From time to time I have dreams of Peyton Manning pulling me into a power hug while in a confined space such as a small kitchen or an elevator in a second-tier Las Vegas resort. And in that moment, when my head is pressed firmly into his larger-than-life, Superbowl-winning, Hall-Of-Fame, most-seasons-with-at-least-4000-passing-yards, chest cavity, I feel all my worries completely disappear. 

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