The Jets kind of lost some their working class slob/junkyard dog patina when they left Shea and went into a rental at The Old Dump, but not all the way. Klecko, Lyons, Harper, the lunch pail types, the grit was still there, but crap luck and the stars never quite aligned. I still contend that 1981 was our best shot. Before, during, and after Rex Ryan, it was fun in peaks and valleys - Pennington more than Testaverde because of the promise prior to his shoulder getting blown out - but mostly valleys. Now it's just Death Valley. Even Fat Parcells, who gave me nothing, couldn't deliver. I can't put into words how much less I actually care than I used to, which is something I never thought would happen. Some of that has to do with The POS Palace and that goes for everything leading up to and after the advent of that shithole. I still care, don't get me wrong; but not at the same visceral level, where my mood would be ruined until Wednesday with a loss, and my week would be made with a win. That departed completely after The Chimp imploded back to being nothing but a circus monkey. No more Battle for the Planet of the Apes for you, jeto. Then Sam Darnold came along, and it was like somebody grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me back to life. Then I collapsed upon myself again for the same reason because Jets. Then came The Flake Turd Albatross Era, and with that, blessed catatonia. "What day is it? Oh, right, Sunday." Anyway, 'culture', I don't really know what culture is really supposed to mean these days except that winning is a domino effect that hasn't happened. Victor Frankenstein needs to strap me on that lab table and jolt me back to life again so I can go back to screaming, "Go Jets!", like I used to. The problem is, Woody Johnson think he's smarter than a mad scientist and will always get in the way. Sigh. Edit: A word.
I gave up my season tickets twenty years before Woody arrived. And I have never bought a piece of merchandise from the Jets. Beer, maybe.
