Tonight, while watching the closing seconds of the Jets-Steelers game, it hit me that I’ll likely die without ever seeing my team win a Super Bowl.
Covering sports for so long, I haven’t kept most of my rooting interests. But, for some reason, I continue with the Jets. They were my boyhood passion—and merely by accident. When I was 6 or 7, my older brother told Dad he liked the Giants. I was left with the Jets.
Damn.
I worry that the Jets are about to become the Mets of a few years back—on the verge of greatness a couple of years, then haunted by being on the verge, but never able to move forward. Mark Sanchez is fantastic, and the offensive line is as good as it gets. But the Jets have some serious holes—Braylon Edwards is likely gone, and they desperately need a pass-rushing defensive end.
Man, this one hurt.
