An apologetic letter to Peyton Manning.

Dear Peyton Manning,

Although we've never met, I feel the need to apologize to you on behalf of my mother. Alebit, she's not apologizing for her behavior.

What is that behavior exactly? Well, Pey (mind if I call you Pey?) my mother is obsessed with you and I think she may be stalking you.

A year or two ago when you started getting really popular (and I apologize because I know nothing of sports, you or your career except that you play soccer* or something and you're in some commercials; other than that, nothing) my mom started watching whatever team you're on. And she continues to watch that team. But it's not so much the team she watches; it's you. I called her the other day and she literally said, "Peyton's on. I've gotta go." And then she hung up on me.

She hung up on me, Peyton Manning! And it's your fault.

She even wears a jersey with your name and number on it while watching. This is a woman who didn't even want to go to her daughter's high school graduation because 'it wasn't a big deal.' But oh! She'll ignore her own offspring to watch you throw a ball. You'd better be the best damn thrower ever, Pey. Cause you're taking my mom from me!

Here's the real kicker, though. (Ha, kicker. That'd be really funny if you were a kicker. Are you a kicker?). She wants to find you and meet you because (and I have nothing to do with this) she wants you to marry me.

So before you're tackled in the grocery store by some strange, crazy lady named Susan (not to frighten you, but she's getting good with the internet and I think she knows where you shop) I want you to know that I have nothing to do with this. It's nothing personal. But I really have no interest in meeting you. I'm sure you're really nice, but there's just nothing there. Plus I think you're married, but Mom doesn't seem to care.

I really think that she wants to marry you but her husband wouldn't allow it. You know, polygamy isn't exactly the norm.

Anyway, her obsession goes deeper than just jersies and dreams of NFL grandbabies.

One day while I was at work (and this is a true story, I've got witnesses) a thirty-page fax gets dumped on my desk. First off, I had no idea that I even was able to get faxes. Second, it was a deck all about you. Stories, stats, facts. There were parts she's underlined and highlighted. She even added notes ("he's such a nice boy, see!"). Third, I had no idea that she even liked you or, for that matter, liked you for me.

So I call my cousin who's in sports (baseball) and he tells me that Mom had been harassing him to get into contact with you so you and I could get married. Because the mere fact that my cousin is in sports means that he just has your phone number.

Seriously. That's the logic.

She has some crazy plan, I just know it. She won't tell me the details, but I'm sure it involves you, me, a pool hall and a short, leather skirt. I'm not going to let this happen. I can't wear a leather skirt! It's too eighties.

Anyway, I just wanted to give you a heads up. Perhaps let you get another body guard (although my mom is pretty harmless, I think).

I'm sure nothing will ever come of this and you can go on doing what you do on the turf and I can go on doing what I do on not-turf.

Again I apologize. Feel flattered. She hasn't been this obsessed with hooking me up since 8 years ago when she thought Prince William and I'd be perfect together. She even had invitations picked out.

Good luck in your game tomorrow, Pey. Score a homerun** and make my mom proud!

* It's only called "foot ball" in Brazil.
** That's when you knock all of the pins over.