Delusional

I am going through the stages of Delusion, fully expecting to land squarely in a thorny patch of reality. What are the stages of Delusion? I don't know. I think its different from plain old Denial. There might even be actual stages of Delusion, but for our purposes, let's just say that when I heard at about 4 am on local news radio yesterday that Brett Favre had been traded to the Jets, I thought I was literally still dreaming. When I tried to shake the dream away some more, I thought that maybe news radio was pulling an early morning hours prank on us again. Early on in our relationship, my wife and I swear that we heard the news radio guy say, "In other news... free french fries at Little Pete's Diner tonight." We heard wrong (but really - we heard it).

Likewise, with the Favre story, I figured they were just playing with one of the few Jets fans I know in Philadelphia. And believe me, I know myself - kind of. Anyway, once I digested it, I felt the unease that accompanies a false vision or hallucination. If you've ever had a fever dream that wandered into consciousness, you know what I'm talking about. At first, you try to shake it off, but it's not going anywhere. As Auden says, the vision seriously intends to stay. So there are stalagmites hanging from the ceiling. Someone painted the face of a clown on your wall. Your floor is 70 feet away. OK, you think, if this is the way it's going to be, then OK. I'm ready. It's whacked. But OK.

The vision kicks in. Brett is here to stay. To stay. Right? Right?

Maybe.

ESPN spoke glowingly of the deal last night. The Post, the Daily News, and Newsday all put Favre on their covers. The Times? In their usual, detached, can't-be-bothered approach to the Jets, the Times was kind enough to make it their lead in the sports section, but the first three paragraphs of the top story made it clear that the Jets fan (they presume such persons are not Times readers) is getting Favre for only a year. He's not staying, they indicated. Favre himself said, "We'll see" when asked about it. Oh, the Times seemed to suggest - like the iniquitous girl who sat next to you in your 10th grade Chemistry class back in the day - oh, you think he likes you? Oh my God! How funny! Oh, no. Nooo. He just feels sorry for you. Silly Jets fans. Aren't they so...delusional?

What's horrible is that like the bitchy classmate, the Times is often right...well, I guess with the exception of when they insisted that Clinton step down from the Presidency, or when they initially supported Bush's war in Iraq. And then there were the plagiarism scandals. Outside of that, though, they enjoy a readership in that reality-based part of the American mind that seems less important to both the News and the Post. But though I read their paper, I hate the way the Times has always relished the inadequacy of the Jets, as if they were forced to report on the bastard child as well as prince. As if the Jets were the only team that moved to New Jersey. And while the Jets are definitely not the team that won the Super Bowl last February, and while Brett probably still wants to get with an NFC team that might play Green Bay twice in a season,... I mean,...well...y'know...

Well, look at Newsday. They changed the color of their paper's trademark on the cover to green just for the occasion. You know? It's just thoughtful. Jesus. You know? A weary fan appreciates a story that exists outside the realm of reality sometimes. For now, the vision still seriously intends to stay - even if Brett doesn't.

The First Brett Favre Post

I have spent most of my 39 years of life hoping that the Jets can repeat what they did 39 years ago. I would be lying to you if I said I wasn't excited that one of football's greatest quarterbacks is playing for us, even if he was born only a year after I was. Anyone who has loved his football team as long as I have can't help but conjure visions best suited to science fiction. I'm human. I can only speak as the kind of fan whose devotion further blinds him from being objective about a likely out-of-shape quarterback trying to return for one last hurrah. I refuse to look at the reality of him playing against teams like San Diego, Denver or, of course, New England. Or even Buffalo, I guess.

"I hope Marty's got his aneurysm medicine handy," a friend of my wife's e-mailed her today. "He's going to need it when Favre throws for 240 yards and 4 interceptions against the Pats."

I know, I know. Last year, Brett Favre did look very good. But in seasons prior, he sometimes looked like a guy who was phoning it all in. Sometimes it literally seemed as though he would get in the huddle and order his receivers to follow the schoolyard instruction to "Just go out." When I was a kid we'd get into the huddle and the QB would look at us and pretend to make intricate instructions on the palm of his hand with his index finger, vainly hoping to throw off the defense just in case they happened to be spying. But he was just winging it. We knew it. He knew it. It was a crap shoot. If Favre hasn't got the playbook down, how's he ever going to avoid just chucking it downfield? I've seen that look on his face before. Ah, fuck it, it seemed to say.

But listening to the talking heads on ESPN, you'd almost be convinced that... Well, maybe...just maybe...

This from a good friend of mine: "Do your beloved Jets have a new shining light of hope? Or have they acquired a washed-up, can't make up his mind about his career quarterback? Good luck!" The answer is that in the past the Jets have sometimes made it their business to be a retirement home for legends, like Ronnie Lott and the newly inducted Hall of Famer Art Monk. Personally, I would like to see the statistics on the number of players who have ended their careers after a single season with the Jets. What about that same kind of statistic for other teams? It's practically incalculable, but I think the Jets might have the record.

Here in Philadelphia, one friend of mine, who has long looked bitterly at Favre through the eyes of being a pained Eagles fan, was incredulous. "How...?" he began. "How can you prostitute yourself like this to this guy who can't even so much as figure out where he wants to be? He doesn't care about you guys." Over lunch another Philly friend expressed her contempt by calling him a "prima donna." She hoped for his failure. She doesn't hate the Jets, or me. She had just lost that much respect for him. I am compelled to feel otherwise.

As for me, I'm not even ready to write the blog entry on Chad Pennington, who was quietly and solemnly cut from the team today. But I will eventually. I really, really liked Chad, and sometimes for just the little things. Again, no other quarterback except for Chad Pennington ever led a Jets offense as far as into the second round of the playoffs more than once. Part of me wondered (improbably) why we didn't let Clemens go and let Chad stay. I'm sure that someday soon Brett Favre will happily wave at the Lambeau crowd when his number is retired. But Chad Pennington is entitled to nurse a grudge toward an organization that never really designed an ambitious offense for him and threw Kevin Mawae and Pete Kendall off his front line. He's entitled to be bitter toward Jets fans who cheered when he got injured in the opener last year. Yet he never seemed put off. He forgave our own lack of his kind of Southern hospitality. But more on that later. That's too big for me to contemplate right now. It's been a long, strange, frightening day.

Meanwhile, here's the apt analogy my brother suggested to me today. See? Some jerseys just never seemed right in the first place. In fact, last year Mental Floss offered a montage of jerseys never meant to be worn. You were able to buy the one below at about 1:30 pm EST today.


You have been able to buy the one above since 1977, that one miserable year that Hollywood Joe spent away from Shea. You can still buy his game-worn Rams duds for $5,000. And I had to go into a career in education. What a waste.

Please Note

We have a late addition to our list of winners in the Booth Lusteg Awards for Players in the New York Jets Organization With Funny-Sounding Names:

#4 - Brett Favre

Just trying to be thorough.

Into the Modern Era...

Despite the assured move from one Bay to another, this, dated today, from the Minneapolis Star-Tribune regarding Brett Favre's status:

"The sources were also under the impression that the New York Jets were not out of the running for Favre's services."

As an altar boy in a small town in New York, there were two churches for the one Catholic parish - one Italian, one Irish. Everyone in town knew that the big Catholic church in the center of town was the one founded by the Irish, the one where the pastor lived. The other, humbly made from the granite pulled from the nearby quarry that had also been used to construct the nearby Kensico Dam, was the Italian "chapel." The Irish ran the parish, and one day the pastor decided to take the statues and idols out of the Italian church due to what he deemed "excessive idolatry." Statues of saints Mary, Jude, Joseph, Anthony and Clare were there, but so too were saints lesser known to Americans, like Cabrini and Rocco, who pointed to a wound below his knee. When the residents of the "Flats," as that section was deprecatingly called, heard of this, they were up in arms. To them it didn't matter if the pastor was addressing an issue as old as the Nicene Creed, nor that he was insisting that the Italians in town move into the modern era. Their point was not that the idols meant anything literal or miraculous; the objects simply gave inspiration to the believers. He soon saw that his would have been a losing battle for many years to come. Embittered devotees do not always forgive a slight. The statues stayed.

I'm actually grateful not to be a Packer fan. I'd prefer to go without feeling angry an entire season that a man I had come to treat like a parish icon was not welcome on my team anymore, all in the name of "moving forward" toward the club's modern era. Did Mike McCarthy insinuate that Favre was making a deal with Ted Thompson back in March for Favre's non-retirement retirement just to drive the quarterback crazy? Was McCarthy telling the truth? I can't imagine that either McCarthy or Thompson will really be better off taking the idol out of the church. As Boomer Esiason has said (and it's difficult for me to say that) no one will care whether or not the Packers made the right decision when Favre will be inducted into Canton. Packer fans will remember that he was spurned by the team, and they will not be any happier than they are now, unless Aaron Rodgers leads them to the Super Bowl in the space of time between Favre's Florida arrival and his induction speech. And that is unlikely to happen, even with Rodgers' admirable character habits, like last summer's flirtation with the fu manchu. More likely is the possibility that the people forcing Brett Favre out will already have been looking for new jobs by the time he is immortalized in bronze.

Too much of my summer has been taken up looking for quotes like the one above. There's been too much time following the insane Favre story and chastising myself for following it, knowing that the Jets are really not in consideration for his services. I know it. You know it. We have two - eventually three - quarterbacks. (Sigh). Let's just get going. Nobody's adding an idol in this parish (or building a church, for that matter). Who wants to be guilty of idolatry, anyway? Packer fans, witness to occasional miracles, are entitled to it.

A grievance, though. I would like to take issue with Harvey Araton of the Times, for suggesting the Mangini and the Jets are unworthy of Favre's attentions because of Mangini's breaking of an "honor code" (among whom? the "honorable?") and turning in evidence on Belichick. As if there had been no AFL to begin with, the Times would prefer the Jets just go away, as if they were a nuisance taking us from the full focus that they want to give the Super Bowl champion Giants. Even when the Jets were helping to prosecute dishonesty (and usually the only way to do that is to hear the canary singing of other dishonest men, like Mangini) they remain at the fuzzy end of the city's lollipop. Such is often the fate of the squealer. So be it. I'm still glad Mangini did it. The city itself still remains a bastion of the Yankees-Giants world. So be it, too. The Jets have always been the working class team, and nobody gives the blue collar anything. He must fight for his place. Though I am neither a fan of Mangini nor of the cynical leadership of Woody Johnson, I still prefer the sentiments of Angel Navedo, my personal favorite in the world of Jets blahg insanity. He has helped me to believe in my own my gut feeling from the beginning that, for better or for worse, we don't need Brett Favre. Damned be my own science fiction and pipe dreams to the contrary.

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

Another Famous Jets Fan

Having long been a fan of Adult Swim's Venture Bothers, I'm surprised that I only just recently noticed that Ned, the noseless, mentally challenged giant with three inch skin whom Jonas Venture, Jr. befriends and enlists as a henchmen, is a Jets fan. It seems appropriate that a thick-skinned retarded guy should run around Spider Skull Island naked, except for that New York Jets wool hat. I could be insulted, but it's not a bad portrayal, altogether. I own that hat.

As Dr. Jonas, Jr. says, "Sorry, but we like to let Ned make his own decisions."

Vanity Fair

Hope is the thing with feathers.
-Emily Dickinson

Under how many labels can one entry fall? L'Affaire de Favre has become something so outlandishly bizarre that I am left oddly mute. Brett Favre will actually be paid to retire, stay retired, and be part of the Packers "product," working from home in Mississippi. All the while he has played the Bucs and the Jets, perhaps to raise the dollar value of what the Pack will pay him to stay retired. He will quarterback for no one now, which was what he said he would do - or not do - earlier this spring. But now we know that these earlier plans probably included this mime show of interest in front of the gullible press. I suppose the notorious paucity of post-retirement for most players in the NFL has driven him to this extraordinary shadow play. Even I, for brief periods of time, had some ridiculous notion that he would wear our green, finding that by doing so, I too was only covered in more feathers. Look on yourself, Jets fans. There are probably a few on you, too.

Shea Stadium: The Long Goodbye

It is impossible to overstate how important Shea Stadium was to me as a kid. It was where I first fell in love - with two teams, with a city, with a borough, with nostalgia at an early age way before my time. Everything I needed to know about life I learned in the short space of a few years watching the Mets and Jets play there. Life is a brittle and ephemeral experiment with happiness. Most all else requires patient, persistent, devotion and love, even when it is not merited. This I learned at Shea.

When I was a kid, it never struck me as reasonable that the All-Star Game wasn't played at Shea (it was, back in 1965). Why wasn't Shea as beloved as Yankee Stadium? Would people someday rhapsodize nostalgically about Shea the way they did about past National League parks like Ebbets and the Polo Grounds? I did not understand that what I felt toward Shea was a bit like what my Mom felt toward me as she overlooked my unruly, mangy hair, my lisp or the huge gap between my teeth. She loved me as I was, and thus I loved big ugly Shea.

My wife and I traveled from Philly to Flushing last Saturday to catch one last game at the home ground. For sheer Shea style, the experience did not disappoint. It's clear that the landlords are providing the bare bones of facility comfort as they await the patient's demise. The area beyond the battered-looking outfield wall is like an empty lot unto itself. There was a once a picnic area beyond the 410 mark that today is the front step of the "rotunda" they are building for Citi Field. There were at least five major brawls you could follow by looking for the heavyset security men in mustard shirts amassing to break it up. The Mets and Cardinals went 14 innings with the home team losing 10-8 in a sprawling offensive struggle that saw two homers from Carlos Delgado. A lovely night and a very, very long goodbye. My wife and I managed to get to bed at three.

Here are some snapshots, with the banal observation:



From our seat, the view below, with the pocked (drainage?) turf.





The home run apple, originally bearing the words "Mets Magic," from back in the day when the Mets were proclaiming that "The Magic is Back," circa 1980. How wonderfully incomprehensible that the magician pulls an apple from the hat. It reminds me of Nick Hornby's memory of a footie game where the PA system played "I've Got a Lovely Batch of Coconuts" to celebrate a victory. The apple makes sense, I know, but it's a mixed hat of metaphors at best. No rabbit to be found anywhere. The apple is no Mackintosh; it looks its age, its membrane a battered, faded red. My wife hopes they take it to Citi Field. It's no Bernie Brewer home run slide, either, but the apple is the perfect Shea accessory. Look at the makeshift manner in which the newly recovered leaf is attached to the fruit in question.

It is not seven after three, although I think that's when we finally turned the lights out at home. If you look closely, you see that the time is actually 9:07 pm. Armitron doesn't bother to object to the poor product placement.


As night fell, as the wee small morning hours crawled in, the eerie Shea lighting became an interesting thing to observe. The powerful string of lights near the ends of the semi-circle offer the bulk of the light cast on the players. The rest of the semi-circle is in relative darkness, creating what I have always felt is a rather stark light on the field.

There he is. Cow Bell Man, or "Cow-Bell Man" as his Mets jersey reads. The crowd genuinely loves him. A man and his cowbell, or "cow-bell." He came visiting for a Mets-Phillies game at the Vet about eight years ago, and the back of his jersey read "Cow Bell-Man," which was confusing. This has since been corrected. Cow. Bell. Man. Cow. Bell. Man.


Farewell, old friend. See you at the implosion.