Jets/Colts - 2:15 pm EST

The Times recently and incorrectly reported that this is the fifth league/conference championship in which the Jets are appearing. This is of course incorrect and is probably based on the erroneous information Bob Herbert was given for his otherwise affecting article on being a Jets fan. His sense of unrewarded loyalty in this is probably the same as mine - the chance of a Jets championship is about as likely as universal health care for all of America's children under the age of 18. But, hey, what the hell.

This is actually the fourth. Here's the rundown:

December 30, 1968: playing in an icy cold wind that went into turbine at Shea Stadium, the Jets beat the Oakland Raiders in Heidi II, the game that would decide a winner without the interruption of the courageous Swiss girl and her disabled friend and loyal dog, and won the AFL Championship. The rest is literally History, capitalized. My favorite parts of the "AFL Films" 22-minute game recap narrated by Charlie Jones? Randy Beverly trying to trip Fred Bilentikoff after the Raider flanker beat him for a touchdown. Jim Hudson pounding the turf after missing out on a deflected interception. Don Maynard's left...no, right hand sideline catch to set up the winning touchdown, and the fact that my Dad was at the game.

January 23, 1983: you only have to wait a little over 14 years for the next one. The Jets lose to Miami 14-0 in an Orange Bowl that is filled to the ankle with rainwater. It's called the "Mud Bowl," but I recall that the mud in question had largely washed away and that all that was left was what looked like a grayish surface submerged beneath inches of pure agua. Why? (The following is a highly plausible conspiracy theory): Dade County and Don Shula, working in secret tandem, realize that the best way to stop the Jets highly effective running game is to turn the field into a wading pool, so they leave the tarp off during an overnight-into-day spell of rain. It works.

January 17, 1999: In this case you had to wait 16 more years. A whole other adolesence. The Jets lose in Mile High to the Broncos 23-10, despite having more first downs, more passing yards and more overall yards than the home team. They lead at the start of the fourth quarter. However, they gain 14 rushing yards on 13 attempts and cough up four turnovers, and they don't have Terell Davis. They lose. I watch silently in bar while all around me the world seems to go about its merry winter way, as if to mock me, as if to drive me to the realm beyond grief with its falt-out reluctance to get upset about the whole thing. Be adult, they seem to say. And don't worry - and I believed it too - they'll probably be back next year.

Eleven years later, here we are. And face it, no one thought we could do it. I did not. They have been baffling and charming, or at least as charming as a football team can be. And if anything, there is no way to flood Lucas Oil Arena. But I've been subdued all day, thinking about next week's work, thinking about the promise of spring, thinking about Midlake's new album, thinking about baseball and the possibility of the Mets and Phillies really having the rivalry they should in 2010. But God knows when we'll be back in an AFC Championship. Will it happen before the Big Melt? Not this year, my neighbor says about Super Bowl Whicheveritisthisyear. But next year, definitely. I shake my head.

Always fascinating to see how the printed media (albeit online) in New York covers the Jets.

The Jets are traditionally a kind of muse for Newsday, the paper whose beat is the sprawl of the Island so many Jets fans historically call home. On page one, you will find a thoughtful piece on what Dr. King would say to President Obama, as well as a nice juicy slab of business about a young couple passed out in the middle of day (near the start of the Saints game, no less) in Suffolk County while their 3 year-old wandered the streets of Brentwood. Newsday has always walked the fine line; I recall delivering them for a neighbor while he was on vacation during the summer they finally apprehended Son of Sam, though I'm not sure I was savvy enough to notice their high- and lowbrow takes on the matter. At the top of the page, though, is a banner with the essential information about what you really want to know about: Jets vs. Colts. We know what you want.

The Times remains staid about it. There's too much going on in the world. Of course, the Old Gray Lady is correct, as she always is (well, except about initally supporting the Iraq War; oh, and about calling for Clinton's resignation; and oh, well, its plagiarism cases). My beloved team cannot compare with the catastrophe of Haiti, nor with the suicide bombings in Kabul. (By the way, a student last week tried speaking for Pat Robertson's sickeningly stupid claim about the quake being God's will; I wish that I had known that it was actually the Enriquillo-Plantain Garden Fault that runs parallel to Port-au-Prince that caused it, as I would have told her, although she certainly would have claimed that God put that fault there. God can do anything.) However, I was grateful that the Lady was kind enough to make the Jets the top story in the Sports section way down the page, especially when the Jets' win over Cincinnati last week fell second to the NFC playoff game that same day.

The Daily News puts the Jets atop their "Hot Topics," right ahead of the Golden Globes and the earthquake, which posts an impressive third place.

The Post puts the Jets first and foremost, while secondly speaking of machete-wielding gangs roaming Port-au-Prince. It claims that NYPD have also been silencing Duane Reade security guards in the Port Authority over reporting an increase in thefts, while they do their able best in the service of Rupert Murdoch by criticizing Governor Paterson for going out on a date.

Joy

Once upon a time, I remember sweating out a game, 17-14 - the Jets beat the defending champion LA Raiders, the team that people said they couldn't beat in the strange and twisted playoff structure of a strike season. I remember sitting on the floor, waiting, watching, hoping. Please, I just kept saying. Please hold onto the lead and win. And they did win. I felt euphoric, weightless, like I was going to lose my mind.

And that's pretty much how I feel right now, 27 years later. The Chargers killed themselves, but the Jets won the game.

In the midst of Haiti's agony, nothing done on the football field can possibly compensate for the troubles of the world - I grant this and I acknowledge it. But to the degree that it can supply a lasting happiness to a single individual, I admit its power. This will give me the energy to do my job just a little bit better. So long as I live, this January will be - just as January 1999 was - a magical time.




Unless the Jets lose by a field goal to the Colts. I don't think I could bear that.

Jets/Chargers - 1/17/10

At the end of three-quarters of what should be the year's best weekend of football, the home teams have outscored the visitors, 99-20. This might mean that the Jets will lose 34-7. More likely, it will be a close game that will break my heart. The Chargers have won 11 games in a row. Plenty of people have told me that on any given Sunday, the Jets can beat any of the remaining teams this year. Thank you, thank you. This is very kind. But this is also not true.

Given the dumb things I thought as this great season began, I cannot count this season as anything other than a success. A second round appearance in the playoffs is not what I thought our team was capable of doing, backing in or not. But I am ready for the same experience as the second round AFC Divisional Playoffs back in Januarys of '03 and '05. The former was an outright loss of 30-10 to the last of great Raiders teams, with Bill Romanowski, fully juiced up, decrying the Jets' blowout of Peyton Manning the week before. He mocked them. He was speaking the truth, though he a pernicious liar by nature. The awful, awful, awful, godawful 2005 loss to the 15-1 Steelers, 20-17 would have been a victory had Doug Brien made two field goals that clearly were shanked by the stress of the moment. If Jay Feely's not going to make the crucial field goal to win, I will take the blowout. I will take it like the Jets fan I am.

The Jets elect to kick. Deep, deep breath. Here we go.

The Bright Side of Things, Really

Well, it's time to update, isn't it? Whatever any of our expectations were of this season, a second round appearance in the playoffs is the very outside edge of my own definition of success. I love that we "backed" into the playoffs. Let freedom ring. I love that Rex Ryan swings into bipolar moods of euphoria and ponderous disappointment. I am glad that I am forced to feel shame and self-criticism every time Shonn Greene plays to his potential and well beyond my recent criticism of him as a washout. I was wrong in every way. God Bless My Stupidity.

And while we're at it, let's take a moment to praise the New York Jets for drafting well over the past five years, something that I don't think the franchise has ever done over such a span: David Harris, D'Brickashaw Ferguson, Kerry Rhodes, Nick Mangold, Brad Smith, Leon Washington, Drew Coleman, Dustin Keller, Dwight Lowery, and of course, Darrelle Revis. Oh, and Mark Sanchez. And Shonn Greene, provided that neither man is responsible for more than two turnovers each in San Diego on Sunday evening.

Listen to me. There I go again.

And while we're at it, I want to thank everyone who made this possible. I don't think we have a chance this weekend. Our last outing here last year was disastrous. But I have to go to bed. It;s going to be a long weekend.

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!