Seriously? This sh*t is getting re-g-d-damn-diculous. Before I go ranting and raving about this afternoon’s abortion of a Jets game, I’ll remind everyone (most importantly myself) that none of this is surprising. In fact, the current 7-7 mark is one most Jets fans would’ve signed up for in a heartbeat at season’s start. Hell, only a month ago I was ready to give props to Ryan and crew if they were able to win three straight (against Carolina, Buffalo and Tampa) and “make a run at .500.” Phew, glad I got that out of the way.
Since then, the Jets had to go ahead and do what they do. They had to work their way into a situation that made their fans think something was possible. I mean pieces were falling strangely into place. Sanchez was managing not to throw it to the other team. The defense was playing better again. The playoffs weren’t completely out the realm of possibility. Right?
Wrong. That was obviously the answer. It always has been. But the Jets had to tease, it would only be right. So, this morning I bundled in 17 layers, optimistically boarded the NJ Transit bus bound for hell (ummm, I mean the Meadowlands) and settled in for what would prove to be another torturous afternoon of the green-and-white. Another live jaw-dropping experience in which my beloved green slime found new and always-innovative ways to give away a game and, in this case, playoff hopes.
This fine afternoon it was three picks, a bumbled field goal snap, a missed 38-yarder, a blocked field goal, ill-timed personal foul penalties, one porous defensive drive (in an otherwise sterling performance) and a partridge in a pear tree. No need to regurgitate the agony. Losing on fourth-and-goal was a nice, creative touch, though. On a side note, Darrelle Revis is unbelievably nasty and today was just another glorious illustration. I’ve never seen a corner like him, at least not in a Jets uniform that much is certain. The only bright spot.
Yes, the Same Old Jets indeed. At least my feet have finally defrosted…
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About the Author: Cecilio's Scribe is the founder of The Legend of Cecilio Guante and a generally pessimistic fan of the Mets, Jets, Knicks and Rangers. A fine NYC-based gentlemen who hones his marketing skills as his primary trade by day. Husband, chef, father of a newborn and after-hours blogger by night. Proud alum of the mighty Big Red of Cornell. University. Hot sauce devotee. Staunch protester of the continued wussifcation of American sports. Sometimes I rhyme slow, sometimes I rhyme quick.