Never too big for hero worship: sure, I work with TV's most beautiful women, but meeting Peyton Manning was my dream come true.(My Turn)

Grown men can have sports heroes, can't they? Most of us won't admit to it. We wonder if a group of overpaid, overhyped egomaniacs can be truly worthy of our adulation. Last month, I discovered the answer.

Since his freshman year at Tennessee (my alma mater), Peyton Manning has been my favorite athlete. I had arranged in advance to attend the Colts-Chargers game in Indianapolis the day after Christmas, when I was going to be in nearby Nashville. Miraculously, Manning's pursuit of Dan Marino's "unbreakable" single-season record for touchdown passes lasted until that game. It was perfect. Little did I know, the memories were just beginning.

As I returned to my hotel with my friends, a giddy girl ran by announcing that Manning was at a restaurant down the street. She insisted we go there and try to meet him. I played it cool. "I'm a grown man," I said. Then I headed straight to the restaurant.

My buddies and I pressed our noses against the glass and, sure enough, there was Manning, surrounded by autograph seekers. We squeezed inside, but the place was packed. There was no way to get near him.

We were about to leave when the unthinkable happened. It appeared as if Peyton was looking at me from across the restaurant. "Dude, he's pointing at you," my buddy said, and pushed me forward.

So I fought my way across the room. The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of him. I started to chicken out. Common sense was screaming in my head: "He wasn't pointing at you, you idiot. He thinks you're someone else. Duck out while you still can."

That's when Peyton put his hand on my shoulder. "My wife and I love your show," he said. "What are you doing here?"