Guest Writer: Rick Harrison
My name is Rick Harrison, and I am a Jets fan. In a dark and dangerous world, there are certainly worse things to be. Tom Arnold, for one.
But as another season starts -- teasing only the foolish with a pubescent coaching staff and a win against the feeble Tennessee Titans -- now is as good a time as any to examine the masochistic joys of living under a green and white cloud with a lining black as soot.
I've been going to Jets games since I was 4 years old and mostly interested in the pretzels and ice cream served at Shea Stadium. Those were the days. A jumbo pretzel hardly ever disappointed like the team on the field.
My dad would grease the ticket guy with $1, and I'd sit on his lap (my dad, not the ticket guy). As I grew older, I learned to love the Jets despite their regular disappointments. I imagine this is how Paris Hilton's parents feel about their daughter.
Oh, there were many brilliant, shining moments. I saw the 51-45 aerial shootout against Miami in 1986. The raucous home divisional playoff win against Jacksonville in 1998. The fourth quarter 23-point ""Miracle at the Meadowlands'' comeback in 2000. I rooted for the worthy Wesley Walker, Al Toon, Mickey Shuler, Lance Mehl, Joe Klecko, Freeman McNeil and Wayne Chrebet.
But then I witnessed a potential division lead shot through the heart with a Dan Marino fake spike. Watched as Dennis Byrd lay temporarily paralyzed. Caught Joe Walton picking his nose on TV and listened as Richie Kotite treated his team of losers like gentlemen. Saw Mark Gastineau commit a personal foul against Cleveland in a 1986 divisional playoff game on fourth and 26 that allowed Cleveland to tie the game and win in double overtime. Squirmed through the multiple concussions and premature retirement of our most prolific receiver. Twice. Sat motionless watching the 1982 AFC Championship Game as A.J. Duhe trucked his way through the Miami mud toward the endzone. Twice. In 1998, I saw a 10-point lead crumble just 30 minutes
and 30 years from another shot at a Super Bowl. And I saw the best coach we would ever have skip town on his first day to build a dynasty in New England.
In my 27 or so years as a sentient fan, the Jets starting quarterbacks have included the likes of Bubby Brister, Browning Nagle, Glenn Foley, Tony Eason, Rick Mirer, Ray Lucas and Quincy Carter. The only thing these guys should have been starting was a list of alternate career choices. And the Jets choices on draft day are most remembered for the boos they generated among the New York crowd.
It says something about Jets fans that we have embraced ""Gang Green'' as our team nickname. Because there's nothing better to describe the squad than the bacterial decay of body tissue requiring amputation.
But I'll still be out there tomorrow with my dad and brother, my friends and girlfriend, grilling meats and tossing a ball in anticipation of anything to cheer about. There is something hopelessly hopeful and unintentionally cruel about cursing your children with the Jets in a town that demands winners. But I've never blamed my dad. When I was born, Joe Namath still glowed from his league-shaking Super Bowl III victory and wobbled his way through games on crippled knees. Traces of magic could shoot from his arm.
My brother should know better. He brought his 8-month-old daughter to a preseason tailgate outfitted in a pink Jets shirt and sucking on a Jets pacifier. The looming tragedy of this young life made me want to call Child Protective Services.
Luckily she's way too young at the moment to comprehend complex shapes and actions, much less the certain disaster of another Jets season. So until she's sitting on her dad's lap in the new Meadowlands stadium, I'm glad she's clueless and happy sucking on that pacifier.
There's just too much of that kind of thing on the field.
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