MY PEYTON STORY
It’s hard to believe there was a pre-Bard Schutte, but—alas—that me existed, and even used to do stuff and go outside and sleep sometimes. I was back from the Globe, back coaching football in the fall. But I had also become the Executive Director of the KY Theatre Association post London, which meant I would have lots to do at the SETC convention each year.
The trip was always completely paid for, so it was like I was at an all-inclusive resort in Punta Cana…except I was in Birmingham, Alabama. At a Hyatt. There was sand, but it was in the middle of a construction site across the street from the Hyatt, and 3 housing-fluid gents had housed fluid in said sand since my arrival 2 hours earlier. I am not a man of many rules, but “It matters not that the sand looks nice; do not play if pissed in thrice” is one of the core ones I do abide.
But I digress.
While coaching and teaching prior to the Bard, 2 things were certain each year. One, I would always have a dentist appointment on the Thursday before Derby. 1 PM. The doctor? Dr. Wingding. This is when the Ding was at the German American Club, and I paid it the respect it deserved by making sure I never showed up there without bringing something. I brought a buzz. You may be wondering…why 1 PM? Why not choose an earlier time? It’s sweet, your naivety. If I made my appointment any earlier, they would expect me to return to work. Come on, man. That’s a rookie mistake. Clown question, bro.
But I double digress.
The second item of certainty was that I would not be needed for the conference until Thursday of the given week, and the school (sadly) was unaware of my very unique spelling issues—issues like misspelling Thursday M-O-N-D-A-Y. So Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday I would find myself with 3 glorious days in a 4 or 5-star hotel, getting to spend the days writing, working out, eating and drinking for free, and generally making wonderfully bad decisions.
But I triple digress.
Well, not really. That was all actually apropos.
The story takes place on a Tuesday, early in the morning, in the hotel workout room. And….scene:
It’s 7:30 AM. I am down on the basement floor level of the Hyatt. I had just finished some light weightlifting work, and I was now on the treadmill, jogging at a leisurely pace. The quiet of an empty workout room was stealing away my motivation, so I threw my ear buds in and cranked some Biggie as I continued a level 3 jog on the treadmill.
As is my norm, I begin rapping along with the Biggie songs, which in turn makes me more aware of my surroundings…and I realize someone has just entered the room, gotten on the treadmill next to me, and most likely just heard the cracker on treadmill 6 spouting “close like Starsky and Hutch, stick the clutch, dare I squeeze three at your cherry M-3” as they entered. I turn my head and look over to the other treadmill, where the new guy is now running. He looks over. We make eye contact. Holy shit. It's Peyton Manning.
Yeah.
Peyton Manning.
I am not one to fawn over the famous. I know firsthand how annoying it can be when yet another of my adoring fan wants me to sign their hat, or shirt, or their baby’s forehead, and goes on and on about how much they love me. Ugh.
So I give Peyton a quick nose-to-the-sky head nod, the international sign for “’sup,” and he returns the gesture. As he does, I realize his treadmill is set to level 4. I smile, turn to my treadmill console, and hit the pace button twice. Would you look at that? Somebody just went from level 3 to level 5, a full level higher than Mr. Not Tom Brady.
My inner stand up routine making fun of Manning wasn’t a long set, though, as Manning quickly reminded me of his legendary pocket presence. Dude didn’t even turn his head an inch toward me, and yet he KNEW I had leveled up to 5. Nonchalantly, he hits his treadmill’s pace button twice. Manning’s at a 6.
Schutte’s at a 7
Manning’s at an 8.
Schutte’s at a 9.
Manning’s at…not a 10!
Manning’s at a 7. A 6. A 5.
I slow to a 6 as I run with fists in the air above my head, “Chariots of Fire” totally playing in my head.
Manning’s at 4. 3…Manning is…is he laughing?
“Guess you’re used to losing at this point,” I neither thought nor said in that moment but realize now would have been GOLD. Instead, I go with “Didn’t want to chase the 10, eh?”
Again, he doesn’t turn his head. His face has taken on an air of seriousness. He looks down toward the floor as he says “You’ve seen me run.” I nod. He brings his head back up and continues running, looking straight ahead. I try to use the moment to improve my own pocket presence, and thus I am also looking straight ahead as I reply, “Yes. Yes I have."
We both continue running, eyes straight ahead, now in silence. 90 seconds of silence—hardly any time at all in most life scenarios, but in this instance it’s more like the final two minutes of a football game (which typically take six to eight weeks). Then, as if we had agreed on a snap count, we both begin laughing simultaneously. I'm pretty sure I also belted out "Omaha!:
We probably kept on running another 10 minutes or so, then shot the sh*t for a few before heading off to meet our respective days, Manning doing something with the Birmingham baseball team, Schutte most likely doing something with triple-pissed in sand across the street. Since I didn’t know how he felt about sand and urine, I kept that off the conversation docket. Conversation topics DID include football, football, Derby, football, London, and football—which included finding out he knew about the team I coached.
Which is nice.
As we exited, Peyton noted, “This loss is going to stick with me a while.”
“Yeah, the video’s blowing up on Twitter,” then to the dropped jaw, “wait, should I not have been live tweeting this whole time?”
I ruin the joke immediately because I start laughing immediately, so his response got to be laughter instead of horror. He did, however, make sure to note, “Invitation to Indianapolis rescinded.”
“You gotta sacrifice for the legendary wins; just ask Brady” I say as we begin walking in opposite directions. I only hear a faint “Derby” as I turn the corner and smile as I walk out of the Hyatt, knowing I was once again a champion of something utterly trivial and meaningless.
Now I know what you’re thinking…didn’t I feel silly celebrating a running race against the slowest man alive? Dude, that was my only victory for the entire year. Don’t piss in my sandbox.
The trip was always completely paid for, so it was like I was at an all-inclusive resort in Punta Cana…except I was in Birmingham, Alabama. At a Hyatt. There was sand, but it was in the middle of a construction site across the street from the Hyatt, and 3 housing-fluid gents had housed fluid in said sand since my arrival 2 hours earlier. I am not a man of many rules, but “It matters not that the sand looks nice; do not play if pissed in thrice” is one of the core ones I do abide.
But I digress.
While coaching and teaching prior to the Bard, 2 things were certain each year. One, I would always have a dentist appointment on the Thursday before Derby. 1 PM. The doctor? Dr. Wingding. This is when the Ding was at the German American Club, and I paid it the respect it deserved by making sure I never showed up there without bringing something. I brought a buzz. You may be wondering…why 1 PM? Why not choose an earlier time? It’s sweet, your naivety. If I made my appointment any earlier, they would expect me to return to work. Come on, man. That’s a rookie mistake. Clown question, bro.
But I double digress.
The second item of certainty was that I would not be needed for the conference until Thursday of the given week, and the school (sadly) was unaware of my very unique spelling issues—issues like misspelling Thursday M-O-N-D-A-Y. So Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday I would find myself with 3 glorious days in a 4 or 5-star hotel, getting to spend the days writing, working out, eating and drinking for free, and generally making wonderfully bad decisions.
But I triple digress.
Well, not really. That was all actually apropos.
The story takes place on a Tuesday, early in the morning, in the hotel workout room. And….scene:
It’s 7:30 AM. I am down on the basement floor level of the Hyatt. I had just finished some light weightlifting work, and I was now on the treadmill, jogging at a leisurely pace. The quiet of an empty workout room was stealing away my motivation, so I threw my ear buds in and cranked some Biggie as I continued a level 3 jog on the treadmill.
As is my norm, I begin rapping along with the Biggie songs, which in turn makes me more aware of my surroundings…and I realize someone has just entered the room, gotten on the treadmill next to me, and most likely just heard the cracker on treadmill 6 spouting “close like Starsky and Hutch, stick the clutch, dare I squeeze three at your cherry M-3” as they entered. I turn my head and look over to the other treadmill, where the new guy is now running. He looks over. We make eye contact. Holy shit. It's Peyton Manning.
Yeah.
Peyton Manning.
I am not one to fawn over the famous. I know firsthand how annoying it can be when yet another of my adoring fan wants me to sign their hat, or shirt, or their baby’s forehead, and goes on and on about how much they love me. Ugh.
So I give Peyton a quick nose-to-the-sky head nod, the international sign for “’sup,” and he returns the gesture. As he does, I realize his treadmill is set to level 4. I smile, turn to my treadmill console, and hit the pace button twice. Would you look at that? Somebody just went from level 3 to level 5, a full level higher than Mr. Not Tom Brady.
My inner stand up routine making fun of Manning wasn’t a long set, though, as Manning quickly reminded me of his legendary pocket presence. Dude didn’t even turn his head an inch toward me, and yet he KNEW I had leveled up to 5. Nonchalantly, he hits his treadmill’s pace button twice. Manning’s at a 6.
Schutte’s at a 7
Manning’s at an 8.
Schutte’s at a 9.
Manning’s at…not a 10!
Manning’s at a 7. A 6. A 5.
I slow to a 6 as I run with fists in the air above my head, “Chariots of Fire” totally playing in my head.
Manning’s at 4. 3…Manning is…is he laughing?
“Guess you’re used to losing at this point,” I neither thought nor said in that moment but realize now would have been GOLD. Instead, I go with “Didn’t want to chase the 10, eh?”
Again, he doesn’t turn his head. His face has taken on an air of seriousness. He looks down toward the floor as he says “You’ve seen me run.” I nod. He brings his head back up and continues running, looking straight ahead. I try to use the moment to improve my own pocket presence, and thus I am also looking straight ahead as I reply, “Yes. Yes I have."
We both continue running, eyes straight ahead, now in silence. 90 seconds of silence—hardly any time at all in most life scenarios, but in this instance it’s more like the final two minutes of a football game (which typically take six to eight weeks). Then, as if we had agreed on a snap count, we both begin laughing simultaneously. I'm pretty sure I also belted out "Omaha!:
We probably kept on running another 10 minutes or so, then shot the sh*t for a few before heading off to meet our respective days, Manning doing something with the Birmingham baseball team, Schutte most likely doing something with triple-pissed in sand across the street. Since I didn’t know how he felt about sand and urine, I kept that off the conversation docket. Conversation topics DID include football, football, Derby, football, London, and football—which included finding out he knew about the team I coached.
Which is nice.
As we exited, Peyton noted, “This loss is going to stick with me a while.”
“Yeah, the video’s blowing up on Twitter,” then to the dropped jaw, “wait, should I not have been live tweeting this whole time?”
I ruin the joke immediately because I start laughing immediately, so his response got to be laughter instead of horror. He did, however, make sure to note, “Invitation to Indianapolis rescinded.”
“You gotta sacrifice for the legendary wins; just ask Brady” I say as we begin walking in opposite directions. I only hear a faint “Derby” as I turn the corner and smile as I walk out of the Hyatt, knowing I was once again a champion of something utterly trivial and meaningless.
Now I know what you’re thinking…didn’t I feel silly celebrating a running race against the slowest man alive? Dude, that was my only victory for the entire year. Don’t piss in my sandbox.