Keidel: Are We Pushing Peyton Manning Out The Door Too Soon?
By Jason Keidel
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From the day I was born 45 years ago inside Mount Sinai Hospital until six months ago, I've had one doctor.
Other than a few knee surgeries and occasional jaunts to the ER, Dr. Shapiro was my face of medicine.
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She had the same office, across from Tavern on the Green, with a brown door and brown carpets, the same antiseptic smell, the same "Mad Men" motif, stuck somewhere around 1965.
When I asked how long she'd been practicing medicine and how long she worked out of that office, she said, "I moved here in 1949."
"You must have the years wrong, Doc," I said, astonished that someone I know could have been practicing medicine since Joe DiMaggio roamed center field for the Yankees.
"You're right," she said, brooding up at the ceiling in recollection. "It was 1947. My husband practiced here a year before I commandeered the office."
Few things render this writer speechless. But she did. Dr. Shapiro was well into her 90s when we had that chat. Same job. Same results.
Surely she wasn't the same doctor she was at 50. She was already middle-aged when I was born, for goodness sake. You could time her movements with a sundial. She started to forget my first name, couldn't recall the last time I'd been to the office. But when it was time to slap that stick on my tongue, massage my throat, check my pulse or slide me under an X-ray, she was just as sharp in 2015 as she was in 1975.
I just assumed she would be my doc until I died. Then she hit me with the news: She was retiring in three months.
I didn't tell her when to retire. Indeed, we don't tell doctors, lawyers, firemen or congressmen when to retire. Yet when an athlete is involved, we suddenly morph into Malcolm Gladwell.
Dr. Shapiro had the same office, in the very building of her residence, on Central Park West. She literally walked 10 feet to work, past her doorman, and a right into her office. She loved what she did, couldn't think of another hobby or vocation that would fill her soul the same way.
So why are we in such a hurry to retire Peyton Manning? Because he lost a little off his fastball? When actual starters lose the ability to chuck a baseball 95 mph, they become pitchers -- craftsmen, nibbling around the plate, relying more on their guile than the radar gun.
Yet when Manning does it, we wrap the wretched "game manager" handle around him, as if being 60 minutes from a Super Bowl title requires some defense. We tend to leave most men alone, even icons in repose, but not Manning, who seems to have assumed a Muhammad Ali circa 1982 quality. As if Manning is now a trembling pitchman for D-Con roach spray.
We watched in horror as Ali scaled down the rungs of reason, unable to peel himself from the stage that made him the most essential athlete of the 20th century. But there's nothing to suggest Manning is in any more pain than the average NFL player. When he was whipped in the Super Bowl two years ago, 43-8, did we take picket signs to his door, insisting he tear up his contract?
LeBron James lost the NBA Finals last year. Are we begging him to quit? Actually, Manning reminds you of another NBA legend who keeps finding his way deep into the playoffs despite diminished alacrity.
Tim Duncan. Almost exactly the same age, in a sport that abhors your late 30s even more than the NFL, Duncan is now on a team that is an absurd 40-8. If not for the Golden State Warriors' historical start, the Spurs would be the talk of the sports world and favored to win Duncan's sixth ring.
Is anyone begging Duncan to hang up his kicks? Everyone can see that he's barely half the player he was six years ago. Yet we still worship him, laud him as the ultimate teammate who takes less money and spends more time on the pine for the benefit of the club.
Have we forgotten that the Denver Broncos are in the Super Bowl? Have we forgotten that Manning got them there? Have we forgotten he beat perhaps the best playoff QB in NFL history to get there?
No position in sports is more tethered to team results than the quarterback. Manning doesn't play first base, where you can hit .330, win the gold glove and say you had a great year despite the team losing 95 games.
A QB relies mostly on one metric -- winning. How many NFL quarterbacks had great years on losing teams? Maybe Manning's kid brother. But Eli's Giants were just a few plays from finishing 10-6. No team in NFL history lost more games while leading with two minutes left.
There's something about those Mannings that refuses to quit. From desire to DNA, they seem almost indestructible, if not indefatigable. Check their stats, and next to "games played" you'll see "16" next to all 12 years Eli has played for Big Blue. Likewise with Peyton, who overcame four neck surgeries, being released by the Colts and starting anew in Denver. You could argue the old man Archie is, as they say in the South, tougher than a two-dollar steak.
Archie played for the Saints long before they became America's darlings. The pre-Katrina Saints were an embarrassment, going decades before winning their first playoff game. Their fan base invented the brown bag over the fan's face.
Yet Archie never griped or groaned, never demanded a trade or showed anything but grace and class. His only rebellious move -- an impulse any parent would follow -- was protecting his youngest son from gridiron peril. He got Eli traded from the forlorn Chargers -- who still haven't won a Super Bowl -- to the history-rich Giants, who won two with him under center.
Maybe Peyton retires. Maybe the sheriff has run out of bullets on his belt. But it should shock no one if he decides to play one more year. Or two. He's doing what he's loved since childhood, is being paid millions to do it and is four quarters from his second Lombardi Trophy.
Half the owners in the NFL would fly their Learjets tomorrow to bring him to their teams and towns. So forgive Peyton Manning if he decides his future without hearing our half-baked sensibilities about aging athletes.
Follow Jason on Twitter at @JasonKeidel
