Rodgers and the Jets Get a Do-over

J-E-T-S. Jets.  JETS!   JETS!!

As you know, I am a die-hard, Orange and Blue Since ‘62, loyal and long-suffering Mets Fan. But did you know that when it comes to football, I am just as loyal and long-suffering?

 

Yes, I am a New York Jets Fan. Since before they played at Shea, since before Broadway Joe led the way. Since they played in the Polo Grounds as the New York Titans.

I became a fan because my Dad was a Giants fan. So, naturally, I rooted for the Titans. Just to get under his skin. And when Joe Willie showed up with his long hair, and then his mustache, it was game on.

It came about during the 1968-69 season, when I couldn’t help but taunt the Old Guy. Man, I was brutal. And when Namath made his guarantee that the Jets would beat the almighty, nineteen-point favorite, Unitas-led Colts, that was the breaking point.

My Dad decided this was his chance to shut me up and emerge, finally, victorious and squash my heckling for good. So he made me a bet, not of money, but of something he knew I did behind his back, and challenged me to accept it.

He was surprised I did, thinking that just by making that bet, he could finally shut me up. But as a seventeen year old kid, I knew it was, for me, time to take a stand for what I wanted. So I accepted the challenge.

And at the end of the third quarter, I went up to my bedroom to grab my pack of L&M’s with the score at 13-0, Jets, praying the defense could hold them for fifteen more minutes. I suddenly began to sweat, when Unitas showed up to try and energize the Colts.

This was after the Jets went up 16-0 at the start of the fourth quarter, and then Unitas threw a pass which was promptly intercepted. Finally, the Colts got the ball back after Namath ran down the clock, and with 3:19 left, the defense let a pass be caught in the end zone.

With about thirty seconds left, I took out that cigarette, looked at my Dad and smiled as the clock reached zero. I slapped my Zippo lighter, lit that cigarette and enjoyed that first puff, knowing it was done. It was 6:15 PM, January 12, 1969, cold everywhere in New York, except in my heart.

Fifty-six seasons later, I am waiting for the second Jets Super Bowl Championship. Last year, before the fourth play of the season, it was a possibility. And then, Aaron Rodgers tore his Achilles heel.

On Monday, he, the Jets and I, will get a do-over. With this team, and Rodgers as the General, we just might achieve that elusive second ring.

But this time, there will be no cigarette; I stopped on Christmas Day in 1995. Instead, I will look to the heavens and say to my Dad:

I told you this team was no fluke with the right quarterback.