Nothing Special by Geoff Herbach Page A

Peyton Manning is? He’s like the Yo-Yo Ma of football. I don’t really know if Yo-Yo Ma is that great a musician. He is, right? Peyton is like a super great, one of the best quarterbacks ever.
    So, here’s a good question: Would Peyton Manning drop everything—drills, fitness, training camp—to go find his little brother, Eli, if little Eli were lost on the Florida Gulf Coast?
    That’s what I’m doing.
    I don’t know how to answer the question. Would Peyton leave practice the week of a game?
    He’s a serious professional football player, and that means he’s had to make serious sacrifices, like maybe not helping Eli out when he was in trouble in the past. Maybe? “Can’t save you from those bullies, little buddy. I’ve got passes to throw…”
    But, really, I don’t know. Peyton seems nice.
    Actually, my guess is that Peyton Manning would go find Eli if he were lost. My guess is that part of the reason Peyton’s such an awesome leader is that he puts people ahead of his own personal gain. That’s why everybody thinks, “Thank Gawd we got us a little Peyton in our lives…”
    He’s also not crazy like I’m crazy.
    I think I’ve got good reason to be crazy.
    Maybe I really would be like Peyton Manning, except my tennis dad killed himself and didn’t play football, like Peyton’s did, and didn’t raise me in a giant mansion with this perfect Manning-style family, so my problems are a lot bigger, much, much bigger than Peyton Manning ever had to deal with, and so I’m not crazy but actually just doing the best a totally broken dude like myself can expect to do.
    â€¢ • •
    Jesus. No way. No way I can freaking sleep.
    You know, Aleah, I’ve already been gone from Bluffton for like twenty hours and I’m still in Chicago. I could’ve driven almost to freaking Georgia by now. Haysoos Christmoos.
    I don’t want to be a football slacker. I’m going to do some freaking running. Maybe run stairs? I’m going to donkey-run my ass up some stairs.

August 16th, 3:17 a.m.
O’hare Airport, Part XI (Hotel)
    I just got yelled at by a man in a white bathrobe, which was sort of dangling open. “Stop your goddamn running around the halls right now, you drunk!”
    I’m not drunk. I’m weird. I said, “Sorry.”
    He squinted at me, nodded, and said, “Just go to bed.”
    â€œI’m not tired,” I told him.
    â€œGo to bed,” he said, sort of mean, so I came back to the room.
    I ran a good bit on the stairs but had only gotten in like ten hallway wind sprints before robe man put the kibosh on my training.
    Man. I want to go home, Aleah. I want to be back in Bluffton. I want to be asleep. This is happening, though. I’m in.
    Andrew.
    In June, like five days after school ended, Jerri and I drove Andrew to Madison to catch a bus for his orchestra camp. Jerri wanted to drive him all the way to Green Bay, where he was supposed to meet up with the other mighty dork campers, but he said no.
    For about a week before this trip, Jerri and Andrew argued about it. “That’s ridiculous, Andrew. Absolutely not. You’re not taking the bus. I want to drive you.”
    â€œIt’s not ridiculous at all,” he said, “I’m fourteen and I need to learn to take care of myself. This will be a very safe adventure, Jerri.”
    â€œAndrew, no! I want to meet your counselors. I want to see the other campers.”
    â€œJerri, please. Don’t be such a mother, okay? This isn’t about you.”
    Aha, Aleah. He played the self-reliance card perfectly. It’s one that works well on Jerri, because she’s watched a lot of the Oprah Winfrey Network. He made her believe somehow that the adventure of traveling alone part of the trip would benefit his quest to become an excellent adult. Well played.
    So we put his bag filled with many mallets and