There were three moments in 2006 that cemented its place as the most surreal, eventful, and exhausting year of my life.
The first, and foremost, was my engagement to the love of my life — who, along with myself, is one of about seven admitted New Jersey Nets fans in America — while standing on an Ewok village-like tree platform in the middle of a national park in Vancouver.
The second was winning 52 free burritos by sleeping out in front of a suburban D.C. California Tortilla the night before it opened and being one of the first 10 people in line the following morning. About 16 burritos into it, my mouth remains happy; my digestive tract, not-so-much...
And the third was having my first book, "Glow Pucks & 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History," published by the good people of Taylor Trade back in April, sending me on a whirlwind tour of media appearances and pathetic weekly whoring of my silly little book in this very column space.
Writing "Glow Pucks" was an experience; promoting the book was an education. I consider myself a pretty confident and unflappable guy, but when you're sitting across from Dana Jacobson on the set of "Cold Pizza" after having made small talk with Bert Sugar in the green room for the last 30 minutes, and a giant TV monitor swoops in from the ceiling like a killer mechanical squid from "The Matrix" five seconds before you're live on the air ... I think I nearly messed myself.
I owe all of you a debt of gratitude and thanks for supporting my work and, in many ways, making me a stronger writer through years of interaction. This column, entering its 10th year in 2007, has opened more doors than Trump's limo driver. What started as the unfiltered ranting of a disgruntled hockey fan has morphed into the unfiltered ranting of a disgruntled hockey fan who's published on over a dozen different websites and magazines, gets to be a snarking head on ESPN Classic, and wrote — by my humble estimation — the most well-reviewed bathroom book in the history of sports journalism. Not bad for a class clown from Central Jersey.
Seriously, it's been an honor, and an unforgettable year. But there's one last thing that would push 2006 from "surreal" to "absurd," and I'm going to need some help for it to happen...
AN OPEN LETTER TO BILL BELICHICK
"To the love child of Gollum and Charles Grodin" ... uh, "To Billy Whines-a-lot" ... er, I mean, "To the Esteemed Coach Belichick of the Deposed World Champions From the Great Non-State of New England":
I come to you with my hat in my hand, crawling on my miserable knees. To apologize. To pay my respects. And to ask an enormous favor.
Whoa, wait — don't dismiss me so quickly! Granted, I've called you a surly little prima donna in the past. Okay, I may have referred to your style of dress as the NFL version of Derek Zoolander's "Derelicte." And, on occasion, I may have suggested that you and the Patriots can "derelicte my balls."
But all of that comes from a place of bitterness, of despair. I'm a New York Jets fan. You remember us, right Coach? A pathetic lot that watches our team play in someone else's stadium, and has seen it fail in an unbelievable number of ways: from last-second losses to drafting Ken O'Brien ahead of Dan Marino and Blair Thomas ahead of Junior Seau to hiring Rich Kotite, who quite frankly makes you look like a GQ model. A collection of blue-collar fans that annually pins its hopes on a team determined to break our hearts; and on a quarterback who has the arm strength of Nicole Richie and is so fragile that he could conceivably separate his shoulder with a hearty sneeze.
Now do you remember us?
Look, this is my mea culpa. I'm like Michael Richards: I've identified the source of my rage, only I didn't need therapy and a sit down with Al Sharpton to find it. All of these years of bad memories and Sunday despair have contributed to my intense jealous hatred of the Patriots and their postseason glory.
This weekend, Coach, you could put me on the road to recovery.
The Jets have two games left: at Miami on Christmas night and Oakland at home. They are 8-6, in a four-way dance for the two wildcard slots in the AFC with Denver, Cincinnati, and Jacksonville. Thanks to Peyton Manning's laser rocket arm last Monday, the easiest path to an improbable playoff berth for Gang Green is to win out and have two of those three teams lose at least once. For the first time, the Football Gods have smiled upon us and Cincy faces the Broncos this weekend, all but guaranteeing a loss for either of them.
Here's where you come in, Coach. For one weekend, Jets fans will don the red, white, and blue of Patriots Nation. Because we need your boys to take down the Jaguars in Jacksonville for us.
It's not implausible that you might win. The Jags were sent reeling last week, and the Pats looked like world champions. Plus, you still need a win in order to clinch the AFC East; two Patriots losses and two Jets wins, and the division title slips to the Meadowlands. You don't want that to happen, do you, Coach?
Yes, I know it's asking a lot: Helping out a franchise you despise, and a coach in Eric Mangini whose hand you won't even shake after a game. This silly rivalry of ours has gotten to the point where some paranoid Jets fans actually believe you might throw the Jacksonville game just to spite us and then beat Vince Young the following week for the division title; boy, that's some crazy conspiracy theory! Who are these freaks?
(Wyshynski leaves to return his copy of "JFK" to Blockbuster and check his home phones for wiretaps.)
Sorry, Coach ... I'm back. You know, there was a time when I wouldn't have written this letter, because the sports fanatic in me would have thought it bad karma to do so. This is the same sports fanatic that used to believe that drinking pink lemonade while watching a New Jersey Devils game actually affected the outcome; the same fanatic who believed, during one season, that every time P.M. Dawn's "Set Adrift on Memory Bliss" came on MTV during the commercial break of a New York Rangers game, they'd lose (true, if in hindsight completely insane, story).
But I'm willing to risk jinxing the Jets in order to reach out to you, oh sweatshirted genius of all things football. Please do your part and beat those Jaguars. It will go a long way to repairing our damaged relationship — unless we meet in the playoffs, in which case you and that horse-toothed quarterback of yours can "derelicte my balls" — and, more importantly, will give the Jets and their fans a wonderful and completely frightening Christmas gift: controlling their own playoff destiny.
That's quite a Christmas miracle, considering that the season began with a rookie coach, a star running back on injured reserve and a quarterback so fragile that he could conceivably dislocate his spine by breaking wind. As a Jets fan, 8-6 with the potential for a playoff berth is beyond any predictions I had for this season, so I suppose I should be joyful in this blessed time of year.
That is until the Pats beat the Jags, the Bengals beat the Broncos, and the Jets beat Miami ... before losing to Oakland in the Meadowlands to end the season.
Because, Coach, if there's any common ground we can find between us, it's that the New York Jets, until proven otherwise, are always going to be the New York Jets. Which means that Jets fans, until proven otherwise, will expect nothing less than heartbreak from the biggest C-teases in New York sports.
Good luck and Merry Christmas,
Greg
Greg Wyshynski is the Features Editor for SportsFan Magazine in Washington, DC, and the Senior Sports Editor for The Connection Newspapers of Northern Virginia. His book is "Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History." His columns appear every Saturday on Sports Central. You can e-mail Greg at [email protected].
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