March 10, 2005
Payton Who?
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

If there was one man I could count on in Indy it was Reggie Miller. He was my one trump card in many a lost conversation about sports; the one sports figure I recognized; the guy for whom I could actually quote some form of a statistic: the three-point shot. With the announcement of his upcoming retirement, even I, the worst sports fan in the world, felt a tear welling up in the corner of my eye.

I met Reggie once in Broad Ripple after a friend of mine tipped me off as to where “the party” would be (it was off season, mind you). Reggie ordered a round of cocktails, included me, and when I thanked him for the Shirley Temple he said, “You’re welcome, sweetie.” Sweetie? Reggie Miller just called me sweetie! I will never wash this ear again!

As far as sports knowledge goes, I’m in the lowest 10% of my class. Being a Super Fan, to me, means knowing all the lyrics to an album. To my girlfriend, Sports Gal, it means knowing all the stats. I’ve seen her bet men $100 cash in bars over the most obscure pieces of sports trivia; time and again, I’ve seen men fork over the money.

A few years ago, Sports Gal and I were regaling at a friend’s birthday party downtown. My girlfriends began whispering and pointing toward the table next to us. As I reached for my third piece of garlic bread, I was handed a camera, then another, as my friends, in unison, sang, “It’s him! Jill: take our pictures!”

Obligingly, a very tall male stood up from among his table of friends and positioned himself, sort of like a quarterback would, in the middle of the group. I positioned myself as well, focusing and snapping photo after photo of each of my friends with him. My petty questioning, “Who is he?” was muffled by my friends’ distracted giddiness, until finally, Sports Gal said, “Are you kidding me? It’s Payton Manning.”

Don’t I know anything? One by one they all met him. When it was my turn I said, “You’re very tall; from all the excitement you’re obviously either a Colt or a Pacer.”

This amused him and he replied, ‘I’m a Colt—the quarterback.” I shrugged, telling him that if he were an author, or played an instrument, I would probably have recognized him; as it stood, “Colts quarterback” wasn’t ringing any bells.

Needless to say, I was too embarrassed to ask for a photo.