When I was a young girl, my parents would prepare a steaming cup of black tea laced with milk and a touch of sugar for me to drink each Saturday morning. The extra time to wallow in sheets and pillows, followed by the warm rush of sugar, caffeine and fragrance, all produced a glowing sense of well being that set the stage for some of life's most enjoyable television viewing. Of course, with two older brothers calling the shots on what to watch on our basement Sony, I knew that I had little hope of commandeering the set in order to take in episodes of Jem. Instead, my brothers loyally plugged into NFL Films, which supplied viewers with a weekly glimpse at an old and epic football match. A sonorous and darkly deep male voiceover narration set a deliberately dramatic tone. Grainy film stock shots of football fields streaked in ice and snow portrayed a stage for charged and weighty struggles between modern gladiators, rare men of valor and courage. Mute slow motion shots only heightened the drama and inspired a feeling of near longing in each of us, as the hypnotic voice moved us small children to sit aghast at the unthinkable bravery of these brawny demigods who could always muster the courage to risk life and limb in a world otherwise bereft of joy, love, light, and certitude.
At the very least, the documentary style presentation of old games only whetted my brothers' appetite to keep up with the new ones. In their shared bedroom, each boy had set up small shrines to their respective favorite teams, the New York Giants and the New York Jets. My eldest brother, tall even in his early years, slender but regal with long limbs resembling that of a young colt and a head full of shiny chestnut curls, kept a shiny blue and red helmet on his side of the room and often walked about the house mimicking the sounds of a capacity crowd cheering the Giants to victory. He seemed to bask in the attention of this crowd, relishing the applause and praise as if exclusively meant for him. Meanwhile, my older brother, with his thick, nearly unmanageable shock of blue-black wavy hair, was short and extremely slender but with substantially chubby cheeks helping to hold up thick silver Flintstones brand glasses frames, which housed even thicker astigmatic lenses. He cherished an enormous green foam finger festooned with the hopeful phrase "Jets #1" but it was our eldest brother who would see his team take the #1 spot in a fateful 1987 victory against the Denver Broncos.
No fairweather friend, my older brother continued to spread his fuzzy Jets blanket on a twin sized bed well into his years as a medical resident. No eater of sour grapes, he sincerely cheered the Giants to victory in 2008 without a single drop of malice or envy and called his brother to congratulate him. And he remains to this day, a dogged and devoted Jets fan. It is to him that this blog is dedicated.
And it was because I admired this selfless devotion that I began to watch the Jets in the 2010-11 season. Although I had gaped agog at the screen during NFL films as a child, I had remained timid about watching football games, assuming the whole affair to be a sacrosanct realm for boys alone. I would repair to my room during these games and I would immerse myself in the world of fiction that was my second, perhaps my first, home and would leave the gladiators to my brothers. For me, the mention of a Jets win or a Giants loss was merely the barometer by which I might judge my brother's mood and the degree to which he might be approached for decent conversation.
Last year, it dawned upon me that surely, I could do better than this. Having grown up with brothers, I do not naturally share the disdain for football that many households filled with sisters tend to espouse. I have heard many a new girlfriend and wife piteously grieved or even raging angry over the utter and complete theft of Sunday from their autumn and early winter conjugal schedules. I have listened to women declare that football play should be abolished in American high schools to protect their sons from injury, and have heard the sport touted as "fascist," played by "meatheads," and so on. On the other end of the spectrum, there are those women so deeply in love with their spouse or paramour that they decide to jump on board and begin to learn at least the broad contours of the game. Some of these women become genuinely well versed in the sport over time, and must be included in the pantheon of true fans, although their initial attraction to the sport may be judged by some as lacking in some essential quality.
I do not belong to any of these camps: I decided to throw my lot in with The Jets last year in order to keep my older brother company. What I did not expect was that I would become utterly fascinated with the game. Granted, as we move briskly into the current season, I still struggle to comprehend many of the rules and complexities of this chess like sport. But I have been greeted most unexpectedly by a world full of cultural pageantry and rich with the opportunity to observe, to admire, to marvel, and to learn. It is for this reason that I have started this blog.
I hope that you will take my up the clarion call, Go Jets Ho! It was an expression that genuinely sprang to my lips from heaven knows where one particularly crucial game last year, during the push to the playoffs. And as I watch the Jets contend with the Patriots tonight, the score board reading 23-16 in favor of the Pats, I will definitely have cause to repeat: Go Jets Ho!
At the very least, the documentary style presentation of old games only whetted my brothers' appetite to keep up with the new ones. In their shared bedroom, each boy had set up small shrines to their respective favorite teams, the New York Giants and the New York Jets. My eldest brother, tall even in his early years, slender but regal with long limbs resembling that of a young colt and a head full of shiny chestnut curls, kept a shiny blue and red helmet on his side of the room and often walked about the house mimicking the sounds of a capacity crowd cheering the Giants to victory. He seemed to bask in the attention of this crowd, relishing the applause and praise as if exclusively meant for him. Meanwhile, my older brother, with his thick, nearly unmanageable shock of blue-black wavy hair, was short and extremely slender but with substantially chubby cheeks helping to hold up thick silver Flintstones brand glasses frames, which housed even thicker astigmatic lenses. He cherished an enormous green foam finger festooned with the hopeful phrase "Jets #1" but it was our eldest brother who would see his team take the #1 spot in a fateful 1987 victory against the Denver Broncos.
No fairweather friend, my older brother continued to spread his fuzzy Jets blanket on a twin sized bed well into his years as a medical resident. No eater of sour grapes, he sincerely cheered the Giants to victory in 2008 without a single drop of malice or envy and called his brother to congratulate him. And he remains to this day, a dogged and devoted Jets fan. It is to him that this blog is dedicated.
And it was because I admired this selfless devotion that I began to watch the Jets in the 2010-11 season. Although I had gaped agog at the screen during NFL films as a child, I had remained timid about watching football games, assuming the whole affair to be a sacrosanct realm for boys alone. I would repair to my room during these games and I would immerse myself in the world of fiction that was my second, perhaps my first, home and would leave the gladiators to my brothers. For me, the mention of a Jets win or a Giants loss was merely the barometer by which I might judge my brother's mood and the degree to which he might be approached for decent conversation.
Last year, it dawned upon me that surely, I could do better than this. Having grown up with brothers, I do not naturally share the disdain for football that many households filled with sisters tend to espouse. I have heard many a new girlfriend and wife piteously grieved or even raging angry over the utter and complete theft of Sunday from their autumn and early winter conjugal schedules. I have listened to women declare that football play should be abolished in American high schools to protect their sons from injury, and have heard the sport touted as "fascist," played by "meatheads," and so on. On the other end of the spectrum, there are those women so deeply in love with their spouse or paramour that they decide to jump on board and begin to learn at least the broad contours of the game. Some of these women become genuinely well versed in the sport over time, and must be included in the pantheon of true fans, although their initial attraction to the sport may be judged by some as lacking in some essential quality.
I do not belong to any of these camps: I decided to throw my lot in with The Jets last year in order to keep my older brother company. What I did not expect was that I would become utterly fascinated with the game. Granted, as we move briskly into the current season, I still struggle to comprehend many of the rules and complexities of this chess like sport. But I have been greeted most unexpectedly by a world full of cultural pageantry and rich with the opportunity to observe, to admire, to marvel, and to learn. It is for this reason that I have started this blog.
I hope that you will take my up the clarion call, Go Jets Ho! It was an expression that genuinely sprang to my lips from heaven knows where one particularly crucial game last year, during the push to the playoffs. And as I watch the Jets contend with the Patriots tonight, the score board reading 23-16 in favor of the Pats, I will definitely have cause to repeat: Go Jets Ho!
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