Greetings, Eric Mangini....

We have been waiting for you.

We are the ghosts of a near and distant past. We are your predecessors, your forefathers. You thought your place in history would be different from ours. You were wrong. Though we are not all the same, we share some commonalities, the most important being a former Head Coach of the New York Jets.

We are lonely in this place. Join us, Eric. Join us. You are among the kindred.

Allow us to introduce ourselves....

Well, hey, kid. That's right. Weeb Ewbank, here. They called me "Weeb" because my little brother couldn't pronounce the name "Wilbur." You like this? That's right. It's my Hall of Fame bust. Bet you'd like one, wouldn't you? I was the very first Jets coach, so I guess you could say that I am the father of this bunch. The only Jets' Super Bowl win is my work, and Namath's, of course. That boy was a crackerjack. But then I sold away many of the great players on that team because I wanted to save money. As punishment, I've been forced to walk around this place carrying this very same bronze resemblance that the Super Bowl earned me. One thing's for sure, though. This thing is Super Heavy. You wanna hold it for me? Just for a few minutes? Where you going?

Hello, Eric. I'm Charley Winner. No need to stay. You can keep on walking. Weeb might consider himself the father of us all, but I got the Jets' job because I was his son-in-law. Weeb won't admit to this, but like you, he didn't finish with a winning record as a Jets coach, either. Of course, neither did I. I was around for two and a half seasons, and then they let me go when my players started fighting like a bunch of teenagers on the sidelines of a really bad loss at Baltimore in 1975. Ken Shipp took over for a couple of games, but who cares, right? It was a wash. I was a winning coach with the Cardinals organization in the 60's. Did you know that? Try naming anyone else other than Don Coryell who managed that. That's a different circle of hell, though. But fate was cruel to me. A Winner became a Loser with the Jets. Sound familiar?

Hey! Anyone want to play coach? Ha! Just kidding, Eric, just kidding! You're probably not in the mood right now. Ah, but you have to admit - you're probably a little bit relieved right now. No? Well, heck, I know I was when I quit even before the end of the 1976 season. Just couldn't take it anymore, kid. I mean, the pro game just eats dirt, spits it up and dudn't grow nothin' where it's been planted. I'm TV's Lou Holtz, by the way. Sorry. Didn't mean to be rude. They used to make fun of the way I looked. Said I looked like Granny Clampett. Well, it's not like people ain't cruel. You know they are. They said you looked like a penguin.

They said, boy, that you was a genius.

Just stick with the college game, son. Kids'll do whatever you tell 'em. Just listen to some of the fellows that came after me. They'll tell ya. Better get going now.

Next!

Next!! Oh. It's you. Hello, Eric. You're here already, are you? Well, I'm Walt Michaels. That's right. Like the name tag says. I think you know about me. I had a long career with the Jets. My brother Lou threatened to wring Joe Namath's neck the week before the 1969 Super Bowl, but I was an assistant on the winning side. And then ten years later, I was the Jets' coach. Those were good years. We were on the brink of something, son, but then... Ah, damn it. That playoff win over the Raiders was my last one in the NFL. Damn. How can a playoff win get you fired? It's just that I thought Al Davis was calling to heckle me at halftime. Sounded like him. It was just some drunk playing games with me. How the hell does some idiot in a bar in Queens, sounding like Al Davis, manage to get through to the Jets locker room at LA Coliseum, for God's sake? You tell me. And I believed him! Whole thing got me canned. Being a Jets coach does funny things to your mind, son. Well, anyway, fill out the forms I gave you and move it along. Next!

Out of my way, please. I've got parents weekend coming up. Can't talk now. Got me lecturing a class on physical education and Humanism. I don't even know what that means. Oh..., wait. You're that Eric Mangini kid, aren't you? I'm Joe Walton. Pleased to me you. I coached the Jets from '83-'89. Yeah, sorry to hear about your troubles, son, but you know what they say. No? Oh. Well, it's like what Lou Holtz said about the pro game. Can't...uh, grow shit, or something like that. That guy's a raving lunatic. Anyway, he's right. I spent seven seasons of my career with the Jets. Can you imagine? I had to coach Mark Gastineau. Yeah. Exactly. Now, I've been coaching at Robert Morris University for almost 15 years, right here in western PA, where I grew up. It's been great. Named a stadium after me. Say, maybe someday you could coach a college team back home in Connecticut. Some pansy Liberal Arts college that needs to start offering football scholarships along with the rest of America. Like Yale, maybe, huh? Well, anyway, it's been nice chatting, but I have to go. Some kid's failing his Shakespeare seminar midterm. You know anything about King Lear, Mangini? Something about an old guy who's going insane near the end of his career. I keep telling those damn kids to just read the SparkNotes. Numbnuts.

Hey! Psst! Over here!

Hey, Mangini. Let me ask you something. Honestly. Is there something funny? Something that's making you laugh? Are you laughing? Why the hell not? I am. I mean, I spent sleepless nights trying to build the Jets into a competitive franchise once all the Michaels-Walton players wasted away. I was a rebuilding coach, Bruce Coslet, from '90-'93. The Jets let me dig my own grave for four seasons before I got canned. And what did we get out of it? One lousy playoff loss to the Oilers in 1991. And that year we went 8-8. Hilarious, right? Look me up on Wikipedia one of those days. Under "References" - right? - there's one 2007 article from ESPN that puts nine losing teams under the "Bruce Coslet Division." Funny, right? Oh, real funny. I don't care what they say about you, pudge. There probably won't be an "Eric Mangini Division" for the lowliest of the low.

Ah, forget it. Just leave me alone. There's more of us down the hall. Just keep walking.

To be continued....

Here the Journey Ends, Eric Mangini...

But first, you must greet the last men who have come before you. You have met Ewbank, Winner, Holtz, Michaels, Walton and Coslet. Now meet the most recent spirits that haunt this place. Some of them, I believe, are old friends of yours.

Kind of.

Hey, kid. Pete Carroll. Can't talk long. Gotta run off to another fun night in the life of a USC Head Coach. Gonna recruit another kid from the inner city to play for what might prove to be a great pro contract someday. Trojan pride, baby! Hell, this is living. California sun. Los Angeles ambience. Minus the traffic, this is definitely the American Dream. Oh, heck, who am I kidding? Even the traffic is special. Whatever Lou Holtz and that other guy said about college football is true. It's the life. Kids love you on the sidelines. You're their coach, for Chrissake. You're God. And you don't have to pay them anything beyond the secret, occasional second-hand automobile loan for the weekend and the answer key to the Rocks for Jocks class. Whereas my 1994 Jets were 6-5 going into that nightmarish home game against the Dolphins, and Dan Marino threw the Fake Spike. We didn't win another game all season. I couldn't bribe those bastards to win. Then I spent a couple of years in Foxboro. God. I'll never do that crap again. No way. I think. Nah. Probably not. Oh well. Gotta go. Hey, look, isn't that Alan Rachins? I loved him on L.A. Law. And on Dharma and Greg. He's so versatile. You never know who you're gonna see in Hollywood.

(Sigh.) Sorry to disappoint you, kid. I'm no actor. It's me. Rich Kotite. Yeah, yeah. Big time coach once. I coached in Philly. Had a great team there. Leon Hess brought me to the Jets and said that he wanted to win now. Yeah, yeah. Real funny. Here's my legacy - some two bit web site my grandmother could have made, dedicated to how much I suck. Great. Guess that's not going to happen to you, is it? Listen, pal. Better you get out while the going is good. Do you know what it's like to stand on the sidelines for two seasons when your squad goes 4-28? I'd rather have a root canal. Let me give you some advice, pal. Put your money away, join the witness protection program, take golf lessons, and live as far away from the East Coast as you can. You'll thank me later. Believe me.

But, uh, hey....

You really think I look like an actor?

(Rumbling)

Who dares summon Bill Parcells from my underground Floridian lair? Who distracts me from my latest scheme? Is it you, Mangini? Well, this is a surprise. Have you been cast out of the Meadowlands already? Did I not lay a solid foundation for generations of Jets fans to come? No?



HA, HA, HA, HAAAAA!! Those fools! More like I laid it all to waste! I left them after a disappointing 1999 season. And you. Bill Belichick was your mentor, but he was my creature first and foremost. Which means you would have been nothing without me. I tried to keep Belichick under my watchful eye, but the minion eluded me! Ungrateful wretch! Once Belichick was out of my grasp, I had to perform my vanishing trick! You see how simple it is, Mangini? Now you see me now you don't! Dallas! Atlanta! Miami! Who knows, maybe if someone buys out my contract I will be your replacement! Fool! A-HA, HA, HA!!! (chortle)


Imagine, Mangini! Imagine what could have been had Belichick stayed! Naiive Jets fans. So trusting. So foolish.



Hello there, Coach. My name is Al Groh, and I am the Head Coach of the University of Virginia football team. I am also the same Al Groh who coached the New York Jets for one season in 2000. Al Groh is a pretty common name, so I don't want any confusion between the two. We're the same guy. My Jets won the Monday Night Miracle against Miami, 40-37, mostly because I ripped 'em a new one at halftime. I thought we were bound for the playoffs, but then they lost six of the last nine. You know why? Cause those bastards don't know the meaning of the word discipline. They don't want it bad enough. Fancy pants. But don't feel bad, Coach Mangini. Like those other fellas said, go back to college. Kids will work for nothing. Go back to Wesleyan, where you went to school. Does it even have a football team? Well, whatever. Just keep plugging away. Just like Al Groh did when he left the Jets and became me.

Well, it's about time. I've been waiting around for like eight hours for you, Mangini! Well, anyway, pick up a headset and let's play pretend. That's right. I don't know how much more time I've got in my job, either. Remember me? Herman Edwards - the man who opened the vacancy for you. I left the Jets because I'm a good man, a player's coach and a middle American kind of guy who reminds people of Tony Dungy. No room in the big city for people who can turn an incoherent rant on winning into a book deal. Smarty pants New Yorkers sniff that kind of stuff out pretty quickly. I'm a good Christian, my nickname's the "Preacher," I'm coaching on the boundaries of a state where it's practically illegal to teach evolution. Shoot, maybe I should coach college. Maybe we'll just end up following each other forever, Eric. So, I guess the only question left is...

how do you like Kansas City so far?






Psst.

Eric...

Psst.



Down here.









Eric...









Eric.

I am your father.

As Mangini is banished, the housecleaning commences, and Brett Favre's departure on the horizon, why not take time to reflect on the lady's question.

Dolphins 24 Jets 17

There is nothing left to be said, other than the fact that I'll be watching the playoffs with a lower blood pressure. This has actually been a fascinating football season. There were so many unexpected performances, so many normally given factors that went lame or dry. It was a fantasy football nightmare. It will make for a great playoffs.

The hardest part of watching the Jets lose was listening to Phil Simms make his post-mortem, his can-you-believe-that-this-team-was-8-and-3-a-few-weeks-ago?
Yes, Phil. I can. If you want to fill the space in a slow fourth quarter, then just keep talking about how the Jets lost four of their last five. It's been a tough year. Keep talking about it. Who would have believed that the tables would have been reversed - Favre out and Pennington in? Well, I guess would have. In my harshest nightmares.

In the midst of it, my wife said, "Fuck you, Phil Simms. Who would have thought when you walked down the aisle of your wedding day that your marriage would someday collapse. You didn't."

Here I reflected aloud whether or not Phil Simms was actually divorced. I believe he is happily married. My wife, undaunted, laptop in front of her, took a few minutes and then readjusted.

"Who'd have thought in 1994 that Phil Simms would still not be in the Hall of Fame by 2008."

Not me, I said.

The New York Jets are a young team with enormous potential for the future, but they will have a bigger quarterback problem than the one they had this summer. They will - I hope - have a new coach by then, too. It should be an interesting next season, culminating in what will be the last game in a stadium that the Jets will be sharing, not borrowing, from the Giants. As always with we Jets fans, it's the little things. And though I am absolutely heartbroken, I have plenty of experience with this. I'll be fine, and so will the Jets. Our curious adventure together will continue, with all of the expected pit stops in purgatory and hell.

And finally, the ridiculous Philadelphia Eagles are in the playoffs after showing America that America's Team is just a bunch of idiot circus clowns. But, above all, I thank the God of my youth that Those Of Whom We Do Not Speak will stay home this January. The Jets' victory over them in an earlier part of the season (a happier time) was one piece of Jenga off the Patriot pile. It's the little things.

Death By Pennington

When he was first drafted by the Jets in 2000, Chad Pennington was praised by none other than Randy Moss, who said that Chad, with whom he played at Marshall, was the best quarterback he had ever seen. Up until that point, that appraisal had included Brad Johnson and Randall Cunningham. Since then, it's hardly possible that Moss would put Pennington up against Tom Brady, but not even Randy Moss could possibly have predicted Chad's success in Miami. Perhaps Chad could have, just as Bill Parcells and Tony Sparano perhaps did. Even then, I didn't.



(Image from Fox. Remember when it wasn't imbued with stupid, ridiculous irony?)



This week was spent in and around New York Jets football with recriminations about Brett Favre's work in a Jets uniform. The tone of discussion has either identified Favre as a snake oil salesman coming to town with a miracle aid for an incurable malady or as a mismatched, delusional idealist whose glory heretofore could not prepare him for the fatal trap, like the one Che Guevara found in Bolivia. Either way, the movie originally written for an old man's last great ride has turned out to be about about an underachieving nice guy who rises to the occasion with his old team's nemesis and wins the whole thing. One presumes that the "whole thing" in this case is the AFC East, but then it's been a strange year, so who can really say where the story will all end up?

Well, I can. I believe it's called Death by Pennington. It's a helpless home team that runs the ball through the middle and throws dinky passes into dead ends when playing a defense that is designed to handle just such an approach. This week, in the spirit of wondering what went wrong in advance, many writers who were originally ebullient about Favre's arrival in New York have lately been pointing out disappointed Favre probably is by his experiment, and some even wonder if he'll return to Green Bay, as if nothing had ever happened. Enter the Prodigal Son.

Let me not point fingers or dissemble. Instead, I would like to track my own reactions to the dawning of Brett Favre in the Tri-State area. Written here are the basic human desires for doubt and faith, to believe and to be transcended.

I first conjured the idea of Favre playing for the Jets on March 18 of this year when I discussed a #18 in our past, Sanjay Beach, an absolutely unknown person in NFL history except that he was Brett Favre's first completed pass recipient. (The first person to whom Brett Favre actually threw a pass was himself. No joke.) Here I spoke as a fan of a team that might have drafted Brett Favre back in 1991 but did not. I wasn't drafted out of college by anyone in 1991 either.

"Would that Brett Favre had been with us, too."

I suppose. But I was just imagining something altogether immaterial. It was just another side in a game of What if... I've been playing for nearly more than 30 years. Even Brett himself has suggested that had he been drafted by the Jets in 1991, the harsh mistress of New York might have killed a country boy from deep below the Mason-Dixon.

Exhibit two: On July 11, while examining the life and work of a seemingly imponderable number of Rob Carpenters in and around the Jets and the NFL in general, I explained to myself my own confusion with the following:

"I'm sorry. I realize this is confusing, but work with me here. (Silence) Actually, I guess maybe I'm having ridiculous fantasies about Brett Favre being snapped up by the Jets."

"Oh. I see. Well, that is ridiculous."

"I know, I know....it's what happens when you have a quarterback problem."

Ah, but was there a quarterback problem? Was there really the risk of Laos and Thailand and Australia falling to Communism if Vietnam did? Sometimes it seemed so, yes. But as for Brett Favre, I took to the words of advice from Angel Navedo, the metaphorical George Ball in this argument. Just before preseason, I did feel Favre's value was overstated. Exhibit three - as late as August 6, I said:

"Though I am neither a fan of Mangini nor of the cynical leadership of Woody Johnson, I still prefer the sentiments of Angel Navedo, my personal favorite in the world of Jets (blogs). He has helped me to believe in my own my gut feeling from the beginning that, for better or for worse, we don't need Brett Favre. Damned be my own science fiction and pipe dreams to the contrary.

"Pennington at QB. Clemens at QB. Ainge somewhere in the hazy background. Time to move into our modern era. God help us. J-E-T-S."

Two days later, Brett Favre was a Jet. And like the trained fan, I already wondered about some catch in the deal. We all secretly wondered. Favre himself questioned what have I gotten myself into? One presumes that he has the answer to that question now. But regardless, even then we wondered, was Favre going to leave the Jets as quickly as he came? On August 8, I wondered:

"Brett is here to stay. To stay. Right? Right?

"Maybe."

And in preparation for week one, I offered a tribute to Chad Pennington's past experiences in a green uniform, a poetic ode meant to praise and not bury - although that didn't convince a Marshall fan who commented on my epic ode.

"And now we meet you on opening day;
I will root against you, though I must say
We owe you at least this grateful adieu -
We will likely fare no better than you."

But I didn't really believe it. Surely the Jets would do better than the Dolphins. That seemed certain. I did figure that the Jets would drop one game to Miami, but I didn't think they wouldn't lose a spot to the Fish in the division. And now, provided Favre's Jets can play a little bit better than Pennington's Dolphins tomorrow, the final couplet in my ode may yet turn out to be correct. Prescience is a bitch, though. Not even I, a Jets fan, could have believed it would be this ironic.

Nearing The Last of It

It's the Solstice, a time of hope made in the dark. Maybe not hope for the playoffs. After this past weekend, after being blown onto the bubble, after losing first place just as so many prognosticators said we would, we now have only one last indignity remaining - to lose to Chad Pennington at home. With all of its curious, gobsmacking contemplations, I guess this season has really been about Chad all along.

But now, now. There's no need for the all-too warm and familiar, all-knowing despair. I've written many times about "being here before," but I would like to counter my own compulsion for pathos by noting that nowhere but the last twelve seasons in Jets' history have the Jets finished with a winning record most of the time. The Jets finished seven of 12 seasons from 1997 to the present with winning records, and one at 8-8 in 1999. For some franchises this might constitute business as usual. It's practically the norm for the Giants, a team that absolutely will not fold under enormous pressure, even after losing key players like - as my wife put it - "that idiot who shot himself." And Jets fans cannot hate them, only envy them. Broken record, really.

This season had more wonderful surprises in seven Pro Bowlers, the most of all teams in the NFL this year. This is an astounding piece of news for the boy inside the man who was once ecstatic with merely seeing Wesley Walker on the sideline of the 1979 Pro Bowl at the LA Coliseum. Nick Mangold is finally being recognized, even as a reserve, and Thomas Jones gets a much deserved nod. He has become a worthy successor to Curtis Martin, the workhorse gone before him. And Darelle Revis, last year's first round is in as a reserve as well. (When was the last time a first round selection went to the Pro Bowl in his second year for the Jets? John Abraham went in his second and first years.) And while I wouldn't weep were Eric Mangini fired at the end of this year, the Jets' seven Pro Bowlers may yet keep his spot warm for yet another season of hemming and hawing over dinky passes and runs up the middle.

The Jets may yet eke out a playoff spot, but I'd rather resign out of heartbreak to a place where accepting the inevitable might just bring some ironic relief. When I was 12 and an altar boy, I saw a priest pass out at the pulpit during Mass, only then to wake up in the sacristy with some holy water to the face. "Whew," he exclaimed. "Thank God that's over with." That's what I mean. He realized that it wasn't as if there was never going to be another Sunday Mass, just not that particular, agonizing one. There'll be another Jets season of intense promise - if not next year or the year after or the year after, then maybe the year after that. Should the Jets lose to Chad Pennington at the Meadowlands, there is relief in knowing that they can't hurt us anymore this year. Then it will be time to watch the playoffs without fear. Thus the solstice is our first sign that all the days will get longer from here. In the midst of this cold, we begin to see signs of relief. For those of us seasonally affected by much more than just Brett Favre's turnovers, there is also the eventual sunshine emerging just past the prolonged clouds of March and April and their persistent rain.

Hell, I'm already planning the next season's pre-mortems. Is Brett Ratliff the future when Brett Favre retires/signs elsewhere? (No one should really be fooled by the fact that Brett Favre is a Pro Bowler. I mean, what's the punchline?) Are there any other Bretts in the house? Is anyone interested in getting Matt Cassel on the Jets? How about a really tall wide receiver? How about some linebacking help for David Harris, Bryan Thomas and Calvin Pace? Is this thing on?

Seahawks 10 Jets 3

after Auden:

Shut off the TV, turn off my phone,
I'd rather now be just left alone.
I'll now keep my visage green and glum;
Bring out the coffin, the season's done.

Brett Favre's now throwing whate'er o'erhead
Scribbling on the sky this pass is dead.
No matter what comes of sweat and blood,
We've got as much shot as Elmer Fudd.

They are AFC East, belov'd best
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My 1pm, my 4pm song;
This season seemed hopeful: I was wrong.

Chad Pennington is really the man;
A great gift for my enemy's fans,
We strove for glory with Brett Favre's name.
But the result was much of the same.

Jets 31 Bills 27

This is one of those games where I recite beforehand, This is going to be one of those games. And it turns out to be exactly that. One of those games.

(photo "courtesy" of the New York Times)

As a boy I was lulled into a stupor about the Buffalo Bills; the Jets won five of six from Buffalo from 1976-78. The Bills were the only team that the Jets could beat the snot out of time after time. Since then, the Bills have been about as easy to handle as the Vietcong. Bill Simpson intercepts in the '82 Wild Card game. Nine consecutive losses in the Jim Kelly era. Lee Evans shredding our secondary for enormous touchdowns the past couple of years. It's never consoling when I tell myself Buffalo has won one less Super Bowl than the Jets. It's consoling when I think of the Bengals, the Saints, the Falcons, and the Cardinals of course. But not the Bills. We've lost too much dignity to that stark city of the white north whose architecture appears like a string of remnants from a lost city you learn about on the History Channel.

This game just dragged on and on. It started with my wife and I doing some Sunday shopping that overlapped with the game's start. The Jets immediately went up 14-3. (Is Thomas Jones the Jets MVP? Maybe. Is Brett Favre? NO!! NO!! I was happy to see some sportswriters considering Kris Jenkins as a possible MVP for the entire league. He's like a very mobile home with legs.) So I felt comfortable driving home, listening to my wife give the updates from her BlackBerry. No sweat. Well hell, I think to myself, what have I been thinking? It's not going to be one of those games. No sir. No way.

Second quarter, 14-10 Jets. Hm.

This is after we've gone to the gym earlier in the morning. We are a mile from home, and suddenly my wife says something about wanting a donut. I think I want a donut. OK, fine. But does she actually want a donut? I mean, really? or does she just say that she wants one but the subject won't even come up again? Because I'll eat a donut. But this might be one of those moments when I'll say sure, hell yeah, I want a donut, and she'll say, oh, actually, no, no, I was just saying that I wanted one aloud. Just to, y'know, air that out. And then I feel foolish.

"OK, here's the deal," she says. "If the Jets are still ahead, then we'll get a donut."

I nod. I like those odds. I feel like I'm about to get a donut.

But then I get that feeling. A familiar sinking that accompanies a game against Buffalo. (I'm trying to imagine a scenario whereby I root for Buffalo anywhere anytime. It's not coming to me. I remember laughing under my breath watching them go down to the Cowboys in Super Bowl Whatever in 1993, and the Cowboys are, to me, like a President you feel no problem throwing a shoe at. Or two shoes. Then the following year, my wife and I watched the two teams repeat in the next Super Bowl. We watched from what she called the Little Boy Bed. We had been dating about six months back then, and I was pointlessly clinging to both bachelorhood and Catholicism - neither of which was ever particularly good to me - with a single bed in my studio apartment. Back then she didn't even like football. She asked with a bland interest for whom she should be rooting. I answered that I honestly didn't know and that I didn't care. Now we both love football. Both. It took another season for her to fall under its sweet, terrible spell. Now, 15 years later, here she is wanting a donut on the condition the Jets are winning.)

"Shit!" she exclaims. "They're losing." Buffalo up by three.

"Screw it!" I yell. "We're getting that donut. I want a coffee roll!"

"So do I!"

"Yes!"

Screw it, I thought. Screw the Jets and their insane cruelties. I mean, never mind that later on I nearly choked on my coffee roll while watching Leon Washington go off tackle for 47 yards and touchdown. (If Bruce Harper had been shot with gamma ray radiation, he would have been Leon Washington.) They have toyed with my desires long enough. Indulge and live while you can. Chad Pennington is the best rated QB anywhere. The world is upside down, but whichever way, the Jets are always down. Have your coffee roll. Get a Big Boy Bed. Life is short.

****

To conclude, though:

- I don't know if Abram Elam has reformed his life, made amends, or fixed what he needed to. I do know that he is having a great season.

- When they brought Brett Favre on to quarterback my beloved team, I envisioned, in the worst case scenario, all his countless, irresponsible, wasteful interceptions heaved into the air without a single thought while playing for Green Bay. Brett's deep pass into double coverage intended for Jerricho Cotchery in the third quarter was just that kind of daydreamed disaster come to life.

- Then, there was the moment where we had to watch the Jets getting pushed as a person pile into their own end zone by Fred Jackson. This produced the physical reaction pictured to the left. For several consecutive plays afterwards it appeared as though the New York Jets - a fully accredited professional football team from the American Football Conference of the NFL - could not tackle a single Buffalo player. It was horrifying.

And when it was all over, the word around the TV tables continued unabated: the Jets got away with a win. They won't beat the Dolphins in two weeks. How can they possibly win on the West Coast when they've shown that they can't, y'know, really do that? The haters, the doubters are out with a flourish. They know it all. They spell the death of my team for the 2008 season. It's only a matter of time. Having seen Frost/Nixon this past weekend, I have finally found my Venn Diagram overlap with Tricky Dick in the priceless moment in the film where Frank Langella's Nixon has an apocryphal 11th hour drunken phone conversation with Michael Sheen's David Frost. Nixon says, with mistaken solidarity, "We're gonna make those motherf!@#$ers CHOKE on it!!" Fused to my core is this selfsame feeling of twisted, wounded entitlement. Damn you all. Give me my donut.

Bills vs. Jets - Pregame

I've just come back from the gym. I hate going to the gym. I thought by the time I had reached a certain age of maturity, having jettisoned the last of my dissipating habits of youth - I would come to enjoy the restorative feelings that accompany moving my body around. I remember Dad coming back from running three miles of a Saturday, as Charlie and I sat around watching cartoons, entering into the den in his monochrome Jim Fixx-era running outfit best modeled by Steve Austin (a man barely alive; gentlemen, we can rebuild him; we have the technology...) wondering aloud at how we could remain inside when exercise called to us on a beautiful day. I figured someday, when I got to be near 40, I'd feel the same.

But I don't. No edifying sense of smug entitlement. I'm just grumpy and peevish. I hate exercising. It will always be thus.

Maybe I'm also a little fatalistic today because while laboring on a treadmill, wishing for a swift and totalizing death, I saw four of five panelists on ESPN's pregame predict that the Jets will be the one of today's three 8-5 AFC East teams to crash and burn. It's been whispered among my students all week as they watch me skulk around in my solemn mood. Roche's team is going down. He's gonna be in a shitty mood all month. Now at least someone has come out and said it to my face. While I'm on the treadmill, no less, feeling my advancing age.

And working out the defensive problems isn't going to change it. Shortening practices during isn't going to change it, either, Mangini. The phrase underneath the Miami quarterback's picture on ESPN said it all this morning: "Pennington's accuracy is unparalleled." Ugh, I thought. I know, I know. Damn it. I had to slow my pace to a walk again as everybody else enjoyed their wide, steady stride - treadmills all around me working with factory-like efficiency. Slow down, Roche. We'll just keep it at this pace the rest of the way. Take a walk. You gave it a good try.

49ers 24 Jets 14

Despite the strangeness of his voice and what my wife calls his weird name, Cris Collinsworth is a likable, smart character as Sunday talking heads go. He was too articulate and calm to stay on CBS-now-FOX, too clearly intelligent to fit in on NBC-now-CBS. And how long can he possibly last as a normalizing influence at a table of psychological air vortexes like Bob Costas and Keith Olbermann? This is the man who was forced to deal with Bryant Gumbel (my college graduation speaker, of course) last year when Gumbel called the Thursday night NFL Network games, although they sometimes did not seem to be the games Gumbel was hired to call. Patient and enduring, Collinsworth has always kind of been a favorite of mine. But then I actually like John Madden, so what do I know?

Collinsworth was the only one in the pregame to pick the Jets over the Broncos in the 1999 AFC Championship. Two weeks ago he said that the Jets and the Giants looked like they were going to the Super Bowl. But this week, after the Jets' offense spent five minutes on the field while their defense was unable to control Shaun Hill, Collinsworth had to reverse course, expressing a righteous indignation at being fooled by the Jets. "They're done," he said. Collinsworth spoke with the realization that his table mates would be instructed by NBC programmers to pile onto him. We're supposed to believe that these pregame talking heads are just like dirty college fellows in a dirty college dorm room, putting off their late-night studying for Monday morning exams by ordering food from the local grinder shop and berating one another for failed predictions of a Sunday nearly done. "Who was the idiot who said the Jets would go to the Super Bowl? Who was the dummy who said that Brett Favre would throw more yards than Chad Pennington?"

(Frankly, NBC's Hockey Night in Canada can never hope to replicate the original, persistently intoxicated repartee of the original dummies - Cosell, Gifford and Meredith, crystallized here in pregame mode for a 1973 Steelers-Dolphins game on Monday Night Football. Cosell first comments on "Jefferson Street" Joe Gilliam [apparently a black quarterback was still so exotic he needed a boxer's nickname] filling in for Terry Bradshaw:

Cosell: "BLACK QUARTERBACK. Look at 'im! In there. Til the last possible moment."

Then, Gifford and Dandy Don on the latter's missing mustache:

Gifford: You look funny.
Meredith: I am funny.

What's advertised on 1973 TV before the kickoff? Schlitz, Schick, and Gillette's "Dry Look" for all you fellows who've had the wet head for too long. Then, back to the game, we see an actual prayer recited on the field before the kickoff [this is Great God's America after all], and then Meredith corrects Gifford on who is singing the National Anthem. They are hammered.)

But I would like to thank Collinsworth for allowing himself to be set straight. To be fair, Collinsworth and a whole nation of football fans know nothing about the behavior of the New York Jets in December. How can they know better? Let's clear things up then. Witness, gentle friends, the extent of December's plagues on the Jets:

1970, 1976: 0-3
1971, 1975, 1977, 1978: 1-3

In '74 and '79, the Jets managed three consecutive wins to end December, compelling an otherwise unknowing world to predict a Jets' division championship for the following season. Futile.

The trend continues into the 80's, including that 1986 season when the Jets lost five straight, three in a row in December. With or without the help of scabs, the Jets did the exact same thing again in 1987. Then they managed to go 1-3 in 1989 and 1-3 in 1991 after an impressive 7-5 start. Or how about the great collapse of 1994 that began with Marino's Fake Spike and ended five losses later at season's end, three of which came in December? Do the Kotite years even count? You bet! The Jets did not win a single December game during those two seasons. In this century, the Jets have been 1-3 in 2000, with a weird pattern of a 2-3 in the Decembers of 2001, '03, '05, and '07.

Granted, these statistics represent a norm that can be found in a variety of teams' experiences. But I'm thinking here about clarifying things for all the nice people who speak hopefully and helpfully to me during the day about the Jets going to the playoffs. It's not their fault for trying to be friendly. They talk up the Jets because they know that if all else fails at least they can have a polite and encouraging conversation with me about my football team. It's kind, really. And perhaps because they do not take the season-end failure of any sports club so seriously, they cannot grasp what it did to me to see my Jets lose yesterday by 10 points to a mediocre NFC West team. My friends, colleagues, students shouldn't worry, though. It hasn't ruined Christmas. Christmas was ruined a long time ago.

Even Dad expressed an amnesiac surprise at the game. "I figured, y'know? I mean, it's Favre, for God's sake. He was going to do something."

"Dad," I responded, "it's December."

In the silence, the years spoke to him. First with piecemeal memories forged in the rain and cold of watery hot chocolate and off-duty cops in the Loge seats, then in an avalanche of disappointing fragments. One frigid, wasteful, frustrating Sunday after another.

"Yeah," he said.

Hang On

What do you do when the drowning stops?

The question is a good one. It is posed by Philadelphia's own Dr. Dog, a band with singers who sound near the hysterical breaking point at all times on their terrific album Fate. The question infers two possible states of being: 1) You have stopped drowning because you have been saved. 2) You have stopped drowning because you have ceased to be and are no more.

So which are we? I've been putting off the question all week. I'm surrounded by Eagles fans who, still buzzed from the contact high of the Phillies' World Series Championship, are living with an uncharacteristically high-humored resignation over the likelihood of the Eagles being out of the playoffs. I know one thing about Andy Reid's teams. They rise to the occasion like an uncle you thought was sewn to the fabric of his La-Z-Boy chair, only to watch him smilingly rise to his feet when an old drinking buddy comes to the door. "Playoffs? Well, shit. Maybe I'll have one." I put on my Jets scarf today while getting ready to go home from work, and an instinctive look came over the face of one of my colleagues, a close friend, someone who knows how much they mean to me. She gave me a withering look. I love Philadelphians for this. They take their teams so personally that it is impossible for them not to react to someone who feels something honestly comparable for another team. She looked at me almost as if to say, "What's that all about?"

The trouble is that I don't know what it's all about right now. Still reeling from the fact that the Jets' experienced offense could not outsmart in an inexperienced Denver Broncos secondary, I'm left wondering if the drowning is done because I'm either dead or alive. I remember Dad using the 1968 Jets' loss to the Broncos at Shea as an object lesson in not counting yourself out. Everybody thought the Jets were done after Namath threw five interceptions in a 21-13 loss, and at the end of the game Joe Willie said, "I stink."

Did he stink? I asked Dad. I was eight. By my bedside he was reading the chapter on the '68 Jets' from Random House's Championship Teams of the NFL, putting me to sleep for the 78th consecutive night with the story of the plucky New York Jets team that interrupted the four-year battle for AFL primacy between the Chiefs and the Raiders with a season that culminated with a ridiculous upset of the NFL in the Super Bowl. It was a Jets season that could be read by a little curly-cued boy in need of a metaphor for all of life's hopeless endeavors. You think you stink, kid? Dad asked. Lots of people think they stink. Sometimes they do stink. But it doesn't have to last forever. Doesn't mean they actually stink forever.

Nobody says that anymore: stink. It might not mean anything now, but when Namath spoke of himself in this way, it sounded to reporters like a startling self-denunciation. Can you imagine a modern player evaluating himself this way? Even John Unitas in his time refused to denounce himself with anything more than a dismissive hand. When you reporters make mistakes, Unitas said sarcastically, you use erasers. I wish I could do that

But Namath said, I stink.

But it didn't mean he believed it about himself. Had he believed it, he would never have taken command of the offense with his more conservative play through November and December of that year, 40 years ago. He would never have taken on Lou Michaels. He would never have guaranteed a January win, even after with as many Johnny Walkers in his system as he had that night in Miami.

So where do we go from here? Did we stink last week? Yes. But to invoke Dr. Dog once again, I wonder of the answer is right in front of our eyes. We can do this. Damn it, people. We can do this.

And what you though was a hurricane
Was just the rustling of the wind
Why'd you think we need amazing grace
Just to tell it like it is?

Let's go on. Hang on. Hang on.

Denver vs. Jets - First Half

It's raining everywhere east of the Mississippi. In Cleveland, Foxboro, East Rutherford, and Philly, there are cold, black sheets of rain falling. It feels eerie. And all week, as the world was virtually crowning the Jets with the AFC Championship, I have felt nothing but profound unease. How many other seasons have the Jets been 8-3 at a Thanksgiving weekend?

The answer is three times: 1968, 1969 and 2004. Even with the 16-game season, there isn't that much change to report. In 1985 the Jets were 9-4 going into a 30-21 defeat on Turkey Day in Detroit. They were 10-3 going into the holiday weekend in 1986, a season that saw them then plummet helplessly the rest of the way. That's pretty much it. So when I saw the cover of The Sporting News, with Favre's victorious image and the phrase "Kings of NYC," I became uncomfortable in the way that the Professor on the unchartered desert isle does when he realizes that the antidote for the skin rash over which the survivors are glowing is not really the antidote. Despite their ridiculous wide receiver the Giants pummeled the energized Redskins, whereas the Jets have been behind all the first half against Denver. Two Jets turnovers have yielded Bronco touchdowns.

Day in the Jets Fan's Life - 11/27/82

A few days after Thanksgiving, we went to my cousin Will's house in New Rochelle. We had already spent the holiday dinner with his family, and now we back to eat the leftovers - the turkey sandwiches topped with stuffing. Will and I were born a month apart. He was essentially my very first friend, and we experienced life's transformations together. We got lost in Flushing Meadow Park together as toddlers. We smacked heads into each other and went unconscious one Christmas while running around Uncle Mike's apartment in the Village. We discovered a pen on the sidewalk that, when turned upside down, turn a clothed woman naked. We both fell in love with Jessica Lange in King Kong, and of the seven times we each saw it apiece the summer it came out, we went together twice to see Star Wars. And now it was time to journey into adolescence together. Three days after Thanksgiving, the Jets were playing Green Bay at Shea.

Just the week before, Dad had taken me and Charlie to see the Jets beat up on the Baltimore Colts 37-0 at Shea. It had been the week of professional football's return to action after a lengthy players' strike in 1982. The Jets looked and acted in that game like they were ready to conquer the world, particularly with Freeman McNeil who, before Marcus Allen, was the most impressive back in the AFC. It was a startlingly different experience from previous games I had been to. I had seen the Jets win at home against Miami and Baltimore in 1978, where they managed to squelch the other teams' rallies. I had seen the Jets manhandle the '76 Buccaneers at Shea, but that was routine treatment from everybody in the AFC the Bucs played that year. The Jets emerged from the the '82 strike with the pent-up energy of the break. They ran over the Colts as if hurrying toward the exits of a burning building. For a 13 year-old boy completely uncertain of everything, I took joy from watching a world-class bullying.

Back in New Rochelle, I was more meek and uncertain. Having grown up together for so long, Will and I could complete each other sentences, but we were also into increasingly disparate things. He kept using urban slang like "snap" and "fresh" that was alien to my cloistered little town. He listened to Iron Maiden whereas the peak of my adolescent musical rage would be The Who's Who's Next. Mostly I still listened to the Beatles. But we threw a football outside in his backyard, which felt awkward because everything felt awkward. But we tried.

Will was never a football fan, but like anyone who knew me, he was especially sensitive toward my obsessions. I probably talked about Freeman McNeil's extraordinary end around touchdowns to bookend the Jets win against the Colts. It was well known around our extended family that when I would visit on an autumn Sunday, someone would have to update me about a Jets game on TV or radio. I knew I had no place asking my hosts if I could watch or listen to the game instead of being a good guest and mixing and playing along. Mom would have had none of that kind of thing. I even knew enough to not mind.

So in the middle of our throwing the football around, talking about whatever 13 year-old boys talk about - possibly even girls - my father came outside to report that, in the third quarter, the Jets trailed the Packers 13-12 after a Mike Augustyniak run but that they would have been ahead by one point had Pat Leahy not missed two PAT's in the game. I reacted with an unspoken expression of hopelessness that Leahy's vexing problems with that elusive extra point conjured in Jets fans for years. The odd thing was that Leahy would keep writing postscripts to the tales of his insane placekicking by also winning enough games with the occasional field goal. In years to come, he would eventually be a lock on any kick anywhere. Actually, he would put up the winning field goal against the Packers that day. Still, in that particular moment, Dad's news of yet another Leahy foible was all there was of the Jets game. It seemed cruel. Will stared at me and said it best, exasperated at my look of torment.

"That's pathetic," he said.

"Yeah," I said, which felt awkward, but then everything felt that way.

Our 200th Post!!!!

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 200th post to Gang Green Land, formerly known as Sauer Lammons, formerly known as Gangreenous, formerly known as something else. I forget. Anyway, my name is Werblin Winner, and it gives me enormous pleasure to mark a milestone in the world of neurotic sports-related blogging by paying tribute to the life- culminating work of Martin E. Roche. Tonight we reflect on the laughter, the tears, the rage and general sense of apathy you and I have shared with each of Marty's entries about his life as a New York Jets fan. We've shared so much, cared so much, and now it's time to look at where we've been, where we are, and where we're going. Will you join me?

The audience responds appreciatively.

Let's get started!

The audience concurs.

With the buffet table! To the buffet! First come, first served! Last one there is ---

The buffet is stampeded. Martin looks around and wonders whose idea was the buffet table. In keeping with his blog, he wonders, "How long did I rent the hall for again?" aloud to no one in particular.

About an hour and a half later...

We're back! The veal was so-so, wasn't it? Who's up for a little chat with the blog's flounder, Martin Roche. Founder. I meant "founder."

A gentle smattering of applause.

Thanks. Thanks. That's very funny.

Martin for two years you've squandered your time outlining the life experiences of being a New York Jets fan. Has it taught you anything important about life?

Only that there is always something on the web to keep you from wanting to kill yourself with drink. Even stuff that doesn't have anything to do with pornography.

I can hardly believe that. (Much canned laughter.) Is this your life's work?

I hope not.

Do you have any children?

No.

Pets?

No. My wife wants a dog someday.

Gee, how nice. And what do you do in the off-season, Marty? When you're not worrying about your football team?

I work on NYJBTN, the all-time listing of Jets players by their numbers. Each player who has ever played for the Jets gets an entry. We're about a quarter of the way through. We'll continue near the end of the Jets' season. Whenever that is.

Right, right. What number are you up to?

Twenty-eight. The last entry was for Curtis Martin.

And he's like...an important player, right?

(Groans from the audience.)

Well, I don't know! I studied theater at B.U about twenty years ago. What the hell do I know about football?

(Lusty boos. Someone says "Belichick sucks!!")
Yes, yes. Say, Marty isn't there already a "Mets-By-The-Numbers" site? Did you steal the idea from them?

Yes.

Oh. OK. Um...lessee what the card says. Uh...

Oh. Say, Marty, would you like to check in the latest e-mail you've gotten at your web address: edlsjets@hotmail.com?

No.

OK, terrific! Apparently a Mr. Martin Oumar writes that "YOUR URGENT RESPONSE IS NEEDED!!" Isn't that nice? You've got the same first name. And Mr. Usman Abdul wants "AN OVERSEAS PARTNER!!" Well, don't we all? The UK NATIONAL LOTTERY says "Congratulations Lucky Contestant!" They mean you, Marty. Isn't that exciting?

Great.

And a man named only "Frank" has an investment proposal for you. That doesn't happen every day. Sounds intriguing! And someone named Amudu Hassan has written to you with the subject line, "From Dr Amudu Hassan, VERY URGENT PLEASE!!" My goodness, Marty. Sounds serious! You'd better try getting back to him. He might need help.

I'm sure he does.

OK. Well, here's to another 200 blog posts on the joys of quilting, or whatever it is you write about. This is Werblin Winner saying good night! Oh wait...LOOK. One of these e-mails is addressed from "Claim Officer" to "Hi Winner!!" Marty! You didn't tell me that I was getting e-mails forwarded to you.

Well, now you know.

Jets 34 Titans 14

Before this game began, I took this photograph of myself, wearing my Namath greens. The shot's most prominent feature is, of course, the index finger pointing somewhat obnoxiously at the viewer. The picture unwittingly conveys my own mixed sense of hesitation and hope. I thought I might try to communicate some enthusiasm before an important football game during this most unusual Jets season. But to be honest with you, it's difficult to hide years of disappointment. I'm sort of gesturing like, You guys better not be getting me excited over nothing. I'm freakin' warning you guys!

And yet, realistically, I knew that this was going to be a tough game. How could it not be? Keith Bulluck alone frightened me. And though last year's Patriots would have manhandled this year's Titans of Tennessee, I did not think the modern manifestation of the Titans of New York would escape a late fourth quarter Jeff Fisher drive. The worst was realizing that if the Jets didn't beat the Oiler-Titans then Tennessee would probably go 14-0, if not 16-0, so light is their second-half schedule. And that just wouldn't have been right. Mercury Morris would have just about lost his mind. And I right with him.

But break out the champagne, Nick Buoniconti. Have the Jets been the spoiler of an undefeated season (other than their own) ever before? I don't think so. I would like to have my crack GGL team work on that one. Anyway, this was one of those days where I was forced to follow the game online. Again, I don't know if I enjoyed this win more following it online than I would have had I watched it on the set. There are lots of complicated emotions at work here. If the Jets are on a good drive downfield, do I feel less stress if it's just manifesting itself as a series of arrows and markers on a green field that looks like the old NFL Strategy board game? Yes. Why? Does it really matter?

And what was on CBS-3 TV in Philly? Well, nothing football-related, actually. No one wanted to compete with Fox's coverage of the Eagles, even when the home team play as bad as they did against the Ravens. This is one of those seasons where the Eagles are like a bickering, unhappy family who are making everybody at a reunion picnic incredibly uncomfortable. One was almost tempted to watch CBS Sports' coverage of rodeo at 2:30 pm instead. On public access was a paid programming infomercial that outlined the most successful ways that you - with just a minimal investment - can profit many times over from the epidemic foreclosures across our nation. Is there a better candidate for Hell than the twisted amoral f@#$ who came up with that little idea? Happy Holidays! Now you can buy up homes and turn their former owners into your servants before flipping the house and turning them out onto the street! Ah, America.

But what of the Jets game? The story is the exuberant Favre, the irrepressible Leon Washington, the consistent and determined Mr. Jones and the best draft choice at tight end in Dustin Keller that the Jets have ever, ever, ever had. Kyle Brady? Silence! Johnny Mitchell? Howls of derisive laughter!! But how fantastic was the defense? Well, actually it did precisely the job it needed for the 20 minutes of game time that were required for them to play. Twenty minutes. Beyond that, the offense controlled the ball and the entire game. I kept following it online thinking there was some kind of delay in the f@#$ing wireless again, but there was none. "Wait," I thought. "The Jets don't still have the ball, do they?" Surely it was an "optical gallusion," as a somewhat lower level student of mine described the picture on the cover of his copy of The Great Gatsby on Friday. You be the judge.

No and no, but thanks for sharing. The Jets simply kept the ball and controlled the clock the way the '90 Giants did against the Bills. Keep it, run it, throw short passes. This Brian Schottenheimer is some kind of genius, isn't he?

Well...maybe. Are you just joining us? Would you like me to delineate the host of blown expectations for the Jets over the years? I hope the answer is no. I'm tired - really tired of doing that. Instead here is your offensive captain speaking of his afternoon in Nashville:

"We didn't think we could dominate them in the running game or the passing game, and in all honesty, we did both," said Brett Favre after the game. We didn't think we could...(but) we did both. Do both again, boys. For the love of God. Do both again.

****

In the midst of my postgame meditations, I got that confirmation that this was a Big Game - a phone call from Dad, the fallen-away season tickets holder from the 60's and 70's. He has never spent too much of his time devoted to watching Brett Favre over the years, but he mentioned that the Jets hadn't quite had a QB like Favre since Namath, and obviously he is correct. To compare the two is misleading on one level. Favre is a much better quarterback at 39 than Namath was at 33. And no one since Joe Willie for the Jets can even compare to Namath. Recall if you will Todd, O'Brien, Ryan, O'Donnell, Testeverde, Lucas, Pennington. Some better than others, obviously. No. Even if he had more interceptions than touchdowns, it was Joe's style that made the permanent mark. And though Brett Favre doesn't wear fur coats, Joe Namath's insistence on playing in his own style and in his own way, his throwing with abandon, his refusal to abide by sensible quarterbacking standards - all of this is embodied in Brett Favre. That's what got Dad excited about the Jets in the first place - their unconventional style of play. Brett Favre's fake, fade and hurl to Laverneus Coles for the 20-3 lead in the Titans game was a microcosm of all of those little, weird idiosyncratic things of which a genius is capable.

A Day in the Jets Fan's Life - 11/22/92

I entered graduate school with the idea that I was someday going to be a successful professor of English, maybe somewhere pastoral. Someday I would wear a tweed jacket with suede patches. I would table classes in semi-circle at a table in the library basement. I would be a walking brain with a drinking problem and a wandering eye, and I would be the father of three dysfunctional children with names like Brecht, Ibsen, and Goronwy. I would be an acclaimed critic of the English language. This I imagined at all of 23.

We were told that all of the old professors from the New Critical age were going to retire right about the time that I was graduating of college. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was acting out of some kind of foresight. The thing I wanted to do seemed like the right thing to choose, even in the midst of another, earlier Bush economic downturn. The only trouble was that it was all an illusion; there were no vacancies opening, only ones disappearing altogether. The American economy had seen industrial jobs disappearing overseas for decades, and now it was time for academia to do the same. Only this time college courses would not be taught by Mexican or Bengali workers but by teaching assistants and adjuncts - a new reality I discovered when I became a graduate student at Temple University and a T.A. with a full teaching load earning less than minimum wage. That was a bad sign. Still, illusions die hard. I didn't give up right away on my dream. I did eventually, but not right away.

It started the night I listened to the Jets lose 24-3 to the 1-9 New England Patriots. I was brought to a low that a fairly well educated young person in his 20's is bound to experience. By this time, I had been told by a professor that I was basically an ignoramus, I had been trying to throw shoes at the mice that brazenly walked across my apartment, I had broken up with a girlfriend without any further prospects looming, and I had picked up my steroid-ridden roommate and his knuckle-dragging drunken friends at 2 am on South Street one too many times. I was liable to trust the power of dreams to endure the hard times, but losing to the hopeless Pats was the first time in my life that I decided that the thing with feathers was just a still life taxidermy filled with cotton. The best the Jets could do was a late Cary Blanchard field goal.

My attitude toward my own creative and academic graduate work was not unlike Jack Torrence's demented diligence in The Shining. I distinctly recall listening to the game on crackling AM while going through a shoe box full of letters, sorting through the vestiges of the last year and a half of my life. Do you remember letters? It's an e-mail, only you compose it on paper and put it in an envelope with the address of the recipient on the outside. There was once an intricate postal system funded by the United States Government that would ensure that your otherwise meaningless correspondence reached its destination. You'd keep letters, too. While waiting for the lifeless 3-8 Jets come to life against a fellow basement dweller, I discovered a small letter from a woman I had known only the year before while working in St. Louis. Do you remember the evening we spent together? I'm here if you need me.

I looked up and realized that never before had I ever really noticed how quickly the night came in late November. I had grown up in New York, yet I had somehow gotten through each winter without sensing the darkness in the soul that the winter night can sometime bring. As a boy on Long Island I had sometimes been mysteriously saddened by the speed with which winter twilight painted its mustard light against the roofs of the houses on the adjacent street, but I was usually running around and playing with friends too much to have thought of it as more than a momentary, passing twinge of sadness. But in my tiny, rodent-infested room in North Philadelphia, I felt as if I were gulping huge swallows of the darkness, feeling it draining my spirit like a bad drunken spell. It was depression, finally manifesting itself as an adult disease, a full-blown ailment passed down from generation to generation, waiting for its moment to strike. And it had. Had I missed something? Who was this woman? Had I even cared about her enough to write back? What kind of a person was I, anyway? Who the hell was I, anyway?

I'm glad I don't think about these things anymore; such thoughts are the property of the time. Lots of people avoid such things at 23, but the 20's can be a beguiling and unhappy sometimes. One thing that hasn't change is the capacity for a Jets' loss to make depression feel even worse. Whether they are 3-8 or 7-3, I fear a Jets loss as much for its effect on me as I do for the team's playoff prospects. This is at least one way of interpreting what it means to be a real fan. Your team's winning makes or breaks you. When the night fell heavily from the sky, and my research work was going nowhere, and I could hear the mice scratching away, preparing for their evening's sojourns, the Jets were down 24-0 going into the fourth quarter. It was a bad day.

On Reggie Williams

It's extraordinary that former Cincinnati linebacker Reggie Williams' story is offered so openly on NFL.com when it testifies to the kind of crippling life an NFL player should expect after the game is done. His recent surgical ordeals and the subsequent infections are horrific. It could be that his courage in the face of his knee replacements make his story poignant and inspiring, especially when Williams says he would play all over again if he had the chance. But nowhere does the NFL mention the fact that players can expect no help from a game whose punishment will require that they will someday move around with a walker while still clinging to middle age. That's the real story.

A What? A "Travesty??"

No surprise that no sooner have the Jets won than Time puts it forth as an example of how overtime doesn't work:

"Just such a travesty unfolded during Thursday night's high-stakes prime-time game between the New York Jets and the New England Patriots. The Jets blew two leads — 24-6 in the first half, and 31-24 with three minutes left in the game — before the Pats forced overtime with a stunning last-second pass from Matt Cassel to Randy Moss. The Patriots had mounted two impressive comebacks and the Jets were visibly deflated.

But New England's momentum quickly disappeared. The Jets won the coin toss and marched down the field to kick a field goal. Give New York credit for scoring, and sure New England could have gotten the ball back if its defense had "won" that particular part of the game. But why shouldn't the NFL give the Pats, and other teams like it, a chance to score too?"

Um, no. Hell, no. At the risk of sounding like some griping, whining, bleeding heart, would the issue have been as redolent had the tables been turned, had the Pats "and other teams like it" won the toss?

Well, lessee, I, uh...

No.

Jets 34 Those of Whom We Do Not Speak 31 (OT)

Well, I...OK.

I feel like I just woke up from a bad dream and was just told that my football team just beat the reigning AFC Champions in overtime.

Oh snap. Look... Well, I'll be damned.

I'm not kidding. At approximately 10 pm - at which point the Jets tenuously lead the Patriots 24-21 in the fourth quarter - I could no longer keep my eyes open. It might have helped if I had actually been watching the game. But again, I do not have the NFL Network. I am waiting for the league to give their network profits to the retired players pension fund. I could not receive the game online during the first half because, for reasons I cannot fathom, our wireless was completely non-functional. So I followed the game on my wife's BlackBerry. Refresh every 15 seconds. Thus, I experienced an explosion of athletic brilliance in the following way:

NE: Gostowski 31 yard field goal. NYJ 10 NE 6 (refresh)
NE: Gostowski 31 yard field goal. NYJ 10 NE 6 (refresh)
NE: Gostowski 31 yard field goal. NYJ 10 NE 6 (refresh)
NE: Gostowski 31 yard field goal. NYJ 10 NE 6 (refresh)
NE: Gostowski 31 yard field goal. NYJ 10 NE 6 (refresh)
NYJ: L. Johnson 92 yard return. NYJ 17 NE 6 (refresh)

At this I unconsciously made the same sound a squad car makes when it's trying to creep through an intersection without stopping (a move not unlike Leon Washington finding the crease through 11 charging men): Woop-WAHP. Odd. You have to enjoy Deion Sanders' postgame comment on Washington's kickoff return for a touchdown. In addition to noting the obvious, that Leon went untouched, Deion also exclaimed, "You know, look at the vision. Look at the awareness." Almost as if Leon Washington were a spiritual leader, or maybe an abstract expressionist painter. I will not argue with that.

Anyway, neither the BlackBerry nor the NFL.com game tracker could capture the continued weirdness of yet another reception of a pass (against the Patriots) with one's helmet, here seen in a reception by Jerricho Cotchery, who pressed the ball between helmet and the inside space of his right arm. I'm going to suggest that Cotchery's catch was above and beyond David Tyree's Super Bowl catch in that it was one-handed, or one-armed as the case may be, and with a Patriot defender's hand pushing on his facemask. The irony was that after it was declared a reception, Cotchery rolled over and dropped the ball as he tried to release it.

(Greg Bishop's NYT article the next day suggests that Bishop was actually text messaging David Tyree during the game. Was that during the game, Greg? The entire piece is written a little like a chapter from a middle school reading level Punt, Pass and Kick book, with Jets players popping in and out of the action to discuss their reactions to the events of the game. I mean, Bishop uses post-game remarks as if they sideline commentary.)

So what did I miss when I went to bed? A Cotchery fumble. Thomas Jones scores after a lucky penalty. Kris Jenkins' critical late game stop on Cassel. Randy Moss beats his man and is overthrown in the end zone. ANOTHER THOMAS JONES RUN UP THE MIDDLE THAT COULD HAVE SAVED THE GAME BUT DID NOT. Randy Moss' incredible catch against Ty Law, who now wears #22. All of this in one quarter.

And then Favre's extraordinary drive. That's where the dream turns from mirroring life to revising it. There are dreams that you have that seem very much like reality, and then some where the absurd reality fulfills an improbable wish. Or maybe the dream goes so far as to dabble in the impossible. When I was a kid I dreamt that the Jets would someday play in the Super Bowl at Shea Stadium. Thus the Improbable and the Impossible. Favre's drive, with its recovery from a 3rd and 15 situation, reflected a different kind of Jets season from the one that doubters like myself expected or continue to expect. It is one where the Jets are down and then regroup and recover. Again, in addition to seeming like a Young Readers' account of the game, Greg Bishop (consistent with the Times' Jets reporting, post-Eskanazi) takes pains to constantly remind us that THE JETS ALWAYS BLOW IT, but look - this time the Jets won! It made me ashamed of my own compulsion for doubt.

But then we can't just associate this habitual doubt of the Jets with such haughty voices as the Times'. After all, my wife turned briefly from the game to KYW news radio here in Philly, where they announced, "In sports, the Jets have now tied it up in their game against the Patriots. Late in the fourth quarter it's now 24-24 in Foxboro!" Of course, it was Those Of Whom We Do Not Speak that had come from behind a 24-6 Jets lead to tie it. Everybody puts the Jets behind. It's a hard habit to break.

But now I'm compelled to say aloud in response, "Look at the vision, look at the awareness..!" If anything, the dancing, leaping Brett Favre on the field and sidelines is the pied piper, if not just the signal caller. By his effusive example, we are hopping to Nashville, there to meet our metaphorical makers, the Titans, if not our actual ones.

Have you noticed Brett Favre's new game-end celebratory gesture? Now alongside Red Auerbach's victory cigar and the cumbersome Gatorade cooler is Favre's victorious ass-slap. He did it to Brian Schottenheimer last week after the win over the Rams. Its recipient howled in pain. After beating the Pats, Favre reserved it for Eric Mangini, a man who has so assiduously imitated Belichick to the point of wearing his old mentor's zombified expression of evil genius. If there's one thing both men definitely need after a game is a good, swift smack in the rear. Mangini embraced Favre, gripped his helmet with both hands (a gesture women like, too) and whispered something grateful through the earhole. They separated, and as the coach made for the locker room, Favre seem to take a beat and almost whisper to himself, "Smack that guy in the ass." One hopes that after taking it, after wincing in pain, Mangini might have said to himself, "And thanks, for that too, Brett. I needed that." Yes, coach, you did, and you do.

But whose ass will Favre spank next year? I still think he'd like a chance to smack the ass of a coach that plays Green Bay twice a year. Couldn't be Detroit. Minnesota? I'd hate to think of Brett Favre in purple leggings. Chicago? No, no. Still, I think he'll jump ship at year's end, and if he does, can the Jets have Matt Cassel? Because, well, he really is that good.

Jets 47 Rams 3

When I came into this game, I fully expected something reminiscent of the Jets' loss to Oakland a few weeks ago, a game that left me silent, troubled and withdrawn. Well, I'm always a little troubled, but that's an issue more appropriate to discuss with my mental heath care professional. No, I expected the Jets to let me down as they have done, historically, week by crushing week, year after year. But for all the wailing and gnashing of teeth that goes into the hype of being a Jets fan, most of it occurs when the Jets win.

I've said this before - it's actually more stressful when the Jets win because winning raises the stakes of hope. Last season had its dismal sides, but after a while most of it had to do with my job. Things at the Meadowlands went quickly from bad to worse and didn't really get better in 2007. I got used it, I accepted it (I've had plenty of experience) and felt...well, not comfortable, but at peace with it, just as one must always finally accept the prevailing limitations of human existence, living as we do with free will and subjective powers of abstract consciousness. On the other hand, though, some bad shit was going on last year at work, and I had to really fucking deal with it. And deal with it I did, and with much better aplomb than the Jets did with Brian Schottenheimer's offense scheme.

In this way, the losing Jets are the dulling reminder, the momento mori of human existence. Things suck, don't they? You can get that message from a lot of places, too. From the local or international news, perhaps, or maybe even just by looking outside, like in Walt Whitman's "I Sit and Look Out." Or from Dylan's "Blind Willie McTell." This Rams team appeared ominously tidal coming in; one of the reasons why I was doubtful about the game was because the Jets were exactly the kind of team that the Rams would find appealing for a rebound matchup from a previous loss. But this was a win so effective that the Jets' starters got a rest for Thursday night's game. And when the Jets win, they tend to conjure the ubiquitous refrain of "Yes, We Can!" over and over, a cry so encompassing that it becomes the truth in one's mind, the way most political slogans do. The Jets won by 44 points, a franchise record. (Yes, we can.) Thomas Jones ran for 149 yards and three touchdowns. (Yes, we can). Brett Favre didn't throw any interceptions. (No, he didn't! Yes, we can). Jay Feely hit one from 55 yards away, another franchise record! (Yes, we can). Eric Barton had another great game. (Yes, we can).

But hold on there, little dawgie. There's Thursday. Then there's the unbeaten Titans (I wish we could wear our Titans unis for that). This is only the flush of excitement before the wash of gloom. There's still a crumbling economy, a plummeting stock market, a vanishing workforce, a lost sense of international respect. What about that stuff? Can we handle that? There's no other way to frame it. Right? Big wins like this one always raise questions, like how big? If the Jets managed this kind of domination of a team like Those of Whom We Do Not Speak, then it would be different, wouldn't it? Ah, the crushing spectre of hope again. Against the Rams, the Jets' front line was scarily effective, opening up enormous holes for Thomas Jones. In the image above (photo taken from New York Times) you see the lyrical poetry of an offensive line performing their job. Click on it and it suddenly seems as if you are looking at a work of art, a neo-classical painting, complete with the master's sure eye for symmetry, depicting the tableau of some ancient combat. Even D'Brickshaw Ferguson lying on the ground to the lower far right seems an intentional touch. With such an inspirational image, there's no way we can't keep hope alive. Surely now there is a means for opening the holes up the middle for Jones that were missing in week 2.

Ugh. God help us.

Anyway, regarding my earlier, strained metaphor above between economics and football, it seems as if the Jets' financial prospects are in good shape, especially after successfully selling their PSL's at inflated prices for next year's opening. One guesses that most of their seat buyers weren't CEO's for companies recently bailed out by the Federal Government, but were probably regular folks of a variety of backgrounds and incomes likely hurt by this economy. Go team, huh? Yeesh. Woody Johnson invested his money in Alan Faneca, Damien Woody, and Brett Favre, so apparently the Jets are a much more appealing expenditure for fans who mortgage their livelihoods for PSL's. King Woody's investments have yielded rather a merciless profit for the company. Next time take note, General Motors.