I've contributed the most and received the least from the New York Jets in my life. I had season tickets through my father since I was four years old.
We sat with my brother and my father's friend Mitch on the 300 level of the old Giants Stadium, that black diamond slope of obscenity and booze
In my first year, the Jets only won one game. This almost qualifies as a fond recollection.
It's probably unnecessary to mention all of the miseries, gaffes, humiliations, and butt-fumbles that would follow, the wrecked Thanksgivings,
the taunting, the wasted time, the afternoons I'd be grouchy to loved ones. In my lifetime, the Jets have hosted two home playoff games, both of which I attended.
The first, against the Jacksonville Jaguars, occurred on my seventh birthday. Surprisingly, the Jets won.
I was ten for the second half against the Indianapolis Colts. The Jets also won that one. (41-0!) I remember feeling as if I had observed something uncommon and even unholy.
Jets fans make a point of rejecting, almost despising, hope—a collective coping technique and a falsehood. Each week, we sat in our assigned seats.
I can still memorize several of those two-deep rosters. Curtis Martin is as reliable as a Japanese train.
Vinny Testaverde is the Brooklyn guy. Wayne Chrebet is rugged and, in retrospect, horribly concussion-prone. Keyshawn Johnson, Kyle Brady, Kevin Mawae, and Bryan Cox
I can tell you anything about these guys on the field, including their styles and stats. However, little is known about them as persons, with thoughts and interior lives
Did I know anything about Jumbo Elliott save his name? No. That was sufficient. Was Mo Lewis a good guy? What did he do during his free time? I couldn't say. He struck hard.