NY Jets by the Numbers - #33 (Part 2)

Here in town, it's a snow day. Our high school English faculty had a pool of $150 to pick which winter day would be our first snow day. I picked March 2. Unfortunately our first snow day of the year was February 18th, so the snow day pool money went to a colleague of mine who's a much lovelier person than I. Still, I really could have used that buck fifty. In this economy, as the Brothers from the East once said, stakes is high.

It's always been a little like that for me. I realize that you don't have to win to play, but winning helps you play just a little bit harder. I don't think I've ever won a football pool, a NCAA basketball tourney pool, a snow day pool, a hand of poker, anything valuable from a slot machine, a bet at the doggie track circa 1988, or any other contest of chance. Sure, there's skill in making the right calls, but frankly, as I'm learning now that I'm shopping for a house in an atmosphere of most uncertain times, there's only so much that skill can do; it's often up to chance where you'll be in six months time, no matter who you are in this ridiculous world. The house wins overall. Sometimes the best and most advisable turn is to just sit still and wait. Like Didi and Gogo. Just wait.

Number 33 Kevin Long looks like he's waiting, doesn't he? Perhaps with a resigned sense of fate, too. You get the sense that he has an overall feel for the eventual outcome, even if he's not sure what it will be. This might seem a little ironic since the photo is taken during his best NFL season, 1978. He gained 954 yards on the ground and became the most successful runner on a team with small but durable stars on the ground: Scott Dierking, Bruce Harper, and Clark Gaines. Kevin Long looked so much the star back then that I believe that it his his image that was copied and rendered again with a new number in 1979 for the team poster. There were two such images produced by the NFL for the Jets that year - the other was of Richard Todd, which I believe I may have owned (am I really starting to age such that I cannot fully recall?) There were big expectations behind Kevin Long. He came from a brilliant career at South Carolina. His name was perfect for a running back. Run Long.

I remember an early 1981 season game against the Houston Oilers at Shea. Kevin Long took a short pass from Richard Todd for a touchdown for the Jets' first score of the game. For Jets fans who remember the 1980's with the decidedly mixed pleasure that befits our station in this ridiculous world, it was the beginning of a well-known turnaround. This was the game that signaled a change of fortune from the team's start at 0-3. The Jets would beat the Oilers 33-17 on that hot, dusty September day and would henceforth complete the rest of the season 8-2-1. As he ran toward the far sideline after scoring, Kevin Long paused; with the crowd likely roaring in his ear, he lifted his facemask ever so slightly, and promptly vomited. He then recovered himself enough and kept moving.

So there are no undiluted pleasures. As luck would have it, Pat Leahy missed a winning field goal against Miami a few weeks later. Had he made it, it would have given the Jets the division title by the end of the year. Instead, Kevin Long would appear in Sports Illustrated weeks later, credited with gaining 67 yards in the home closer against Green Bay that would give the Jets a Wild Card berth which, as luck would have it, would be against Buffalo at Shea. It would be Kevin Long's last game in the NFL before departing to the USFL and becoming a star for the Chicago Blitz, who then, as luck would have it, would move to Arizona and become the Wranglers.

I don't remember #33 Ronald Moore, but that might be because my mind didn't want to confuse him with Rob Moore #85, the wide receiver who, much to my chagrin, had left for the Arizona Cardinals a season before Ronald Moore reached us. Though it was not actually thus, it appeared we got a Ronald for a Rob, hence getting the shorter end of the deal with a longer name, for Ronald Moore came from - as luck would have it - the Arizona Cardinals. He had run for more than a thousand yards for the Cardinals in his first year, but the Jets got him two seasons later in 1995 at the beginning of his decline and at the outbreak of the short but horrific Rich Kotite era in Gang Green Land.

Here Eric Mangini seems to be offering an argument in defense of Eric Smith, our current #33, perhaps in light of some of the less than kind discussions that went on early last season on JetsInsider regarding Smith's performance and regular playing time. However, one might also look at the obvious role he plays in showing up at publicity and good will functions on behalf of the Jets. He is there to hand out gift cards at Dick's Sporting Goods when such appearances (and their paychecks) are beneath Brett Favre. Somebody's got to do it. Ah, but for how much longer now that we have Lito Shepperd?

Number 33 Jerald Sowell was a tight end disguised as a fullback; he probably caught more 1-yard passes for touchdowns than any other fullback in franchise history (even more than Kevin Long, I believe). His relatively long career with the Jets began with Bill Parcells and ended with Herman Edwards. He was the man Parcells hoped would beat out Adrian Murrell for a starting spot on the 1998 team. I still have problems with that. Here he is hauling in the only Jets score in the 30-10 playoff loss they suffered in Oakland in January 2003, a game I binge drank through in order to endure the pain. It may have been one of my personal nadirs, which is why this picture says it all. Good for Jerald Sowell.

Drafted second round out of Bethune-Cookman University, Terry Williams played at defensive back for the Jets in #33 from 1988 to 1989. At their web site, his alma mater, for whom he is now a secondary coach, says it much more graciously than any of his mere, unmarked 11 games could: "Williams was drafted by the New York Jets of the NFL where he played for two years until a knee injury ended his playing career well short of what was sure to be an illustrious career." I don't even care if it's true or not. We should all leave our professional epitaphs this way. But this I love - in terms of his current work, "It is not uncommon to see Williams still using his speed and agility to demonstrate defensive routes and blocking techniques to his cornerbacks ... thus showing his exuberance for the position and game he loves to coach so dearly." Indeed, my good man! Indeed.

NY Jets by the Numbers - #33 (Part 1)

Bob Burns and John Chirico each wore #33 for the New York Jets, and each gained about as much yardage as the other in their little time in uniform. Chirico, a Brooklyn native and graduate of Columbia gained yardage in the Bizarro games of 1987, as a replacement running back during the Strike. Burns, a standout running back from the University of Georgia, gained nearly the same number of yards with the Jets in the length of an actual season - 1974, to be exact. This is about as much as I can say, other than the fact that as professionals, they were and always will be Jets and nothing else. As professional football players, this is all they were.

But I guess I would be remiss if I didn't point out the lusty hair and somewhat dazed expression of Bob Burns, circa 1974. Again with the far-away look of framed contemplation. He looks like a nature child about to share the wisdom of Gaya with us, if not a little mescaline. In real life, his pleasures were more earthy (in the non-freak sense). According to the 1974 New York Jets Yearbook, Bob Burns enjoyed water skiing and hunting. One presumes in one form or another, he still does.

Pete Hart and Paul Hynes. Peter and Paul. One succeeding the other in #33 for the New York Titans. Pete Hart weighed as much as I do now (well, maybe a little less) and stood at 5'9" for us as a running back. That's a brick of a fellow who gained all of 113 yards on 25 carries in one season, the Terrible Titans' first, 1960. That's four-plus yards a carry. Not terrible. Whereas Paul Hynes' Titan career lasted the final two Terribles' seasons. In the role of what appears to be a defensive back, he intercepted two passes in 1962, his last pro season. Sometimes deciphering the performance of Titans of the past is a little like trying to read time-worn cuneiform off a slab in the Fertile Crescent.

But there are some Titans who need no Rosetta Stone. Everybody who knows the history of the Jets knows about #33 Curley Johnson, one of the four original Titans to play in Super Bowl III. Can you name the other three? Too late! Bill Mathis #31, Don Maynard #13, and Larry Grantham #60. I don't know which number Curley wore when he came to the Titans from the Texans in 1961, but he was given #33 when Sonny Werblin bought the club from Harry Wismer. He threw a pass in 1964. He shagged a kickoff in 1966. He ran for net -6 yards in 1968. Mostly what Curley Johnson did was punt, as he evolved from running back to full-time punter as a Jet. He averaged an average punter's distance of 42 yards over the course of his career. In the half-hour long summary videotape I own of the 1968 AFL Championship Game, there's a great second-long shot of Curley pacing the sidelines waving his fist and whistling sharply. For one of the original four Titans, the game must have been a gut-wrenching roller coaster that finally culminated with euphoria in the frigid air. In that moment, his career probably became something more than just a collection of personal bests and achievements, but rather a collective enterprise with an entire team. Who knows? Before then, his happiest moment as a pro might have been a late-game touchdown catch he made in a 52-13 trouncing of the Oilers in 1966. The receiving corps were on the bench, as was Namath (Mike Taliaferro made the throw).

Super Bowl III was his last game as a Jet. His replacement the following year, Steve O'Neal #20, would set the NFL record for the longest punt. In his last season as a pro, Curley Johnson became a New York Giant. In August 1969, while playing for the dread Blue, Curley Johnson, recently cut from the Jets, was probably watching from the other sideline while the team he had followed out of AFL obscurity into franchise immortality celebrated their 37-14 victory over the Giants in a highly charged exhibition game at the Yale Bowl. I suppose he cheered inside. It's a testimony to what a sour person I am that I cannot help but think he must have been bitter about it, though. Maybe Curley Johnson is a better person than I am.

NY Jets By the Numbers #32 - (Part 2)

Kevan Barlow

Not long ago we started a new semester at school, and a student whose name is spelled "Nezerra" became indignant when I did not pronounce a mysterious long vowel "a" at the end of her name. "It's Nezerray," she said. Number 32 Kevin Barlow's name is actually spelled Kevan Barlow, which has probably proven to be a lifetime a problem for him. Go for a search under "Kevin Barlow" in Google, and his Wikipedia entry comes up immediately, spelled correctly. We presume he has experienced a similar impatience with such things. He came to the Jets in 2006 when Curtis Martin's career-ending injuries left a hole in the backfield. But after arriving, Barlow immediately made headlines when he compared former 49er coach Mike Nolan to Adolf Hitler - a statement he retracted, but not before unwittingly justifying our glorious safari in Iraq by comparing Hitler to Saddam Hussein. It's when athletes talk that sports become truly awesome.

Anthony Johnson played on the Notre Dame squads that kept me distracted while I lost my way as a Jets fan at college. He would join the Jets, though, in 1994, after having a less than stellar career with Indianapolis, who had drafted him in 1990. He gained 12 yards for the Jets in #32. Three seasons later he would gain more than 1,000 yards for Carolina. Then his career would mysteriously taper off once again. It makes me suspicious in ways that all sports fans must be these days, except that the gods of Wiki say that today he is the Panthers' official chaplain. So there you go. In assessing the veracity of professional athletic performance, perhaps we have to cling to such things.

Leon Washington

Leon Johnson #32 was like a larger, slower version of Leon Washington, which pretty much makes him like any other running back in the NFL. Indeed, his statistics from that point of view play out this description. His kick return yardage for his rookie year of 1997 is practically Washington's cut in half, proving once again that a taller man can actually be half the player of a player (hyperbolically speaking) half his size. Leon Johnson had slightly above average stats in a few seasons with the Jets and the Bears. But I always thought to myself, "I wish they'd use him more often," which I'm sure he often thought, too. I suppose that with the exception of Brett Favre's case, this is the question haunts every player in every sport.

Eight is always a magic number in the modern game of American football. Since most teams in the game are struggling to do better than break even, all fans feel a little grateful if their team can win at least eight games, even if they are a little disappointed all the same. Each conference in the NFL fields 16 teams. This past season, eight teams in each conference won eight games or less (here I include the Jets' disappointing 9-7 mark with this group, even if it means they're lopped in with the 0-16 Lions). Statistically, I guess that this makes sense. There is parity in this league. I mention all of this as a prelude to talking about #32 Darrien Johnson because all there is to discuss about his career are eight games at defensive back for the Jets, during which he managed one tackle. Eight games in 2005 were all the Jets needed to assess him, and then he was gone from the team and the game. Eight can tell you a lot, I guess.

I suppose someone had to wear #32 during the Kotite years. Or not. Does it really matter? Sherriden May had to play for the Jets at running back at this time, and perhaps his number was merely a coincidence. Did he wear that number at the University of Idaho? Fate picks you, sometimes even by the number. Sherridan May could have worn any number other than #32, but what's more important here is that he was destined to play at running back for the the Jets in their two worst seasons (with all due respect to '75-'76). His number therefore becomes irrelevant. His statistics are so underwhelming as to not be believed, except that the Jets themselves when a jaw-dropping 4-28 from 1995-96. Nothing could have made his seasons better - not a number, not a different position. As the late Billy Preston made abundantly clear, nothing from nothing leaves nothing.

According to Jets' records, Stacy Tutt wore #32 in his work with the Jets from 2006-07, but it's funny how his pictures come up in #45. I think I remember him in #45. It just means that I don't pay attention as I should. It doesn't matter. He has recently been hired as a tight ends coach with his alma mater, the Spiders of the University of Richmond, where he once quarterbacked. I'd like to see a comprehensive list of Jets players who were once the QB stars at their college, only to see limited action at other less glorious positions.

Blair Thomas

Blair Thomas is on the famous (not updated) list one finds on YouTube of New York Jets draft busts. His wasn't the worst case, but he remains associated with the greatest bust of them all, the Bengals' Ki-Jana Carter, simply by virtue of graduating from the same position at Penn State. His first two seasons after being drafted in 1990 were impressive enough to make anyone think there was a chance he could shine on, but the NFL is unforgiving in its assessments, and often correct. If a running back diminishes on his second year, watch his third. If he tapers off as badly as Blair Thomas did in 1992, then he's done for - unless he's Anthony Johnson, the man who replaced Thomas in #32 for us, in which case he's probably a man blessed with one more good year in him somewhere. Just not with the Jets.

We Hardly Knew Ye. We Hardly Cared.

Well, we cared a little. We cared enough to believe. I wanted to believe. And now the dream, such as it was, is over. It was a brief relationship, and like many that fly by in our lifetime, this one is going to seem surreal yet inconsequential in the long run. It will ultimately be more embarrassing to Brett Favre than it was to the Jets, and I cannot imagine any team taking a page from our book and signing Brett on. This whole thing never seemed right from the start, like Cher and Gregg Allman, like Lyle Lovett and Julia Roberts, like Ernest Borgnine and Ethel Merman. How vain were we? Perhaps as vain as Brett Favre himself.

It's time to make some things clear, though:

1. The man's name is mispronounced. Everybody knows it. Nobody wants to admit it. It's French. He should be "Fav-re." That's always bothered me. The fact that only the Farrelly brothers have been willing to say it aloud just makes it worse.

2. Even if another owner smokes enough crack to allow him to play again, Favre will not (God will have to strike me down out of rage if I'm wrong) - repeat will not - bring any team to the Super Bowl. It cannot happen. It will not happen. He will just chuck the ball in the air all over again, with the same care and accuracy as, say, I would. He and I are the same age, after all.

3. He will not return. Not just because no one will have him, but because the more demure, modest, quiet withdrawal from the game this time probably signifies a sincere desire on his part. The torn muscle in his arm was a gift to him and to us. It enabled him to save face and walk away. It enabled us to believe - correctly - what we have all secretly known for months: that he is not the player he once was. So this time there were no operatic press conferences acting as dress rehearsals for a curtain call or three. He has lived to think differently, and so have we.

If you, or a friend of yours, can responsibly and efficiently lead an offense with a good front line, a moderately talented receiving corps and a strong backfield, please let Rex Ryan know. The team you save may be my own.

NY Jets By the Numbers - #32 (Part 1)

"A man is a god in ruins. When men are innocent, life shall be longer, and shall pass into the immortal, as gently as we awake from dreams."





Who is this man?






Who is this man who walks about these dying grounds, asking for neither compassion nor remembrance? He may appear lost, but he knows exactly where he is. He stalks with a mindful slowness characteristic of his age and gravity, perhaps attempting to bring memory and reality back into synthesis one last time before the end. But not his end, mind you - the end awaiting the elysian fields on which he once played many, many years ago, his home grounds - the only ones he ever knew as a professional.

This man is Emerson Boozer #32. The photograph is gratefully stolen from a small collection taken by the photographer of Jets Night at Shea, which was last July 8th, the last July 8th Shea Stadium would ever see. The stadium continues its extraordinarily fast decline, shocking us with how fast it takes to destroy something once so pedestrian and real that we assumed it would always be there, even as a nuisance. But it's going away, fast and free of nostalgia's vain restraint.

Anyway, I was planning on being there for Jets Night at Shea, if anything because I believed it was my responsibility as a Jets fan to say farewell to Shea as a Jets fan and not just as a Mets fan. I was a Jets fan before I was a Mets fan, and I first went to a Jets game at Shea a whole two years before I saw the Mets there. But I didn't make it to Jets Night. I missed seeing Greg Buttle, Bruce Harper, Wesley Walker, and Marty Lyons. And Emerson Boozer.

He wore #32 from 1966 to 1975, never once not playing in a Jets uniform; he gathered a Super Bowl ring in 1969 and a career-high 831 yards in 1973 at an autumn age in football of 30. He blocked and ran for Namath. It was his job. On that hot summer night last year, he stared across the chalk lines and greens. For years he played on a football surface that never quite looked like a complete football field. Over the course of a Jets season - whose start was always delayed by the end of the Mets' season - the baseball field at Shea slowly dissolved into a impressionist's portrait of a football field. As he stares at the baseball diamond in the Mets' final season at Shea, Boozer sees the shadows of his onetime Sunday ritual.

Finally, Emerson Boozer's very name brings together two of my great loves - Ralph Waldo Emerson and alcohol - one of which I've had to give up altogether. Like Emerson says in the quote above, innocence is immortal in the realm of men's dreams. As he stalked Shea Stadium one last time, Emerson Boozer, the winner of the Booth Lusteg Award for #32, perhaps saw himself taking a fake from #12, moving to the edge of the pocket, looking for someone to block.

Drafted out of the University of Washington, Charlie Browning was Boozer's predecessor at #32. He came into the NFL in the same year as Joe Namath, but unlike the man who handed Dan Rooney the Lombardi Trophy this past weekend, Charlie Browning's career lasted only one play in one game. He ran the ball back on a kickoff 31 yards, which isn't bad for one return. But that's it. And unlike Joe Willie, Charlie Browning #32 is no longer with us. He joined the world of the dead at some unknown time.

What happened to Charlie Browning?