Now that the hype surrounding the Super Bowl has died down, it’s time to examine a ranking more important than being champions of the National Football League — where Peyton Manning falls in NFL history.

As a bitter Patriots fan, it has taken me a while to put this into words.

To all my fellow New Englanders, I apologize in advance for the blasphemy you’re about to read. I’m sorry. It is nothing personal. I love you all.

Here goes…

Peyton Manning is the best quarterback in the NFL.

BREATHE. You’ll be OK.

Now before you go throwing some version of Luke’s gospel at my forehead proclaiming Tom Brady to be the next coming of Christ (which, trust me, I sort of believe), take off your rose-colored Pats glasses and put on your rational thinking cap.

I think we can all agree Tom and Peyton are the two best of the current era (unless you’re a member of the Sexy Rexy Grossman forum, in which case you’re not only crazy, but you may or may or not be a drunk).

That said, let’s compare the numbers.

In 96 games for the Patriots, Brady has a pass completion percentage of 61.9 percent (1896 for 3064) and averaged 7.0 yards per completion. In 144 games for the Indianapolis Colts, Manning has a completion percentage of 64 percent (3131 for 4890) while averaging 7.7 yards per completion.

But perhaps what speaks the loudest is Manning’s most prominent strength: touchdown passes. In his career, Manning has thrown 275 of them (even holding the record for most-in-a-season with 49), giving Peyton an average of 1.9 TD’s per game. Brady, with a total of 147 in his career, tosses only about 1.5 per game.

While seemingly a trivial statistic, think about the weapons that have surrounded each quarterback. Manning had one of the best running backs in the league for a large part of his career. For seven seasons Edgerrin James played Robin to Peyton’s Batman. Four of those seven seasons James rushed for over 1,500 yards.

Meanwhile, Tom Brady has had to rely for the majority of his career on B-grade backs like Kevin Faulk, Patrick Pass, and the injury-plagued Corey Dillon.

Logically, the conclusion should be drawn that the quarterback with the weaker running attack should have been the more prolific passer. Not true. What Manning has done in his environment borders on inconceivable.

And now that Manning has broken his curse and finally won the Super Bowl (even if he was one of the most undeserving MVPs in recent history), it is perhaps time to examine the man on a larger stage. Maybe the talk of best quarterback of all-time is not too far from the truth.

Again, time for the numbers.

There are two men most commonly hailed as the greatest QB’s in NFL history: Joe Montana and Dan Marino. First up is the former 49er.

In 192 games, Montana had a completion percentage of 63.2 percent (3409 for 5391) with an average of 7.52 yards per completion, falling short of Manning in both categories. Montana, who had a star receiver in Jerry Rice comparable to Manning’s Marvin Harrison, threw 273 TD’s. Manning has already surpassed that number in 48 fewer games.

And then of course there’s Dan the Man. In 242 games, Marino had a completion percentage of 59.4 percent (4967 for 8358) while averaging 7.34 yards per completion. Again, Manning wins. Often thought of as the king of touchdowns, Marino threw 420 in his career—undoubtedly an impressive number. However, his career average works out to 1.75 TD’s per game, .15 less than Manning’s.

Alright. Enough with the numbers. I know it is a lot to handle, but statistics are the only viable means to properly compare quarterbacks of separate generations. After all, other than the numbers, what do we have?

This certainly is not a popularity contest. If it were, Montana’s left eyebrow is probably better liked than Peyton as a whole.

It definitely is not a competition for who had the best road to stardom. If it were, I think we can all agree the 7^th-round draft pick out of Michigan would win that one.

And it is absolutely not a beauty contest. Because if it were…well, c’mon. The guy looks like a Colt.

It’s a question of legacy. And as scary of a thought as it to me, in twenty years a dad will hand his son a football in a backyard somewhere in New England. He’ll look down and notice the kid isn’t wearing a vintage Brady jersey. Nor is it a Marino or Montana. His eyes will bulge in simultaneous anger and frustration as he sees a blue-and-white #18 sprawled across his kid’s chest. And the boy will stare back at his father and say, “Dad, I’ll be Peyton, you be Marvin Harrison.”

I just pray it’s not my son.