12 Things I Know Are True (UPDATED)

• Calvin Pace’s advertisement encouraging people to get tested for HIV is obviously not intended as an encouragement to get tested for drugs specializing in performance-enhancement. True. However, he has seven sacks in fewer games than his cohorts, yet leads the team. Pass it around, Calvin.
  

• Vernon Gholsten (remember him?) is a man with a gigantic, heat-inducing magnifying glass above him, held by an equally gigantic kid with a boredom problem, who basically represents… Well, me, maybe. I don’t know. True. No sacks, no interceptions.
  

• Mark Sanchez has managed to appear dumb before even coming to New York. Why must he try to act like Tom Brady before taking a snap? Why must the Mets wear black to look like the Yankees? A pointlessly silly comment. He's given us a fun year. Everybody went on about his poise and then went on about going on about his poise. I don't need to discuss. The Mets, with Jason Bay, and without a starter to support Johan Santana, have only a long-delayed decision to go with the old throwbacks next year. Although apparently they will still wear black. Why? Isn't black too hot to wear in the sun?
  

• Mark Sanchez will start opening day?? Really?? Somebody call Browning Nagle and ask him how his career went as a rookie starter. I know, I know. Matt Ryan. Joe Flacco. Keep intoning. Breathe. Repeat. Ignore the statements about sophomore slumps. Both Matty Ice and Flacco have had statistically good years, even if their teams are underachieving. Remarkably, I have hope for Sanchez. With 12 TD's to his 20 INT's (and counting!) he really is on pace to become the next Joe Namath.
  

• Rex Ryan has changed the “culture” at Hofstra – er, Florham Park – er, Cortland. He is apparently OK with players making mistakes. He smiles more than Eric Mangini, but then I do, too, and I suffer from depression. The question is, what will activate the Ryan gene for inexplicable behavior? Yeah, but Rex Ryan weeps!! Did his Dad ever do that, in front of his team?
  

• The Jets will lose their first six games of the regular season. This will bring the culture back to normal. Lies. They won the first three games, a brief spat of winning that brought sunshine through my barren soul. The culture remains intact because they lost the next three after that, stand at the final week 8-7, poised for an improbable playoff spot and what will likely be a loss at home for their last game at the Meadowlands. Fair is fair.
  

• Real, imagined, fictional, absolutely true, player, entourage – in any event, rape against women surrounds the real culture of American football. True, I guess. Although we heard less about it this season. It didn't mean it didn't happen. A player seems to die every year in a needless act of violence, too. And at least everybody's topic was head injuries.
  

• Plaxico Burress will not sign with the Jets because he’s probably going to serve as much time as Michael Vick (but possibly more than Donte Stallworth?) Sure, whatever. But who would have guessed that Michael Vick would become mundane? The key is the phrase, "only in Philadelphia." A friend of mine came back for a visit after 15 years, and he immediately picked up on the general air of hostility that pervades the City of Brotherly Love. Is Mike Vick a better person. The Philadelphian's answer: "Oy dannow. Down eesk may. What you looking at may faw? That's got no nuthin' ta dow wit may."
  

• Thomas Jones and Leon Washington are both a little hurt, feelings-wise. But Shonn Greene is going to be a better pick than Mark Sanchez. (I know, I know. They play different positions.) No. Leon Washington is a little hurt because he shattered his leg. Thomas Jones should be hurt because he's not in the Pro Bowl. Shonn Greene is a little hurt because he hasn't quite lived up to all our expectations.
  

• But, more importantly, will Danny Woodhead still play for us this season? What a movie that would make. YES!! Danny Woodhead: #83. 131 total yards. The pride of Chadron State, Nebraska.
  

• Kellen Clemens will start for us? Really? Really?? No.
  

• Nobody is reading this right now. True.
  

Last Night

It has been so long since I last posted. I know where I am in this world enough to know that creating anything will get you nowhere except further along in your creativity, which is something, at least. Sometimes that doesn't seem enough, though. Sometimes you look in other places, and what you discover is that the person you want to be is staring back in the mirror wondering what needs to be done that day. Strange how it doesn't make you any happier with yourself. But there you are. Now get on with it.

You are a Jets fan, after all.

Last night, I watched the Bears-Vikings on MNF, nurturing a an unsurprising grudge. This game represented what I hoped would be a culmination of feelings bottled up all year. These are feelings that many similarly self-respecting people have been quietly sharing for some time, I would imagine. Nurtured within these is a deep desire to see Brett Favre crash and burn the way he did last year. I try not to act like a petty man, but I am one by nature. I like to see bad behavior punished, no matter how long it takes. Like so many people, for one reason or another, I have come to genuinely dislike this singularly narcissistic, selfish, and talented man. He abandoned me, Paramus, Massapequa and Massapequa Park the way he once abandoned the entire state of Wisconsin, and now I feel that one thing that might still unite this nation of deluded religious fundamentalists and featherheads would be to share a mutual desire to see this one man punished in the manner of the ancient Greeks.

And thus it seemed possible. For three quarters, he seemed befuddled, rushed, hurried, even confused. He had undermined his coach earlier in the week, and with that his team, just as usual. He wasn't the incompetent, bored jackass of last year, but a 23-6 deficit to the Bears sufficed. The score drew closer, though. So I watched the whole game. I can't remember the last time I watched an entire Monday night game. You try doing it and teaching tenth graders at 7:45 am Tuesday morning.

Then there was that drive that ate up what seemed like five minutes toward the end of the fourth quarter and drew the tie with an absolutely brilliant pass to Sidney Rice. My heart sank because I was obviously witnessing what makes this self-centered man special to begin with. He is not like you and me. Obviously I felt renewed and overjoyed when Cutler won the game with a touchdown pass, but the possibility of losing a bye to the Eagles was not enough. I want to see the man crushed. I want his spirit broken the way he broke ours. The work is not yet accomplished. But I feel in my heart it will be.

That night, I dreamt that I had a boil on my face the size of a golf ball. I was about to teach class, but Brett Favre, in a Brooks Brothers suit, stepped forward and walked into my principal's office and insisted, without acknowledging me at all, "That Roche can't teach today in that condition!" Damn you, man! I will have my revenge!

New York Jets #41 - Part 3

Well, this got complicated, but it's about to get simpler. We finish the number 41 with the 1998 appearance of Keith Byars in #41 for the Jets. This is a man who, missing nearly a full season at Ohio State, still managed to be near the top of their rushing categories all time. If I were a fanatical Buckeye fan - and God only knows what universal stratagem prevented that from happening - I would drop an excess amount of money in my insomniac moments over the Internets on a Keith Byars jersey. He was a monster. Watch this return of a punt in the 1984 Fiesta Bowl against Pittsburgh, and you see what I mean. Look for his teammate, Pepper Johnson among the human Buckeye pile in the end zone.

Then there's this little gem from sometime in 1990, I think. Keith Byars was playing for the Philadelphia Eagles, and had been since 1986. The game is Giants-Iggles on the hard, cold concrete surface of Veterans Stadium in Philly. On a Randall Cunningham QB breakaway, Keith Byars lays a block on his former teammate Pepper Johnson that is so terrifying that Pepper looks as though his body is reacting to the shockwave of an explosion. He literally goes horizontal in midair. Textbook Buddyball, and yes, that is Rich Kotite supervising the activities of the Eagles' offense on the sideline. Pepper Johnson probably feels Byars' block on him even to this day as he rolls out of bed in the morning.

Keith Byars, ball, midair

Jump ahead some eight years, and Keith and Pepper are now teammates on the Jets. It is the AFC Championship Game, January 1999. I offer some of his little bits of brilliance above because it's Keith Byars' fumble late in the first half, deep in Denver territory, that still recurs in my nightmares. In some sense it turned the game around, though the Jets still lead at the half. It's hardly fair to point this out, but it took the wind out of the Jets' timid sail. It's also not a good parting memory for a man who played hard and well for so many years, but as Jet, Keith Byars remains in my mind as you see him here - fixed in midair, playing in the last game of his career, suddenly conscious of the fact something has gone terribly wrong. We all felt the same way that day, Keith. I often feel that way in general. I am a Jets fan. And he was not alone in blundering; this was one of six Jet turnovers in the Title Game. Curtis Martin fumbled on the Denver 44 later on. It was the last game of Pepper Johnson's career, too.

Keith Byars' fumble is the snapshot in my mind that acts as the bookend to an embryonic schema, my first nurturing sensation from the football world, which is #41 Matt Snell's touchdown in Super Bowl III. They are exactly 30 years and one week apart from one another. The Jets have yet to get that far since January 1999. When will the next snapshot come?

NY Jets #42 - Part 3

I was in Memphis, visiting my parents when I saw the news that Ronnie Lott #42 was joining the New York Jets. This would be summer of 1993, after my horrific first year of graduate school that saw at least one major anxiety attack and certainly one nervous breakdown. Some things just look like good decisions from the start, and even though most of my professors thought I was wholly unprepared to do what I was trying to do, I was deluded into thinking they were wrong. I'm not sure that has anything to do with Ronnie Lott, but I was similarly deluded into thinking that when we signed Lott, Leonard Marshall and Art Monk, the Jets were trying to so something that other people thought they couldn't do, like make the playoffs.

And it didn't work out. Neither did grad school, though I got my degree, so technically it worked out. The Jets? Not so much. Instead of being like the 1990 San Francisco 49ers, the Jets ended up looking more like the 1962 New York Mets, gathering future Hall of Famers - and NFL All-Time Team members, I think - like Monk and Lott at the tail end of their efficacy. As I recall, upon being signed, Lott said something to the effect that he hoped other talented players would take the offers of free agency cash that the Jets were handing out back then. I was always liked Ronnie Lott. Maybe he thought the Jets would make the playoffs in 1993. But younger, talented players demurred his suggestion. He pulled an average year in 1993 and started 15 games in 1994, a legendary season among Jets' collapses. Duke Snider is in the Hall of Fame as a Dodger, Richie Ashburn as a Phillie, neither of them as a Met, despite their sporadic appearances in the 1962 lineup. Lott is in the Hall as a Niner. Monk is in as a Redskin.

****

There was once a time when the Times allowed you to read any of their articles online for free so long as you were a member. Obviously those days are over, and I half convinced myself that a downloading binge I went on two years ago was responsible. "There's an idiot in Philadelphia who's pulling up every article on the New York Jets' seasons in the 1970's, and we're not seeing anything in return!" Obviously that's not the case, but I'm a serious person. When I was 13 and apparently friendless, or at least certainly without the possibility of anything resembling a girlfriend, I spent most of my time in my high school library trolling through spool after spool of Time magazine microfilm, reading back issues going back at least 20 years. It was as if I had returned to consciousness after a two-decades long coma, trying to find out about all I had missed. More likely I was what I was - a baffled child in the Reagan years of nationalist sleepwalking when all the country seemed nettled by the cultural revolutions of its recent past but insisted on going on acting as if they had never happened. I'm not sure Time really helped clarify all that, but, again, I was 13. And there was no Interwebs.

Anyway, I just paid the New York Times $4.50 to double-check some information on Cliff McClain #42, Jets' running back from 1970-73. Maybe it's an extravagance when for the same amount of money I can buy myself an afternoon's on-street parking in Center City Philadelphia, sure, but bear with me. What I'm about to share with you might have changed the course of professional football history.

Cliff McClain had a fairly ordinary football career; at the risk of offending the subject himself, one might even go so far as to say his career was not particularly successful and that he probably saw little play time. He gained around 400 yards over four seasons, and he retired a Jet.

On November 19, 1972, the Jets traveled to the Orange Bowl to play the undefeated Miami Dolphins. By this time the Jets were 6-3 while the Dolphins needed only one more win to clinch the AFC East. The Jets had been a split-personality team in 1972 - a "jittery" one, as Sports Illustrated called them. The truth is that they were almost a good team, certainly not a great one, playing what most people believe (not me) was the greatest team of them all. And by the start of the fourth quarter, the Jets were winning, 24-21. One of the hallmarks of the Dolphins that season is that when they went down, they always came back, and they did come back and win that game, 28-24, clinching it on a Mercury Morris touchdown. No surprise.

No surprise either also that the Morris touchdown was enabled by a Jets turnover in Miami territory, in this case, on what is reported to be a muffed handoff between Namath and Cliff McClain with the Jets ahead. We are free to place blame all around if we like. I'm sure there are ways of finding out what happened, but it's true that this particular turnover midway through the fourth was what sent the Jets to the showers. Instead of placing blame, let us suggest instead that Cliff McClain was simply witness to a piece of history, a crucial turning point. The Dolphins would win every game handily after that one and then saunter into the playoffs. The Jets were their last real challenge of the regular season.

Imagine if the handoff had actually gone well and then a variety reasonably fortunate circumstances lead to an ever more remote Jets score - let's say, even, another Namath touchdown pass, maybe to Rich Caster or Don Maynard. Yes, the idea of this is unlikely, but work with me. History is filled with options and possibilities that, reason tells us, could have happened. A touchdown later in the game would have meant that the Dolphins would have had to have mounted an even greater comeback, which, in all likelihood, they would have had to make in order to win. According to what I know, there was enough time. But imagine of they didn't.

The possibility is remote, I grant you. The Dolphins third touchdown earlier in the game is indicative of how remote it is. This was scored by Earl Morrall, on a 31-yard bootleg. Try to understand that Morrall was 38 years old by that point, which means he was older than the number of yards he scampered on the play and that everyone, including Earl, was absolutely slackjawed at how much room he had been given to lumber. If Earl Morrall could find that kind of hole, how much more would the Jets have given up to a rallying Miami offense late in the game? Again, I grant you.

But consider the possibility of Cliff McClain not fumbling and you entertain, down one circuitous route of conjecture after another, that the Jets might have held on to win at the Orange Bowl, that the 1972 Miami Dolphins would be regarded as great but probably second to the 1985 Chicago Bears (whom I feel reign supreme) as the greatest football team ever, and would never have held the one record that has been most elusive to the Patriots and the Colts in our era, that of complete perfection, from September to the Super Bowl. The mind reels. Just as in igh school, my mind evidently has nothing better to do.

THINGS I KNOW ARE TRUE - or I wonder if they're true:


(in no particular order)

• Calvin Pace’s advertisement encouraging people to get tested for HIV is obviously not intended as an encouragement to get tested for drugs specializing in performance-enhancement.

• Vernon Gholsten (remember him?) is a man with a gigantic, heat-inducing magnifying glass above him, held by an equally gigantic kid with a boredam problem, who basically represents… Well, me, maybe. I don’t know.

• Mark Sanchez has managed to appear dumb before even coming to New York. Why must he try to act like Tom Brady before taking a snap? Why must the Mets wear black to look like the Yankees?
  

• Mark Sanchez will start opening day?? Really?? Somebody call Browning Nagle and ask him how his career went as a rookie starter. I know, I know. Matt Ryan. Joe Flacco. Keep intoning. Breathe. Repeat.
  

• Rex Ryan has changed the “culture” at Hofstra – er, Florham Park – er, Cortland. He is apparently OK with players making mistakes. He smiles more than Eric Mangini, but then I do, too, and I suffer from depression. The question is, what will activate the Ryan gene for inexplicable behavior?

• The Jets will lose their first six games of the regular season. This will bring the culture back to normal.

• Real, imagined, fictional, absolutely true, player, entourage – in any event, rape against women surrounds the real culture of American football.

• Plaxico Burress will not sign with the Jets because he’s probably going to serve as much time as Michael Vick (but possibly more than Donte Stallworth?)
  

• Thomas Jones and Leon Washington are both a little hurt, feelings-wise. But Shonn Greene is going to be a better pick than Mark Sanchez. (I know, I know. They play different positions.)

• But, more importantly, will Danny Woodhead still play for us this season? What a movie that would make.

• Kellen Clemens will start for us? Really? Really??

• Nobody is reading this right now.

NY Jets #41 - Part 2

Almost 30 years ago, I came home from school and Mom presented me with Matt Snell's autograph. She had been having lunch that day with Uncle Mike, and he showed her this little momento of an earlier night out. It was written on the base of what looked like a bar tab, not even the size of an index card. Uncle Mike had held Jets season tickets at Shea with my Dad for years, and he certainly recognized Matt Snell's almost perfectly square-jawed face from across the crowded bar. He asked that the autograph be dedicated to the biggest Jets fan Uncle Mike knew. The inscription reads, "To Marty - Go Jets - Matt Snell."

I just moved into my first house since leaving for college 22 years ago. Since that time, I have lived in dorms, in a rooming house in England, in a commune in St. Louis, in five different rented apartments in Philadelphia, and now here, in the East Falls section of the city, I live in my own house. Matt Snell's signature has always come with me wherever I have gone. I can't describe it. It's not something I show to people, and if I do, my little framed companion elicits no more than a slightly bemused, "Well, how about that."

I think I've unpacked everything. Lots of things are still sitting around in the dining room, waiting to be put somewhere. But my little framed detached base of a bar tab has yet to show. It's impossible that it should have gotten lost. I've always had it. I would not have thrown it away, and I know for a fact that my wife would not have either. It doesn't make sense. It simply does not make sense.

****

Here is Matt Snell on the cover of a program for a Jets home game at Shea against the Chargers in October 1966, a game Dad and Uncle Mike must have attended. The Jets won 17-16, and the player featured on the program scored the Jets' first touchdown of the game. Matt Snell emerges like a Marvel Comics character from what looks like a large gun, the barrel of which is obviously a gutted out football. Talk about mixed metaphors. Snell himself looks utterly impassive about the wanton destruction he is causing all around him, and without his helmet. And though all around him exists in color, Matt Snell's face is apparently black and white. The artist is renowned sports cartoonist, Murray Olderman.

By this time, Snell was a fixture in the Jets backfield. It's interesting that he was the focus of this particular program, which makes me think it was probably drawn a year or two earlier. By 1966, Joe Namath was already starting quarterback for the team and the franchise player and the League marquee all in the one. Two years earlier, Matt Snell was the first bonus baby of sorts for the Jets. Drafted in the fourth round by the New York Giants out of Ohio State, he was taken in the first round in the 1964 AFL draft by the Jets. This might explain a particular aesthetic choice made by Olderman. It would make more sense for players of AFL teams to be shown being thrown around by Matt Snell emerging from his football/gun, but take a closer look and see that at least one of the sprawling figures looks suspiciously like a member of the New York Giants, right down to the stripes along his leg and on the helmet.

Matt Snell had a couple of firsts. He is the first running back to gain over 100 yards in a Super Bowl. Throughout Super Bowl III he is seen lowering his head and placing one crushing blow after another on the heads of Colts defenders. Specifically, he knocked cornerback Rick Volk out of the game but apparently sent him flowers the following day, which was a nice gesture. Snell also emerged like a bullet out of a human-sized football/gun in his rookie year when he gained 948 total yards, which is somewhat remarkable by rookie standards. In a 16-game season, he would have gained well over 1,000 yards, which I realize is becoming less and less of a big deal. Successful running games are such a key to so many teams' success even now that many running backs are simply worn down to a nub. And this was true of Matt Snell. He would never approach his rookie yard mark again.

Part of that was the reliance on the passing game, but Snell would also spend most of 1967 out with injuries, and knee problems would keep him from his earlier efficacy for the remainder of his career, though he did go All-Pro in 1969. His last two seasons in the early 70's would simply be spent standing in a uniform. But when I was growing up, my mother constantly reminded me that Matt Snell was always expected to block effectively for Namath, and block he did, like a lineman. I feel this was intended as a lesson in unselfishness and that no important role is too small for anyone. I'm not so certain Matt Snell thought of it that way, but I'm sure it worked on me.

In 1973, a year after he officially retired, Matt Snell was also the first athlete to be featured in a Lite Beer ad. In the history of marketing, this is the equivalent of the first hit of DiMaggio's streak. Lite Beer ads were an institution for anyone watching a sporting event in the 1970's and 80's, and mostly, they were all worth watching every single time, no matter how stale they got. They were a reassuring reminder to me that I was not in school; I was at home on a weekend, watching sports on TV instead of, much to my Dad's dismay, enjoying a beautiful day outside. As we see in a lot of ads today, not every athlete is funny, but Dick Butkus, Billy Martin, Boog Powell, Tom Heinsohn, John Madden, Bubba Smith and, certainly, Marv Throneberry could be almost as funny as Rodney Dangerfield. Yet while Snell's ad may have featured the famous Miller Lite tag line for the first time, it was the only one (other than this one, I suppose) that was not written to be terribly funny. Firsts do not remain famous for long.

NY Jets #41 - Part 1

Charlie Flowers was a casualty of the AFL's earliest years, and because he was the first Titan to wear #41, he is our first point of discussion with regard to the characters from our beloved team to have worn #41. He played at fullback in sunny Los Angeles for the Chargers in 1960, and then in sunny San Diego the following year. He played at the Polo Grounds for the New York Titans the year after that, and his career ended there before he could become a Jet. A couple of hundred yards total. He was originally drafted in 1959 by the Giants, which might have meant he could have been Don Maynard's teammate on the Giants before becoming Don Maynard's teammate on the Titans. But he appears to have never actually played a down for the Blue (Giants' blue, that is). Fate is fickle, odd certainly, perhaps even negligent.

****

Where were you when Matt Snell #41 went across the line for the Jets' first and only touchdown in Super Bowl III?



The founder of the Hare Krishna movement, A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada was in Los Angeles, possibly writing a letter dated that day to his controversial protege Kirtanananda Swami about the construction of seven new temples in the United States. On the same day that their first album was released in the U.S., Led Zeppelin was preparing to open a show for Country Joe and the Fish at the Fillmore West. Living in Tehran with her family, Christine Amanpour was celebrating her 11th birthday, possibly thinking about going to school later that year in England. But none of these people probably knew who Matt Snell was.

My father was sitting in his in-laws' living room in Brooklyn, watching his beloved team take the lead in the Super Bowl after an impressive first half drive lead by Joe Namath and mostly Snell. My mother sat with him, watching on her parents' white Zenith black and white, excited no doubt as well; she is the most ferocious sports fan I know (for the Mets, that is). As yet two months from my own birth, I resided comfortably on the other side of conscious existence, perhaps hearing sporadic sounds of excitement, my mother's heartbeat, the bright tenor of my grandfather's voice calling to his wife for a cigar, or my grandmother possibly asking my father if he wanted more to eat. I remained as unaware that the Jets would become a source of obsession throughout most of my life as I probably did about the fact that soon my relative comfort would be rudely interrupted at St. John's Hospital in Woodside. One sensory experience adds to the other, though, and knowing what things transmit by osmosis to an unborn child, it is possible that I registered the audible cheers they gave to Matt Snell's 4-yard touchdown in the manner of a schema, a building block for later learning.

****

Where were you when Apollo 11 landed on the moon?

I was a little over four months old when Armstrong and Aldrin walked on the moon, so just as with Matt Snell's touchdown, there's nothing actually there about it in my memory. In fact, for many years as a child, there would little or nothing so joyful in the world at large (or in Jets' history) to make my mind take that snapshot. Instead, I remember having a sense that Richard Nixon was in trouble because I watched Mom do her ironing in front of the Senate's Watergate Hearings on TV, but I don't even remember his resignation the following year. I remember staring at a cover of the Daily News when I was eight years old the morning after Elvis died. I remember delivering Newsday's the morning after the Son of Sam had been caught. I remember when I heard that John Lennon died in 1980 and when the Pope was shot a year later. I remember when I heard about Columbine. I even think I will forever recall the moment I heard that the King of Pop was dead.

I remember both where I was and who gave me the news about the planes hitting the Twin Towers, an event that instantly went from the cosmic to the personal in its horror because my brother worked across the street from the World Trade Center. He made it out, and ran for his life, like everyone else who had the opportunity. Thank God.

I suppose it has been a long time since we've heard about moments of happy, glaringly joyful achievement, like the moon landing - an event so monumental that NASA and its international equivalents would be hard-pressed to do it today, to even know how to do it today, or how to pay for it. Excluding the ending of our various wars, I cannot think of another historical moment of happiness that can be equivalent to Apollo 11; maybe the U.S. Hockey Team's victory in 1980 over the Soviets at the Lake Placid Olympics.

Sports are good like that. Sports provide records of small and slightly larger individual achievement that can shield us from remembering that our society has lurched forward without a singular mark of great achievement like the one three Americans made (with their government behind them) in July 1969. Most of the snapshot memories I mention above are marked by death and destruction. Consequently, I've grown up with the notion that I missed out on something even more than a moon landing or a Super Bowl. In 1969, my family had the distinct pleasure of knowing that their football and baseball teams were the champions of their respective sports, and that, yes, their beloved nation had also conquered the moon. The amount of overtime work done to clean up the refuse thrown from buildings in celebration during that year must have been staggering for New York City's sanitation department. Their life in New York was swelled with justified pride. Sports and life coalesced in a singular time of joy.

Such are my delusions. I forget that Mom and Dad were probably most of all happy that they had a child. How like me to feel as though that by being born in a momentous year I was therefore born unlucky. It should be comforting for a Jets fan to remember that one's life is marked by the individual experiences we have with family, with work and people, and not necessarily with a historically troubled football team. Yet it's always been a challenge for a fanatical fan born in the year of his team's greatest triumph; I missed a moment by which I could mark time, and since my childhood, I have used my football team’s subsequent history as one way gauge my own.

And that's why this entry on #41 finishes before barely even mentioning Matt Snell. We freeze the mental snapshot at a single moment from a single game, snapshots Matt Snell is asked to sign all the time. I will return to him at my site. His touchdown has an immortal place in sports history, in American football history, in Jets history, and in my own. Such is the nature of being a fan. It passes the time, but it allows a lens through which, for better or for worse, you measure time's passage.