34. There were now sixty seconds left on the clock. If Dungy’s team could stop the Patriots from scoring a touchdown, the Colts would win. Sixty seconds is an eternity in football.

The Patriots’ quarterback, Tom Brady, had scored touchdowns in far less time. Sure enough, within seconds of the start of play, Brady moved his team halfway down the field. With seventeen seconds remaining, the Patriots were within striking distance, poised for a final big play that would hand Dungy another defeat and crush, yet again, his team’s Super Bowl dreams. As the Patriots approached the line of scrimmage, the Colts’ defense went into their stances. Marlin Jackson, a Colts cornerback, stood ten yards back from the line. He looked at his cues: the width of the gaps between the Patriot linemen and the depth of the running back’s stance. Both told him this was going to be a passing play. Tom Brady, the Patriots’ quarterback, took the snap and dropped back to pass. Jackson was already moving. Brady cocked his arm and heaved the ball. His intended target was a Patriot receiver twenty-two yards away, wide open, near the middle of the field. If the receiver caught the ball, it was likely he could make it close to the end zone or score a touchdown. The football flew through the air. Jackson, the Colts cornerback, was already running at an angle, following his habits. He rushed past the receiver’s right shoulder, cutting in front of him just as the ball arrived. Jackson plucked the ball out of the air for an interception, ran a few more steps and then slid to the ground, hugging the ball to his chest. The whole play had taken less than five seconds. The game was over. Dungy and the Colts had won. Two weeks later, they won the Super Bowl. There are dozens of reasons that might explain why the Colts finally became champions that year. Maybe they got lucky. Maybe it was just their time. But Dungy’s players say it’s because they believed, and because that belief made everything they had learned—all the routines they had practiced until they became automatic—stick, even at the most stressful moments. “We’re proud to have won this championship for our leader, Coach Dungy,” Peyton Manning told the crowd afterward, cradling the Lombardi Trophy. Dungy turned to his wife. “We did it,” he said.

Good advice comes from the guy who scores all the touchdowns—not the guy shut out in the fourth quarter! The best quarterbacking advice comes from Peyton Manning, not MJ DeMarco.

A baseball team that knew its All-Star reliever had a genetic predisposition to rotator cuff tears could put him on a preventive strengthening program like the one Mackie Shilstone designed for Serena Williams and Peyton Manning. On the other hand, it could also use that information against him in contract negotiations, arguing that his services were less valuable than those of a hurler less likely to end up on the disabled list. For that reason, players’ associations have been wary of genetic science. In many sports, unions have been reluctant even to embrace wearable sensors, worried the data they captured would be used in ways that would undermine athletes’ negotiating power. DNA data, which reflects not just a player’s current physiology or performance but his immutable destiny, is an order of magnitude more sensitive.

If every man ceased to hate and blame every other man for his own failures and shortcomings, we would see the end of every evil in the world, from war to bacbiting.