NY Jets #37 - Head Shots

This is not really a head shot for Billy Hardee, but this snapshot from some game in 1977 (the overcast loss to Seattle? to Pittsburgh?) is a reminder that life is filled with promises that don't quite end up as promised. That might be the running theme for this unusually diverse group of otherwise unknowns who were destined to wear #37 for the New York Jets. In this case, the lesson herein is that sometimes a snapshot has to do for a head shot, and that's just the way it is. It also does not mean that we will not call it a head shot, regardless. We reserve the right to contradict ourselves.

And Billy? He intercepted a Bert Jones pass at some unknown point in a 33-12 loss at Baltimore on November 20, 1977. This is what the record shows, but where and how did I watch the game, for surely I did. I know that if I went under hypnosis I would be able to remember details about the day and evening in question. At least I hope so. It was my parents' 12th wedding anniversary, and the game was on TV. This much is fact. Was I staying in Brooklyn with my grandmother while my parents went into town? Was I at home, watching my father tackle yet another daunting home improvement task? What does it mean that these things aren't there in my memory anymore? The score remains the same, but if I coax the memory further, will my mind affect such a change upon it that the past is changed too irrevocably for me to rely on any truth there? If I cannot recall these games from among my memory's signposts, what will I remember accurately? And if I cannot remember any of it anymore, then who exactly am I?

Let's move on.

The story behind JoJo Heath's play in #37 for the Jets is, on the surface, a simple one. He was the #37 on the 1987 replacement squad. For almost all of the replacement players we mention here, that would be enough. He showed up. But JoJo's story gets rather complex, and his might act as an object example of a larger idea we'll draw on further in this entry about the consequences of athletic dreams.

At defensive back, Joseph Elroy "JoJo" Heath was the team captain of the 1979 University of Pittsburgh team, and he was drafted in the sixth round after graduation by the Cincinnati Bengals, only then to be traded the following year to the Philadelphia Eagles. After 12 games there, Heath's career ended. Six years later, nearing 30, Heath joined the replacement squad for one last try at football and was promptly sent on his way when the replacement Jets gave way to the real Jets who, truly, did not play that much better. There is little record to show what he did as a Jet.

On December 30, 2002, JoJo Heath was found stabbed to death in a wooded area some 20 miles or so outside the Pittsburgh. He was 45 years old and was apparently the victim in a crack deal gone wrong. According to the official story, Heath came to a home regarding money owed on drugs but ended up dead from an altercation after it all went sour. He was stabbed 26 times. A confession was obtained, and in 2003, his convicted killer was sentenced.

Almost six years later, JoJo's son, JoJo, Jr., was wounded by gunfire in the midst of continuing violence among young people in and around the Pittsburgh area. I don't mean to sound so naive. Here in Philadelphia, the same menace exists among young men and women who grown up like JoJo's son, without parents or with incarcerated parents. I teach some kids who exist with that reality everyday. The remarkable thing is how limited, even futile the promise of athletics are as a means for escaping the madness. We know that almost no one that we can name has become a star in the NFL, but in our mythical, boundless dream world of American fame and success, sports do more than flesh out our aspirations. They mask the true realities of those hopes, too. They make us believe that anyone can do it. It may not be the fault of the game but a fault within a culture like ours where if we dream it, we believe we should have it. Would that it were so.

This might do for our introduction to another head shot of former Jets cornerback #37 Anthony Prior. Prior was distinguished as a player more for his speed than anything else, and his journey through the Jets went then to the Vikings, then to the Raiders. He also spent time in the CFL. What distinguishes him here is that he is a lone player to speak eloquently about something that has bothered me throughout this naming and numbering process over this past year: about how short an NFL player's career is, and how little reward - aside form the quick and fleeting cash - there is in the end. That does not even speak for the nameless, endless numbers of people who will never even get off the college football bench after making athletics the core of their educational study. And to what end?

Here is the Nation's review of Prior's book, The Slave Side of Sunday, and here is his somewhat riveting talk on the subject of football's empty promises to African-American men. I would suggest that any athlete is better off in the modern era than in past years where his pay was about as good as a teacher's. But perhaps our updated assumptions about athletics as a golden ticket have lead us to think of athletes as having no potential other than the one that requires that they eventually be ground down to a nub for our entertainment, all in exchange for big money. I don't know if Prior's statistics on the number of football aspirants who actually make it to the pros is true (and his style of presentation is somewhat broad) but it doesn't feel exaggerated in light of the fate of JoJo Heath. The sentiment rings true.

NY Jets #37 - The Artists

What's the hard part? The hard part isn't finding a thousand generalized themes about Jets in #'s 12, 13, or 28. It's finding a single decent binding thought about a football player who's worn #37. (There's Shaun Alexander.) Likewise, it's difficult to name a single #37 on the New York Jets worth his wax enough to make an impression on an overly receptive mind

If this were baseball, it wouldn't be that difficult. Some numbers in baseball are talismans. Two magnificent #37's from different eras in baseball are Casey Stengel and Bill Lee, each of whom is known for what he did on the field, yes, but also for his virtual reinvention of the English language. In baseball, #37 embodies a quality of eccentricity and even a strain of individuality almost too frustrating for team sports.

Football has never been particularly kind to quirky individualists, and so its numbers are treated with with little reverence for the power of the uncontrollable. There really aren't any Mark Fidryches in football - people whose entire persona seems built around gestures of obsessiveness and peculiarity. "Quirky" gets fired in football. It is a sport briskly intolerant of uniqueness. Its eccentricities turn into self-aggrandizing dysfunctions that make everybody wince in embarrassment. Take Ochocinco's tiresome attempts at humor, each one less funny than the last. Or Terrell Owens' closeted weirdness, as he lifts weights on his lawn. In each case, the eccentricity is just an extension of the man's frantic, dull insecurity.

It's hard to laugh in a state of siege, and maybe that's why there's no self-consciousness in football. The beguiling prayer circles I see at the end of football games make sense when players gather together for a crippled teammate or foe. Some cultures under siege find consolation in self-deprecating humor; others find themselves unable to bear the idea of a laugh, so they pray, solemnly. Creative self-expression has a hard time in an atmosphere of perpetual violence.

So #37 is just another man up or down, right? Thus is the attrition of America's game.

Well, let's start with Darien Barnes, anyway. He played for us in #37 for the 2007 season at fullback, a role intended to provide blocks for Thomas Jones. It did not work out. Much was written all over the place over Barnes' lack of efficacy at the position in that dismal season. He signed afterwards with the Buffalo Bills. There are many good points at this link about the general lack of success among Jet free agents in 2007; for once, free agents were less effective than draft choices for the Jets. Scroll down on the link, and you'll see SoFlaJets offer the following unintended piece of free verse:

darien barnes was terrible

make no mistake

this is a good thing to have an open roster spot,

maybe they can swoop in on someone's Psquad

But while we're on the subject of art, let me take the opportunity to mention that Barnes is also recognized as a comic book collector and, if one can take his word, a future author of comics. I mention this because, as he himself notes, Barnes might be considered a "dork" among his colleagues if word were out that he loved graphic literature (as we English teachers call it). Like I say, there is not much room for the inner life in American football.



But wait - don't despair. Not yet. Check out George Nock who played in #37, at roughly the same position from 1970-71. He was drafted, I believe, as the next Matt Snell. Nothing worked properly for the Jets those two seasons, no matter what the plan. Somewhere I have the sticker for George Nock in the Sunoco sticker book from 1972, but by that time, like Verlon Biggs, Nock had become a Jetskin. The last game of his career was the Redskins' Super Bowl loss to the perfect Dolphins.

But look here - George Nock is today a bronze sculptor, and a rather successful one if you consider the expense of such works.

Have I got this whole thing wrong? Is this a game that actually nurtures artists?

The current draft choices for the Jets should be worried that as soon as their likely brief careers are over, they'll be relegated to the purgatorial worlds of real estate, insurance sales, or physical education. Worse, they might face drug abuse, psychological trauma, racketeering, madness, alcoholism and/or incarceration. But maybe, just maybe, #37 can teach them a little something about the inner life after football. Maybe there's something in there for all of us.

Let the artist within speak. Perhaps the game is not an endgame. You are yourself, even amid the torrent of rage and competition. To paraphrase Emerson, let every heart vibrate to that iron string.

Surprised?

Yes, I was surprised that the Jets actually went ahead and did it. But I'm not happy about it.

There are lots of reasons to be unhappy about it. There are lots of reasons to be unhappy. I know I don't have to take them all seriously, but there are some tawdry parts of this already tainted draft process that make me even queasier than usual. Mark Sanchez was selected in a gesture of exceptional draft ballet in large measure because the Jets need a "marquee" player to fill their stadium, to justify their PSL's. And if the blather is to be believed, Shonn Greene was picked because his considerable potential will send a message to the unhappy Thomas Jones. Each of these is worthy of George Steinbrenner in its machinations, and because the Jets have never had a front office that works this way (and that may be a good thing) I am vaguely intrigued.

But it's cynical, isn't it? It's about seats and contracts, not about building a team. It's about short-term goals, not in building a future. How can Mark Sanchez, in a couple of years, possibly fulfill the financial aspirations of a limping football team in the most competitive market in America? On the other hand, the Patriots continue to think for the future, imagining the picks they might get in 2010. We worry about a contract dispute.

Promises, Promises

It's been a while since I last wrote; I'm in the process of buying a house. The word "process" is appropriate. It's a little like a quest, a spirit journey, even a fruitless errand. There's negotiation, duck, fade, feint, rebound, masquerading and even presenting one's rear. The NFL Draft obsesses us because it has all of the qualities of this most American obsession with buying our dreams; it encompasses so many desires of beginning again and creating something entirely new. Most of this is an illusion. The person I will find myself to be on another day in another place is very likely the same person writing this in his t-shirt and boxers on his couch on a Saturday, waiting for the NFL Draft to start.

The Draft itself is filled with illusory promises. What's remarkable is that most of us who have followed football for a couple of decades, if not more, already know this. Most of the time, the draft produces careers tinged with moments of success yet doomed to early ends. The Jets Among Men (shameless, desperate promotion #1), my current life's work, seems to suggest that whether we were picked in the first or third rounds, our careers in football ("ours?") will be short. Football is all about attrition, yet the draft promises immortality to young men in their first expensive suits who put the caps of their new teams awkwardly on their heads. This moment will exist forever. Most of the time, it's a bust. Most of the time, we know it's going to be a bust. When JaMarcus Russell held out for as long as he did after being drafted by the idiotic Raiders, we knew all along (as we know now) that the entire affair was a waste of time.


It's an extension of the constant tests of loyalty we fans in football must endure. We must endure the false promises, the ridiculous hype, the personal shame, the recriminations with every pick. Who knows? This might be the season. No, it's not. In the balcony of Radio City each year, the locals in green and white show up and perform an impromptu opera of disappointment and hope, demanding what they know full well they will never get. If they did not feel this way, they would not be fans, let alone Jets fans.

We need a really good receiver, a really good tight end, and another really good prospect at quarterback if such a one exists after Mark Sanchez. Josh Freeman will not be the answer; I just don't believe a good quarterback can be drafted into the market of New York, except if he plays for the Giants. I would like to see us draft Brandon Pettigrew from OK State. I would also like to believe that Vernon Gholsten will make good on his promise at linebacker after one year with us. But I know it's an illusion. The thing with feathers strikes again.

Harry Kalas 1936-2009

When I was a kid the first voice of football was and always will be Jon Facenda, a Philadelphia TV newsman who was hired by NFL Films to narrate the year-end roundups of teams and best performances. Facenda's normal vocal frequency was similar in timbre and pitch to the Old Testament's Almighty - immortal, distant and imperial.

But when NFL Films did their weekly reviews and Game of the Week, they used Harry Kalas' voice, and it was not until I moved to Philadelphia 17 years ago that I realized that Harry was actually the Philadelphia Phillies' broadcaster. After using CBS' Ray Scott for many years, Ed Sabol turned to yet another Philadelphia voice to describe the weekly action; Harry Kalas' voice always struck me as more genial, warm and conversational than Facenda's voice or Scott's. He was first a football guy to me.

Kalas died today while preparing for yet another on-air assignment for the Phillies, and though we all assume he died doing the thing he loved, it's no consolation to those of us who have relied on him, summer by summer. Some of my co-workers were weeping today at the news, and people talked about it at the end of the workday as if a head of state had passed unexpectedly. A few sentimentally speculated that Kalas was met in the Afterlife by his old sidekick, Richie "Whitey" Ashburn, with some nicely aged scotch.

Like Harry Carey, Skip Carey, Myron Cope, or Johnny Most, Harry belonged to a generation of broadcasters who were themselves larger than life characters. Their work in the booth was enhanced by the broad public appeal they had, for better or for worse. They were always partisan in their loyalties to their teams. And they were a far cry better than the analytical, statistically savvy talking heads of today's play-by-play whose impersonality or haughtiness (not just Joe Morgan's) are a product of a time when the players themselves seem so distant from the emotions they elicit in the fans. Broadcasters like Harry simply reflected a different time, a time lost to sports entirely.

Here he is, getting a chance to call the last out in the last complete season he would do for his beloved Phils, as they won the World Series last Fall. His cohort in the booth, Chris Wheeler, is really the funniest part of the video, but still, it was very rewarding to hear Harry get the call. The last time he had done the honors was 1980. We're all glad he had a chance to repeat before he was gone.

It was an unusual voice, one that sounded almost like someone speaking while breathing in. Yet, particularly as he aged,he took on a mellowing, reassuring sound that reflected, no doubt, the enduring patience of many losing seasons, many lost and miserable games. He was a colorful character in every sense, but Harry's sonorous play-by-play was a gentle current flowing in the background of summer Sunday afternoons, and he accompanied the air conditioner in our bedroom as we fell asleep at night; he faithfully wove together the July and August evenings, creating a routine of saying goodnight to yet another summer night, farewell to yet another summer week. Goodnight, Harry.

NY Jets By The Numbers - #35 (Part 2)

Billy Joe?

That's right. Number 35, running back Billy Joe. "Billy Joe what?" you ask. I know of a Billy Joe Dupree, a Billy Joe Tolliver, a Billy Joe Hoefert, the mysterious "Ode to Billie Joe" that got a name change when it became a movie. But a flesh and blood Billy Joe with no further surname of which to speak? The answer is the same as the one about the one hand clapping; William Joe, running back for the Jets from 1967 to 1969.

Billy Joe. It conjures a hayseed, a country bumpkin. Big ol' Billy Joe. That big fella Billy Joe from Ancora, South Carolina. Big Billy Joe with what looks like a walleye and buck teeth. What do you think of the big city, Billy Joe?

Well, Billy Joe actually played for and graduated from Villanova. Imagine what Billy Joe might have done at Alabama or Auburn had they been integrated? Billy Joe won Rookie of the Year honors for the AFL and then garnered two AFL Championship rings, one with the Buffalo Bills in 1965 and one with the Jets in 1968. By the time he reached Flushing he may have seemed a belated nuisance to most Jets fans since they had rooted against Billy Joe on the nights and days when he played against us. He ran the bench squarely behind Snell, Boozer and Mathis. When Boozer's pernicious corns and bunions acted up in the home game against Boston in 1968, Joe scored three fourth quarter rushing touchdowns in a 48-14 win.

And where is Billy Joe now? In the College Football Hall of Fame, that's where. He's been coaching college football on and off since 1972. This is our Ode to Billy Joe. He's probably the most successful Jets' #35 we've studied and certainly among retired New York Jets he is the most successful football coach. Funny name? Maybe. Maybe it's even worth a Booth Lusteg. Obviously Billy Joe was, and is, a born winner.

****

We can dispense with the niceties. We have three names here from different eras. First there's Ed Kovac. Was he your driver's ed instructor? Your State Farm agent? Well, he played two games for the New York Titans in 1962 in #35 as well. Then there's Del Lee. I'm not sure how many games in #35 he played for the Jets in 1999, but he's in there somewhere and there somewhere out there right now, somewhere. And Tim Newman who's our scab replacement in #35 from the 1987 strike season. I don't even know what position he played. I could find out, but then he crossed a picket line. Nineteen eighty-seven was also the year I went away to college, and my mother had two parting pieces of advice for me: 1) Go to Mass 2) Don't ever cross a picket line. Of course, I'm sure Tim Newman had his reasons. He wanted to play. Don't we all?

Dennis Onkotz always assumed he would, and we can't blame him for assuming it. Drafted by us in the third round in 1970, the Jets had such high hopes for him that they let him wear the uncharacteristic #35 for a linebacker. That was the number he wore at Penn State as he set the standard in the Nittany Lion linebacking tradition to come of Jack Ham, Greg Buttle, Shane Conlon, Andre Collins, Brian Gelzheiser, Lavar Arrington, Brandon Short, Paul Posluszny, and Dan Connor. The full story is here, but he lasted only half a season long with the Jets, at which point Dennis Onkotz - model for those who came after him in Happy Valley - broke his leg and was eventually out of football for good. Just like that. To be fair, 1970 was apparently a popular year (among many) for key Jets players to be on the DL.

Finally, Danny Woodhead. I don't yet know whether Billy Joe or Danny Woodhead gets the Booth Lusteg for sure, but Danny gets a place in a subcategory assigned him alongside Dicks Wood and Felt: a funny name with a funnier redundancy. Nevertheless, Danny Woodhead also gets the Scrappy, an award I just made up this very second for the player most likely to be thus described by a color commentator. The requirements for this award are that the man in question has to remind the fan of Wayne Chrebet, Bruce Harper, Scotty Dierking or Mike Augustinyiak, another #35. Danny Woodhead manages all of these things just by being himself.

But in the real world, Danny Woodhead #35 - who has never played a single regular season game for the Jets - is a kind of 5'7" legend in places where the corn grows very, very high. He is the pride of Chadron State, a star in Nebraska, where most of the great stars traditionally come from Lincoln. Right now in the heartland there are, very possibly, polygamous cults being developed in tribute to his extraordinarily metaphorical stature. Try to grasp that he owns the NCAA single season and career rushing records, which is mind-boggling. No one but our beloved team even considered him for 2008. But then he blew out his knee last July at Hofstra, and though our scrappy fans have a soft spot for the underdog which eludes spoiled rotten Patriot fans, it looks as if Danny Woodhead will probably suffer the same fate as Dennis Onkotz. Another Local Hero has gone over the side of the professional game's Tallahatchie Bridge. Pass the biscuits, please.

On God and the Draft

My recent little Jets draft blunder item, from Toni Monkovic of the Times:

Dewayne Robertson was cut by the Broncos. The Jets moved up in the 2003 draft, trading two first-round picks, to get him at No. 4. That strategy almost never works. And certainly didn’t in this case.

(from Rotoworld):

Broncos released DLs Dewayne Robertson and John Engelberger, LBs Jamie Winborn and Niko Koutouvides, TE Nate Jackson, and SS Marquand Manuel.

The moves save a cool $22.2M under the salary cap. Robertson’s cap figure was $16M, a ridiculous amount for a league-average wave tackle with bum knees. The No. 4 overall pick in 2003, Robertson is 27 but may not have more than a season left in him.

Extra point: The Jets gave up their No. 13 and No. 22 picks to get Robertston. Had they stayed put, they could have chosen from among Troy Polamalu, Calvin Pace, Willis McGahee, Dallas Clark, Larry Johnson, Nick Barnett and Nnamdi Asomugha, all of whom went in the 16-31 range.

Monkovic also quotes Mike Florio of PFT on the relationship American football players (rarely the smartest kids in your college Psych class) have with their understanding of the will of God. Though I sometimes think the draft is God's curse on Gang Green, I remember that the Jets are just inept. God love them.