Derek Jeter, who’s spent his career in long sleeves under the brown leaves of the World Series, will play his last game this month. And it turns out his farewell was far more hollow than he hoped.
With the help of one of my editors — a Jets fan who will go nameless here — I was called all manner of moron on Twitter last week for suggesting the Giants had a better shot to make the playoffs than the Jets.
Love or loathe Mayweather, he has sold us on some part of his narrative. Which might mean part of us can relate to him, even if that makes us cringe.
Some Jets homer implied that Geno Smith is better than Eli Manning based on their Week 1 performances. You can’t deal with these people, so I merely report them to you.
If you saw the conga line of luminaries honoring Derek Jeter at Yankee Stadium on Sunday, you realize his deeds reached way west of the Hudson.
Football reduces us to our most private and primate impulses. We survive winter through the vicarious thrill we get from our favorite football teams.
Rather than plod, let’s plow through the NFL season and pick some playoff teams and beyond.
The consensus seems to be the Giants are rancid and the Jets are rising. In Wall Street vernacular, the world is bullish on the Jets, but bears on the Giants. But haven’t we heard this before?
ESPN was forced to moonwalk from a report that Sam had not showered with his Rams teammates. Why? Not as in why didn’t he, but why take a fire extinguisher to the story? Clearly it means something.
It seems we’ve jumped into the pool of relativism since we got wind of Josh Gordon’s season-long suspension for marijuana use. You have the indignant faction that can’t believe someone who smokes weed gets a year while Ray Rice skates with a two-game suspension
So if it’s not just a matter of the physical, what about the metaphysical? Do the Mets foster a losing culture? Do new players arrive as optimists and leave as cynics?
At the risk of redundancy, we enter another NFL season with a decorated quarterback trying to prove himself. Evidently, two Super Bowl rings don’t ring as loudly as they used to.
For an ephemeral, enchanted moment, he was the man, monolith, the king of New York, in the rare thin are of city stardom that all athletes dream of.
With the NFL mushrooming into a nuclear corporate, sports, and social behemoth, the shards of its power splattered across every corner of society, it’s crossover power has created crossover stars.
Word dripped down this week that Jim Kelly’s cancer is gone. But what does that mean? Is it gone today only to make its interminable, terminal march back to his enervated frame? Or is it really gone, as in he won?