After the way their team was vaporized by the Eagles, Big Blue devotees are back to the September song of death. Just 60 minutes turned the tune from elitism to defeatism.
Fan Guy and I have arrived at a detente — assuming he knows what that is. I have abandoned my crusade to show him his more heinous impulses, to direct his ire at the Jets rather than those of us who tell him how gangrenous Gang Green really is.
There seem to be two types of Jets fans. The long-suffering fan who toils in tired desperation, the Joe & Evan, “Oh, the pain!” gang. They plod down the decades in quiet resignation. The there is Fan Guy, the disgrace that calls Twitter home.
Jason discusses Tom Brady, Bill Belichick, and the Patriots not being done yet.
The Jets are appalling. The Jets are lost. The Jets are losers.
You refused to listen two weeks ago. But we’ll say it again. The Giants are legit. They didn’t panic at 0-2, and now they are 3-2.
Only in the NBA and NYC would a one-dimensional player on a perennial loser assert his place atop the totem pole of basketball stardom.
The masses and pundits are lunging over each other to put the postmortems on the Brady/Belichick dynasty, with the death blow delivered by the Kansas City Chiefs on Monday night.
My premise then and now is simple. The Giants are stable, a fixed totem pole where no one is jostling for all the credit or the glory. The Jets, by contrast, have fatal holes in their hierarchy.
We can drown you in stats, but Derek Jeter’s career lay in moments and memories. Like the blue tarp of a summer sky for his final game, and all the Yankees fans who ambled through the Fenway stands, unmolested.
If you can cut through all the hot air and histrionics, Olbermann has a point. Or two. He made some of the very points that some of us have made for years.
As far as Sandy Alderson returning goes, the media and the masses seem largely simpatico. But perhaps that speaks to the relaxed expectations we have for the Mets, where mediocrity is a victory. As long as they aren’t rancid, we see progress.
Monday night was a microcosm of what it means to be green. The game, like the Jets’ history, ended a few yards short of relevance.
The Yankees are enduring a hollow block of games before autumn puts a frosty lid on their 2014 coffin, but their house was oddly packed on Friday, like the subway cars churning behind the outfield walls every inning. We all know why.
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.