Peyton,

I’ve always hated you. God, I hate you so much.

I’ve hated you ever since the first time I saw your shiny forehead slide under that white-and-blue Colts helmet and take the field.

I was too young to really care that you beat my Patriots in the AFC championship in 2006. But I sure as hell always rooted against you.

I felt a surge of malicious pleasure when you lost to the Saints in the 2009 Super Bowl. And when you lost to the Jets in the 2010 AFC Wild Card round.

Every time we beat you, it was like no joy I’d ever experienced. The first time I really understood and got involved in a match against you was in 2010, when you almost came back to beat us, but threw a last-minute interception — as these things often go.

When you switched to the Broncos, I resented you even more. The rivalry that we’d once held with the Colts was now replaced by one with the team in the Mile High. It was never Patriots vs. Colts or vs. Broncos — it was always Patriots vs. You.

More specifically, Tom Brady vs. You.

Tom’s beaten you 11 times out of 17. He has twice as many Super Bowls and a far superior playoff record. He’s better than you, no matter how much more natural ability you possess. But that rivalry was one of the best in NFL history. Remember that 2013 game at Gillette Stadium? Where we were down for the count 24-0 in the first half and surged back to win 34-31 (OT) in one of the best games I’ve ever seen?

That was something.

When you were out in 2011 for neck injuries, I was truly sorry. I felt for your pain and hoped for your health. I thought you’d retire for sure. And, deep down, I thought I might miss you.

Then you came back, better than ever, and the hate returned. You looked sharp — albeit weary, with an arm not quite as good as it was before — and you returned, once again, to the depths of hell my brain had reserved for you.

You broke Tom’s single-season touchdown record in just your second year back. Stole it, really, with a far better-receiving corps than Tom’s ever had or ever will have. You won the MVP, beat us in the AFC Championship game, and went to the Super Bowl, only to be routed by the Seattle Seahawks in an embarrassing fashion.

And I felt vengeful joy. Not the overwhelming, almost insane, pure, undiluted happiness that came with the Patriots winning their fourth Super Bowl the next season. Just a grim satisfaction that you had lost.

This season, you didn’t look good. You threw four interceptions against the Kansas City Chiefs in a game that ultimately resulted in your benching until the final game of the regular season, where you stepped in to defeat the resilient San Diego Chargers and stole our number one seed away from our battered, crumbling team.

You took advantage of our injuries and narrowly edged us out in the AFC Championship on your ride to glory, winning your second and final Super Bowl weeks later in a game that you didn’t have very much to do with.

I hate you for that. I hate that Tom Brady will only have two more Super Bowls than you instead of three. I hate that, in the last matchup against you, you came out on top.

But a tiny, tiny piece inside of me not consumed by hate for you felt a twinge of reluctant…happiness for you.

As much as I hated to see you ride off into the sunset this way, it felt like it was meant to be.

You broke my heart numerous times, Peyton. But you brought it joy. You crushed my spirit, but you gave me something to look forward to every year. And, if nothing else, you’ve always given me something to write about.

You were truly a game-changer, for better or for worse. Thank you for making me feel something every season — be it good or bad. You brought us Patriots fans more joy than I think many of us even realize.

Every time you and Tom Brady stood at center field together and hugged it out, it made me realize…it's just a game. And to see one of its greatest players go out the way you did was special. It was almost right that you won Super Bowl 50 in one of the least spectacular, but most sentimental, football games in recent memory.

I hate you, Peyton. But I’m going to miss the hell out of you.

Thanks.

(Sorry, couldn't resist.)