My damn brother

I was probably 5-years old. My brother David was 7.

We were sitting at the kitchen table in our Mahopac, N.Y. home. The newspaper was open—I vividly remember this. Nobody in my family cared about sports, but somehow David said, “I like the Giants!”

I countered with, “Well, then I like the Jets!”

That was nearly 35 years ago. Here I sit, at my laptop, damning my brother once again. The Giants will be playing in the fifth Super Bowl of our lifetimes. The Jets—a big, fat zero. And here’s the worst part: David doesn’t care. Hell, odds are he has yet to learn the Giants made the Super Bowl. He lives in Florida, works for a cruise ship line, pays attention to sports like I pay attention to Nigerian political races. He wouldn’t recognize Victor Cruz from Victor Conte. I’m not even sure he knows who Phil Simms is.

Meanwhile, I’ve suffered through … dear God, so much. Browning Neagle. Rich Kotite. Anthony Becht. Dave Cadigan. Mike Haight. Loss after loss after loss. Now, the whole Rex Ryan thing has completely worn out, and I’m left wondering—truly wondering—whether the Jets will ever reach another Super Bowl. Meanwhile, I look at the Giants not with scorn or envy, but appreciation. Their quarterback is breathtakingly good. Their coach is vastly underrated. They draft wisely (JPP at No. 17?!) and find these free-agent nuggets, a la Victor Cruz. They are a fantastic organization, one where trash talk is seldom required.

My brother … my friggin’ brother.