You can call it Hog Heaven, a Pigskin Palace and/or the Greatest Place on Earth but people with a latchkey for the gate to the backyard that houses the highly sought after Manning gene swimming pool (Mannings are also typically wearing blue jeans although not Wranglers because Brett Favre is a ancestral rival dating back to the days of the Pilgrims when Cecil Favre did a play action fake to George Manning with the last leg of turkey at the first Thanksgiving as John Witten IV did his best to feign a Joshua Gruden level of enthusiasm about life, especially the X's and O's part) call it a family reunion and they are probably underselling the whole shebang. You see, the annual Manning family reunion (which is on the calendar for the fourth weekend of every July or whenever Uncle Ray is running low on his supply of Roman Candles (or as he likes to call them, Redneck Candles) that he likes to shoot at crows like clay pigeons because, as he tells anyone (usually correspondents for local news networks) who is unfortunate enough to saddle up to the old goon, "They're askin' for it, what with the callin' themselves a murder, they put it out there first...It wasn't my idea to call 'em a murder of crows but I sure as heck ain't gonna take no crap from some dang bird." Then he spits a mini Niagara Falls of tobacco juice into an empty Red Bull and takes a sip out of a half full Red Bull that he is holding in his other hand (or is it half empty? Depends which carny or chef you ask. Don't even get me started on carnival chefs...They are more avatar than human, although if you ask them, they will have never heard of Avatar and will think you are the weird one for bringing it up.) is perhaps the greatest single day event in the history of organized sport. Let's take a look back at one of the more memorable happenings that went down during the big reuniting of the members of the lionized (these Mannings should be thanking their lucky dancing stars that they never had to set foot in Ford Field as a member of the home squadron although Peyton would have reveled in the spotlight of Ford's gloved handful of commercial campaigns and we would have gotten a peek behind the metal curtain at his tough side, what with all that F-150 jargon being spewed at the audience like a leaky faucet that could also fix a leaky faucet) bloodline of North America's bloodiest sport other than competitive Dumpster Swan Diving which takes place on the verge of the cliffs of Acapulco, Mexico whenever there is not a soccer game to watch or syndicated episodes of the underrated Estrellaz show, Fiesta Down, are not being run on Telemundo in between yet another forecast of that day's weather.
1994
An eighteen year old Peyton dominates the annual Manning Gridiron Bout, floating passes around the outfield of the softball field like a barrage of butterflies (in an unbelievable coincidence and fortunate series of events, Barrage of Butterflies was actually the name of Peyton's high school ska garage band (or as they liked to call it, skarage band). A barrage is also the correct terminology for a group of butterflies but Uncle Ray can't barrage a butterfly so it isn't as fun as the whole crow thing.), dropping hail marys over the secondary (which consisted of Aunt Sherry, a high school art teacher with a mean handle on watercolor painting and grinding out awful student drawings that need to be graded, Cousin Chad, a college dropout with no discernible skill or direction in life other than laying the timber to slot receivers who are foolish enough to attempt to go across the middle on the turf that he has securely planted his Tennessee Vols car flag in, Grandma Gert, an unassuming, adorable house cat of an old lady who enjoys reading Nicholas Sparks novels and pretending to be the main female character, remembering her late husband, Dale, on her long walks through the local cemetery as she hand delivers a bushel of Petunias to the side of his grave every other Sunday night after 60 Minutes and doing triangle push ups to get buff for the upcoming annual Manning Gridiron Bout, and who could forget Bob, a free spirited vagabond who wandered onto the outfield of the softball field in the midst of a knotted up fourth quarter in the 1988 Manning Gridiron Bout and unknowingly picked off a lame duck of a pass (as he was in hot pursuit of a gaggle of ducklings and trying to heist their bread crumbs) and took it to the house (or the abandoned railroad car or whatever) as an exasperated Archie spiked his quarterback playbook wristband then later spiked the fruit punch with Jack Daniels. Bob is still out there in the outfield of that softball field today, the ghost of Shoeless Joe Jackson to its Kevin Costner, waiting patiently in a lawn chair for next year's Manning Gridiron Bout with a fat ol' grin painted across his face, definitely illegal precious metal spikes on his football cleats and a half full Bud Light (or is it half empty? Depends on which carny or NASCAR enthusiast you ask.) in each of his cup holders, also a thrilled outlook for life itself in the cup holder of his soul.
Buy Chris's books SPONGE CAKE & WHAT'S IN THE FRIDGE? on Amazon
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