Being a Jets fan sure ain’t easy. In fact, most of you probably aren’t Jets fans. For better or worse, I am. I always have been and I always will be. I’m either too loyal or too stupid. Maybe I’m both.
Back to the Jets. This could be their year. I find myself saying that every year. Again, I’m either too loyal or too stupid—and on top of that, I lie to myself.
No matter what the Jets do, even if they won championship after championship, they’d still be the same old Jets. They have a firmly entrenched culture, and in my 26 years of living on Earth, they’ve never even attempted to change it. No press is bad press, right? I’m guessing those are the words my beloved Jets swear their eternal undying allegiance to.
Like the class clown in high school, the Jets organization always gets the cheap laughs with no real substance, and like that class clown, they graduated, got a dead-end job and wondered where they went wrong. That is my metaphor for the New York Jets. We lack the years of prestigious history of our MetLife counterparts, the stability of the team from the Steel City, or the iconic franchise star who stands out from the pack. Yes, we have Joe Namath, and unfortunately, yes, we have Joe Namath.
Did I mention I’m also a Mets fan? Boy, 1969 must have been a glorious year with the Jets winning the Super Bowl in January and the Miracle Mets shocking the world in October. I could have gotten used to that, but I’m a fan of late-season collapses and butt fumbles, broken jaws and dropped cans of corn. I’m a fan of a ruptured Achilles and Darrelle Revis winning his ring elsewhere. I’m a fan of Rex Ryan and Rich Kotite, of Bill Belichick only needing the job for a day to realize he didn’t want the job for a second one. That’s my fandom.
New Jersey has experienced some terrible winters over the past few years, so the Jets built the most expensive stadium in sports and didn’t put a roof over it. If they did, I could’ve watched them stink up the gridiron in comfort. At least we share that blame with the Giants.
The Jets should change their name to the Head Scratchers. I say this because as a fan you watch and listen, and at the end of the day, not only are you scratching your head wondering what the hell is going on, but you see the players doing it too!
We are the team that drafted O’Brien over Marino. In January 2005, we had the opportunity to win a divisional playoff game on the road against the Steelers at the foot of one of the league’s most accurate kickers. He missed—twice. We’ve been fake spiked against by the guy we spurned, and we brought in Tim Tebow for no good reason. At least Marino never won a Super Bowl.
I thought it ended when The Big Tuna took over, but that Bill Parcells seems like just another blip in a timeline of great disappointment. Remember how he changed the whole look back to that of the original ’68 champions? From Parcells to Ryan, we’ve had brash action off the field. I’d love to see some on it.
For the rest of my life, I’ll watch my green and white. I think you will too, because whether you love the Jets or you can’t stand ’em, you can’t look away from this train wreck, and that’s why we love them.