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.
Minggu, 30 November 2008
Jumat, 28 November 2008
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.
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.
Selasa, 25 November 2008
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.
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.
Minggu, 23 November 2008
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.
Sabtu, 22 November 2008
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.
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.
Minggu, 16 November 2008
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.
"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.
Jumat, 14 November 2008
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.
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.
Minggu, 09 November 2008
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.
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.
It's All True
I've always had an odd smattering of knowledge. I recall one instance when I was about nine where I first used this knowledge and simultaneously experienced the doubt of the general public. Mom, Charlie and I were at a department store together. She was buying a rug or something, putting a salesman through what my brother and I like to call "The Treatment." She would have sales personnel eating out of her hand by the end of a trip to A&S. No question. And she wouldn't buy anything in the end.
While watching another salesman fall to pieces around her, I noted a flurry of activity. A man was walking through the rug department and setting off excitement as he passed. "It's Richard Dreyfuss!" someone exclaimed. Another person took up the cry, while the man in question, realizing the fuss he was causing, started to make for the escalator. People pointed and exclaimed. They had seen a movie star, one whose prime was the period of which I speak, the late 70's.
He could have passed as Richard Dreyfuss, but it wasn't him. For whatever reason, at nine I could recognize Richard Dreyfuss in the rug department if I saw him, and the man running like a spotted celebrity for the exit was not Richard Dreyfuss. I said this aloud enough for the adults around me to hear.
"What's that?" a woman said, looking at me with surprise.
I thought I was being helpful. This way they wouldn't be mistaken. "That wasn't Richard Dreyfuss," I said. "That's a guy who looks like him, but he's not."
The woman looked at me with the mild annoyance of one who has been asked to buy the Brooklyn Bridge. She addressed me with a wave of her hand.
"What did that kid say?" her husband asked after seeing the Richard Dreyfuss imposter finally vanish.
She looked at him with a dismissive gesture. "'Thinks I don't know what I'm talking about. Like I'm crazy or something. That was Richard Dreyfuss!"
*****
Like I said, it's been a strange week. Take for example my conversation around the lunch table. Our two English Department faculty lounges are two classroom-sized rooms, each with a long table for teachers to sit and talk over lunch. For reasons that our community could offer, one lounge is often populated with young men between the ages of 25-30 and the other with women just a little bit older. Almost all are younger than myself. The men speak of sports, politics and media outrages. The women discuss clothes, food, light television fare and children.
At the men's table, the issues can be occasionally sublime and often ridiculous. "Which is the greatest beer commercial of all time?" "Who is the shortest shortstop ever?" "Who is less talented - Mariah Carey or Madonna?" "Who is your favorite Russian psychic?" The other day, a question I could field came to the table: "Who is responsible for the longest punt in football history?"
I allowed a few names - good ones - to pass through. "Ray Guy?" "Reggie Roby?" "Randall Cunningham?" That last one isn't ridiculous. Randall could basically do anything, including punt.
"I'll take this one," I said. "Steve O'Neal, New York Jets. Ninety-eight yards."
To be honest with you, I know it sounds a little silly, too. He was a rookie when he did it, and he's almost unknown to history otherwise. But it's true, all true. They look at me like I'm making it up. Sure, they seem to say. Spoken like a Jets fan. Right. "I doubt the Jets even have any records, Marty," one says. Actually for a while Richard Todd held a NFL record he set in 1980 for passing attempts in a game. They look at me as if I fell off a truck and wouldn't know the slightest piece of football miscellany. This is how Dad felt when he told me the Giants used have a quarterback named Y.A. Tittle. I didn't believe him at first, either. That was a ridiculous name.
But at Mile High Stadium in 1969, #20 Steve O'Neal punted the ball some seventy plus yards, where it then took a Jets roll another fifteen or so to the Bronco two.
This is a general problem as I'm getting older. (And how old am I really? I turn 40 in March, for God's sake, but in public school, that can seem like 50, which isn't even that old.) The more I age, the more unreliable my information seems to people younger than myself. This is what used to make my parents mad. Why is it so impossible that I'm actually right about something? Mom would ask. Because you're old, I would think. Now I know why the woman in A&S was pissed at me. Why would some snot-nosed kid know about the star of The Goodbye Girl? Except I was right about Steve O'Neal, and the woman in the rug department was wrong.
It was worse this past Wednesday when, after the Obama win, the only thing my all-white Advanced Placement class had to say about it was that Black Panthers intimidated voters throughout the United States on election day. Really? I asked.
Their evidence consisted of two guys standing somewhat ominously in front of a polling place on Fairmount Avenue in Philadelphia. When I speculated that these "Black Panthers" of which they spoke were actually representative of one local instance, the kids didn't believe me. The Black Panthers, they insisted, changed the flow of the election.
That's insane, I told them. There really is no Black Panther movement anymore. The real Black Panthers eventually graduated to become Crips, convicts, worm food, professors, business owners, drug addicts or Republicans. There is Black rage in America, yes, but no Black Panthers. Here were two guys menacing people in front of a door, dressed in all black clothes and berets they probably bought at I. Goldberg's, looking angrily into the camera, having the thrill of their lives, but it didn't mean that the spirit of Huey and Cleaver was alive and well across the United States, or even in Philly for that matter. In fact, I'm convinced that the little guy "Panther" in the video is a local crackpot King Samir Shabazz, a guy so ridiculous he actually got thrown out of Louis Farrakhan's Nation of Islam. Only the Philadelphia Weekly takes him seriously, and that's as an eccentric character.
But, the kids almost suggested, if I didn't know that for sure that it wasn't a nationwide ploy to scare white people, then how could I deny the viral web evidence of Black Panthers intimidating voters - even if the evidence shows it was the same lame Philly story, originally told by Fox, repeated over and over?
Whether young or old, this has been my problem. I don't know everything, but what's the point of having my eclectic and nearly useless knowledge of history, sports and popular culture if no one believes me? It's not like I understand science or math. As Uncle Morty asks in My Favorite Year, "Do I look I come from Minsk? I know what I'm talking about."
While watching another salesman fall to pieces around her, I noted a flurry of activity. A man was walking through the rug department and setting off excitement as he passed. "It's Richard Dreyfuss!" someone exclaimed. Another person took up the cry, while the man in question, realizing the fuss he was causing, started to make for the escalator. People pointed and exclaimed. They had seen a movie star, one whose prime was the period of which I speak, the late 70's.
He could have passed as Richard Dreyfuss, but it wasn't him. For whatever reason, at nine I could recognize Richard Dreyfuss in the rug department if I saw him, and the man running like a spotted celebrity for the exit was not Richard Dreyfuss. I said this aloud enough for the adults around me to hear.
"What's that?" a woman said, looking at me with surprise.
I thought I was being helpful. This way they wouldn't be mistaken. "That wasn't Richard Dreyfuss," I said. "That's a guy who looks like him, but he's not."
The woman looked at me with the mild annoyance of one who has been asked to buy the Brooklyn Bridge. She addressed me with a wave of her hand.
"What did that kid say?" her husband asked after seeing the Richard Dreyfuss imposter finally vanish.
She looked at him with a dismissive gesture. "'Thinks I don't know what I'm talking about. Like I'm crazy or something. That was Richard Dreyfuss!"
*****
Like I said, it's been a strange week. Take for example my conversation around the lunch table. Our two English Department faculty lounges are two classroom-sized rooms, each with a long table for teachers to sit and talk over lunch. For reasons that our community could offer, one lounge is often populated with young men between the ages of 25-30 and the other with women just a little bit older. Almost all are younger than myself. The men speak of sports, politics and media outrages. The women discuss clothes, food, light television fare and children.
At the men's table, the issues can be occasionally sublime and often ridiculous. "Which is the greatest beer commercial of all time?" "Who is the shortest shortstop ever?" "Who is less talented - Mariah Carey or Madonna?" "Who is your favorite Russian psychic?" The other day, a question I could field came to the table: "Who is responsible for the longest punt in football history?"
I allowed a few names - good ones - to pass through. "Ray Guy?" "Reggie Roby?" "Randall Cunningham?" That last one isn't ridiculous. Randall could basically do anything, including punt.
"I'll take this one," I said. "Steve O'Neal, New York Jets. Ninety-eight yards."
To be honest with you, I know it sounds a little silly, too. He was a rookie when he did it, and he's almost unknown to history otherwise. But it's true, all true. They look at me like I'm making it up. Sure, they seem to say. Spoken like a Jets fan. Right. "I doubt the Jets even have any records, Marty," one says. Actually for a while Richard Todd held a NFL record he set in 1980 for passing attempts in a game. They look at me as if I fell off a truck and wouldn't know the slightest piece of football miscellany. This is how Dad felt when he told me the Giants used have a quarterback named Y.A. Tittle. I didn't believe him at first, either. That was a ridiculous name. But at Mile High Stadium in 1969, #20 Steve O'Neal punted the ball some seventy plus yards, where it then took a Jets roll another fifteen or so to the Bronco two.
This is a general problem as I'm getting older. (And how old am I really? I turn 40 in March, for God's sake, but in public school, that can seem like 50, which isn't even that old.) The more I age, the more unreliable my information seems to people younger than myself. This is what used to make my parents mad. Why is it so impossible that I'm actually right about something? Mom would ask. Because you're old, I would think. Now I know why the woman in A&S was pissed at me. Why would some snot-nosed kid know about the star of The Goodbye Girl? Except I was right about Steve O'Neal, and the woman in the rug department was wrong.
It was worse this past Wednesday when, after the Obama win, the only thing my all-white Advanced Placement class had to say about it was that Black Panthers intimidated voters throughout the United States on election day. Really? I asked.
Their evidence consisted of two guys standing somewhat ominously in front of a polling place on Fairmount Avenue in Philadelphia. When I speculated that these "Black Panthers" of which they spoke were actually representative of one local instance, the kids didn't believe me. The Black Panthers, they insisted, changed the flow of the election.
That's insane, I told them. There really is no Black Panther movement anymore. The real Black Panthers eventually graduated to become Crips, convicts, worm food, professors, business owners, drug addicts or Republicans. There is Black rage in America, yes, but no Black Panthers. Here were two guys menacing people in front of a door, dressed in all black clothes and berets they probably bought at I. Goldberg's, looking angrily into the camera, having the thrill of their lives, but it didn't mean that the spirit of Huey and Cleaver was alive and well across the United States, or even in Philly for that matter. In fact, I'm convinced that the little guy "Panther" in the video is a local crackpot King Samir Shabazz, a guy so ridiculous he actually got thrown out of Louis Farrakhan's Nation of Islam. Only the Philadelphia Weekly takes him seriously, and that's as an eccentric character.
But, the kids almost suggested, if I didn't know that for sure that it wasn't a nationwide ploy to scare white people, then how could I deny the viral web evidence of Black Panthers intimidating voters - even if the evidence shows it was the same lame Philly story, originally told by Fox, repeated over and over?
Whether young or old, this has been my problem. I don't know everything, but what's the point of having my eclectic and nearly useless knowledge of history, sports and popular culture if no one believes me? It's not like I understand science or math. As Uncle Morty asks in My Favorite Year, "Do I look I come from Minsk? I know what I'm talking about."
Responding as a Jets Fan Does
This has been an interesting week, hasn't it? I mean, yes, I had a feeling the Jets would win at Buffalo, but then I was even more surprised that they did it well, especially at the front line, especially in the secondary. I came away feeling oddly uncomfortable, as if this meant something truly sinister. This is the way I am. I've commented before that my wife has picked up on the general mixture of happiness and displeasure that accompanies my experience of my football team actually winning. When they do.
Then there was the election. I work with a 50-50 split between Democrats and Republicans in my department. This is a highly conservative white blue-collar community with a diversity of relatively conservative Asian, Middle Eastern and South Asian families and a politically liberal African-American one that has been growing for years. Our English Department is 90% white, which means that it reflects its community, especially among its men. I can talk sports with my fellow men, but when we talk politics, I know I'm going to be somewhat in the minority. I voted for Obama this year, and in any other high school in any other suburban area outside Philadelphia, I would probably not be as alone as I am here among Reagan's children. But unlike in years past, when I had to endure the self-satisfaction that I grant some of my colleagues felt in the wake of two Presidential elections (one more notorious than any in American history), this year my team won.
My team? Actually, I hate that. When I was in high school during the final decade of the Cold War, no one spoke of Red states and Blue states. Red was the dubious color of international Communism whose influence could be felt in pink and purple. Lots of colors weren't safe from red's emasculating influence. It's what Tories wore in the Revolution. Blue was more manly and patriotic. It's what we were taught the Minutemen wore. It was the color of all Government-issued material. I drove my parents' blue 1980 Chevy Malibu in high school that I discovered one day my friends had garnished with the words "Property of the Federal Government" with their fingers in its layers of winter dust. We weren't split into teams yet. Yes, there were Democrats and Republicans, but even then these weren't two absolutely discernible sides. There were Democrats and Republicans of a variety apiece, some liberal, many more moderate, some conservative. I may be romanticizing the past a bit, but I recall that we were not yet forced to identify ourselves with the colors of the electoral map. I have only one team, and their colors are green and white.
But since I have a team already, I'm accustomed to what it feels like when my team wins. Or, rather, I'm accustomed to my team losing, which is why I'm more at home when they do lose - in the regular season, in the playoffs, or even in a Presidential election. When they do win, it's an uncomfortable thing for me to talk about with people the next day. I'm used to complaining about a losing pass rush, no offensive line protection, a mercurial coach, a lack of tall receivers. I'm never under the impression that I need to explain or enjoy their winning.
In fact, I usually predict a loss ahead of time. "I wouldn't bet on it," I say to someone about the Rams-Jets this week, even when, at home, the Jets might actually win. Nevertheless, history teaches us nothing if not caution, and so I advise NFL pool people to take the other side in almost every case. After a while they know not to ask. So when a couple of my Republican friends asked me a few days before the election what I thought were Obama's chances, I responded as a trained Jets fan. Predict the loss. And I feel I predicted with a level of accuracy. I mean, how was it possible that Obama could win Ohio, Florida, Iowa, Indiana, Virginia, North Carolina, Colorado and New Mexico? How could one have expected him to win in the Pennsylvania's Carbon, Centre, Cambria and Elk counties? History tells us it's safe to bet against. I realize that this borders on a superstition, but superstitions are made for the fans of losing teams; they are a safeguard against the pain of an unrealized hope. Why bet on your team, as it were?
So the next day my colleagues might have thought I had been putting them on. I swear I wasn't. Who would have predicted Obama winning 364 electoral votes? I was just going by what I knew, following the basic instincts of my less than sunny disposition, my less than hopeful outlook.
Which made me consider things even further when I saw Happy-Go-Lucky last night, by one of my favorite filmmakers, Mike Leigh. What if I went through life favoring the best in people and circumstance and not relying on a depressive's doubt, on superstition and the subsequently comforting need to make everyone else think the way I do? Now wouldn't that be nice?
Then there was the election. I work with a 50-50 split between Democrats and Republicans in my department. This is a highly conservative white blue-collar community with a diversity of relatively conservative Asian, Middle Eastern and South Asian families and a politically liberal African-American one that has been growing for years. Our English Department is 90% white, which means that it reflects its community, especially among its men. I can talk sports with my fellow men, but when we talk politics, I know I'm going to be somewhat in the minority. I voted for Obama this year, and in any other high school in any other suburban area outside Philadelphia, I would probably not be as alone as I am here among Reagan's children. But unlike in years past, when I had to endure the self-satisfaction that I grant some of my colleagues felt in the wake of two Presidential elections (one more notorious than any in American history), this year my team won.
My team? Actually, I hate that. When I was in high school during the final decade of the Cold War, no one spoke of Red states and Blue states. Red was the dubious color of international Communism whose influence could be felt in pink and purple. Lots of colors weren't safe from red's emasculating influence. It's what Tories wore in the Revolution. Blue was more manly and patriotic. It's what we were taught the Minutemen wore. It was the color of all Government-issued material. I drove my parents' blue 1980 Chevy Malibu in high school that I discovered one day my friends had garnished with the words "Property of the Federal Government" with their fingers in its layers of winter dust. We weren't split into teams yet. Yes, there were Democrats and Republicans, but even then these weren't two absolutely discernible sides. There were Democrats and Republicans of a variety apiece, some liberal, many more moderate, some conservative. I may be romanticizing the past a bit, but I recall that we were not yet forced to identify ourselves with the colors of the electoral map. I have only one team, and their colors are green and white.
But since I have a team already, I'm accustomed to what it feels like when my team wins. Or, rather, I'm accustomed to my team losing, which is why I'm more at home when they do lose - in the regular season, in the playoffs, or even in a Presidential election. When they do win, it's an uncomfortable thing for me to talk about with people the next day. I'm used to complaining about a losing pass rush, no offensive line protection, a mercurial coach, a lack of tall receivers. I'm never under the impression that I need to explain or enjoy their winning.
In fact, I usually predict a loss ahead of time. "I wouldn't bet on it," I say to someone about the Rams-Jets this week, even when, at home, the Jets might actually win. Nevertheless, history teaches us nothing if not caution, and so I advise NFL pool people to take the other side in almost every case. After a while they know not to ask. So when a couple of my Republican friends asked me a few days before the election what I thought were Obama's chances, I responded as a trained Jets fan. Predict the loss. And I feel I predicted with a level of accuracy. I mean, how was it possible that Obama could win Ohio, Florida, Iowa, Indiana, Virginia, North Carolina, Colorado and New Mexico? How could one have expected him to win in the Pennsylvania's Carbon, Centre, Cambria and Elk counties? History tells us it's safe to bet against. I realize that this borders on a superstition, but superstitions are made for the fans of losing teams; they are a safeguard against the pain of an unrealized hope. Why bet on your team, as it were?
So the next day my colleagues might have thought I had been putting them on. I swear I wasn't. Who would have predicted Obama winning 364 electoral votes? I was just going by what I knew, following the basic instincts of my less than sunny disposition, my less than hopeful outlook.
Which made me consider things even further when I saw Happy-Go-Lucky last night, by one of my favorite filmmakers, Mike Leigh. What if I went through life favoring the best in people and circumstance and not relying on a depressive's doubt, on superstition and the subsequently comforting need to make everyone else think the way I do? Now wouldn't that be nice?
Minggu, 02 November 2008
Jets 26 Bills 17
The Jets and Bills reversed roles today, as it is the Jets who are usually brought down to earth by the Bills. Not so here now. The Jets play mostly the same game week in and out. Brett Favre wins more often than not but throws truly risky passes that sometimes lead eventually or directly to touchdowns for the other side. Thomas Jones and Leon Washington earn more passing yards than rushing yards. Darrelle Revis has a big game. In the red zone, the Jets become mysterious and frustrating. Eric Mangini becomes physically larger. Many dumb penalties for the Jets. Illegal procedure, late hits, unnecessary roughness, delay of game. But the Bills played the more frustrating game. Two grinding drives produced nothing for them, almost as if, for this one game, I were watching the '07 Jets play the '08 team. 
But they beat Buffalo, just. Several key moments stand out. Leon Washington incurs a penalty on Buffalo by having one foot out of bounds when he receives an inbounds punt. Darrelle Revis breaks up a certain Bills third down touchdown attempt by timing his coverage of the pass perfectly. Eric Barton plays an unheralded but brilliant game, with seven tackles. Kris Jenkins nearly concusses Trent Edwards as he hurls him to the ground in a perfectly legal sack. The Jets' offense may not be running perfectly, but the Jets' defense was the best I've seen all year. The big play was obviously Abram Elam's interception in the red zone and his 92 yard return for a touchdown. This is exactly the kind of play the Jets needed, and they got it. I've been waiting for a moment like this to point out the odd juxtaposition of two players in Jets history who have worn #27, one of whom is Abram Elam. Consider that if the letters of his name are reshuffled and then listed last name first and first last, then "Male, Mabra" is another way of describing Ron Mabra who also wore #27 for the Jets, in 1977. The evidence is in our entry on the number. Of course anyone who knows the name Abram Elam might also know a few additional things about him that make this anagrammatic observation a little less charming.
Anyway, my wife and I have a new policy on weekends, the "Sixty Percent Solution." We operate on 60% of everything negative - dread, anxiety, annoyance, anger - none of which is allowed to exceed the 60% level. This allows for neither the denial of a feeling nor its exaggeration. Elam's touchdown brought it to about 75%, which allowed me to make an audible, "N'yeah. Yeah. Yeah!" This was the loudest I got all game.
My wife got loud when Brett Favre threw an interception for a touchdown at the beginning of the fourth quarter. I had decided to use the end of a Bills drive as the opportunity to take the shower I had missed in the morning, so I missed the ensuing interception that went all the way for the Bills. When I heard her disheartened response, I emerged from the bathroom just in time to see the play end. I swore under my breath. My wife suddenly exclaimed at the sight of me without my Joe Namath jersey. Actually I was without anything at all. Her reaction was one that a long-married person gives to the nudity of her partner - one of muted interest, tinged with novelty of seeing him in the nude for the first time, long ago. This reaction was at more than 60%, which, to be honest is all that a guy can ask for.
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