Big Brett's last night on the bench

No one debates the utter uselessness and flagrant ripoffhood of the NFL preseason. Oh sure, we understand the importance of letting rookies and backups audition for jobs, as well as the necessity of getting the veterans physically acclimated to the rigors of the season, but from a fan's perspective they're a sham. It'd be one thing if they were marketed like the scrimmage games they are with cut-rate tickets and such, but they're nationally televised and included in all season ticket package. All so loyal paying customers can go sit in a half-empty stadium and see their favourite players sit around and watch the same half-assed game as the fans are forced to watch. Fuck you, NFL.

And yet Sports Illustrated's premiere well-fed latté-addict Peter King took the time a couple weeks ago to scold Jets fans, most of whom live on Long Island, a two-hour one-way drive from Giants Stadium, for not showing up to check out the Brettster's public debut in their laundry of choice. The stadium was half-empty, he opines. Boo fucking hoo. King, keep in mind, gets a press-box buffet and his gas reimbursed if he goes to a game. And he seems to think that, five years from now, this meaningless charade, in which Favre took about ten snaps, will be remembered as the big guy's Jets debut. Bullshit. Favre's Jets debut occurs next weekend. No one's gonna remember who they played five days from now.

The next day King defended himself against a deluge of hate mail by claiming that when the Knicks sign LeBron in a couple years, the garden's gonna be packed for the first exhibition game. Fine, King. Note, by the way, that the Garden is conveniently located in the middle of Manhattan and seats about half as many patrons as Giants Stadium. So if the stadium was half-full, we may conclude... that King is woefully out of touch with actual football fans.

Having said that... the wife and I were eager to shell out $30 a ducat to some online scalper when the boys came to Philly this past Thursday for their final preseason "tilt" with the local green before the games start counting. We showed our green pride in more ways than one, including traveling to the stadium via bicycles with a few sixers in tow for a bit of bike-gating. We were given a friendly razzing for our environmentally conscious ways by a nearby family of Eags fans who showed up for the game in a school bus painted green with a satellite dish on the roof, a plasma TV hung on the back door, a full liquor bar and a license plate that read TAILG8.

I was given exactly zero shit for wearing a Jets jersey (Mo Lewis, #57, wreckanize, foo') from anyone but the beer-stand lady, who threatened to withhold my change until I denounced the Mets (I stood firm). I guess the only good thing I can say about preseason games is that everybody's still undefeated, so Philly phans aren't homicidally furious yet. Give 'em a month.

And as for the game? Well, I'd never been to a preseason game before and I may not go again. As someone obsessed enough with the Jets that I have, on more than one occasion, gone to a game alone (yup, that was me), let me just say that preseason games barely make it across the worth-it line with a big group of friends and half-price tickets. I remember the game being close, and i remember the Jets winning, but i don't remember giving a shit. And I don't remember a single standout play.

Which brings us to our most important point: how'd Brett-boy look? Relaxed. He stood on the sideline the whole game. Rip. Off.

Who will take Brettie to the prom?

Erstwhile 'Nuger Balls of Sound emailed me this little visual mashup the other day:

A witty and incisive dig at a mercurial and self-centered superstar who forces his employer and, by extension, an entire fanbase to suffer through his own indecisiveness? Or a natural outgrowth of a culture, fostered by a federal executive administration that refuses to admit it erred in launching an unnecessary, illegal and unprovoked foreign war, and abetted by media mouthpiece Fox News, in which anyone with the fortitude to, upon further reflection, change one's mind for the better is derided as a "flip-flopper"?

Or is the message even more subtle than that? The Hollywood starlet being replaced in the photos above is none other than Lindsay Lohan, another notoriously strung-out, drug-addled drunk.

News flash, stop! Brett Favre is tired, stop!

Brett Favre is known, more than anything else save possibly his career interceptions record, for his legendary durability. He's started like 1,000 games in a row and he never gets injured. In fact, linebackers get injured trying to tackle him. He's made of granite.

Unless he has to practice more than four straight days. According to this AP article, he said he was tired after practice this morning. Tired. So he asked Mangini to go easy on him for the afternoon practice. Here's some choice quotes:

• "My arm's kind of dragging a little bit today."


• "To be honest with you, I'm surprised... that I've been able to make it through every practice so far."


• "I wondered this morning when I got up, 'What in the heck am I doing?'"


• "I could go into a game and I think I could manage a game OK."


• "I felt 38 today."

Oh yeah! That, ladies and gentlemen, is the voice of a winner. A conqueror. An immovable force of nature.

One wonders whether he talks like this in the huddle. "Well, guys, I'm gettin' kinda pooped out here, but let's just run a few more plays and we can go home. Break!"

Let the season begin! Bring 'em on!

The Official Response

M— emailed me a couple weeks ago when the Favre soap opera started revving up and was like, "You should totally get Favregnugen goin' again." He was right, but I put it off outta sheer laziness. Given the most recent development, it looks like the time has come to break the silence.

So Spaghetti texted me like a week-ana-half ago "Favre to Jets?" and scared the shit outta me. I immediately logged on somewhere and found out it was just an unsubstantiated rumour. Crisis averted.

After all, I don't want fuckin' Favre on the Jets. What a waste of time. Here's why: they've got a fragile veteran and underdeveloped next-guy-in-waiting on the roster at QB. The rest of the team is clearly in rebuilding mode. So you need to see what the kid's got this season, and draft another one if he doesn't work out, right? Meanwhile, you keep building the rest of the offense.

Problem is that the Jets made a bunch of win-now veteran acquisitions in the offseason (Jenkins, Faneca, Pace) and seem to think they're ready to do just that. Bullshit. This team looks lucky to win eight games.

And I'm okay with rebuilding. If the team's gonna suck anyway, at least make it a productive season by getting the younger players some valuable experience. The problem with getting a guy like Favre (well, okay, just Favre; there's no one really like him) is that he sets back the much-needed long-term development of the quarterback position by at least a season, maybe more. Which brings us to another problem: the Packer organisation no longer has to put up with the annual will-he-won't-he retirement dance that's been going on in Green Bay for the past four years or so. Guess who gets the honours now?

So I'm at work on Friday night and guess who calls to tell me the big news: my man Spaghetti. Yup, it's happened, it's real, no turning back from here. Which means now I get stuck with the task of talking myself into liking the trade and getting excited about the Favre "era" in New York. Here's what I got so far.

The Jets aren't going anywhere this year. Like a said, 8-8 if they're lucky. I don't care if they trade for Tom Brady at QB, they're still not winning a playoff game. Now last year they stunk even worse than they're gonna stink this year, but I still watched (or sometimes listened to) every game.

Since I moved to Philly I can't watch most of 'em at home, I have to go out to a bar. The only bar I know of in Philly with the NFL's satellite package is a place in midtown called the Fox & Hound. F&H is one of those horrible, horrible overcrowded sports bars that becomes unbearable every Sunday afternoon in the fall. So I'd head up there every Sunday and sit in a giant cave full of obnoxious Steeler fans, look for a seat and crane my neck towards to the one little TV in the corner showing the Jets game. And the most galling thing about the experience was that the Jets weren't just bad, they were fucking boring. They were so awful they'd usually be out of the running by halftime. Unimaginitive passing game, uninspired quarterback play, a running game that struggled to pick up 3rd-and-2's, defense that couldn't stop a decent high school team. Yuck.

So what did I do? Sat there and watched. The whole stupid game. Drinking my 22 ounce frozen mug of Bud Light and eating awful sports bar food, waiting for it to be over. Why? Why not just leave? Because I'm an idiot I guess, an idiot and a glutton for punishment. And because, win lose or suck, I love the New York Jets. I can't help it.

Which brings us back to this year. The Jets will not be particularly good, but they'll be competitive. And more importantly, they'll be interesting. They'll be fun. Say what you will about Favre (undisciplined, uncoachable, too old, makes bad descisions, throws too many picks), but he's never boring. Ever. And his teams are never out of it. For every time he's killed a fourth quarter comeback drive with a head-scratching interception, there's at least two more when he pulled it off. He's always a blast to watch and this year should be no different. Just ask John Madden. Or Peter King.

So that's all I got. The Jets are still gonna stick but they'll be fun. Let the season begin.

Of course, that also means this blog's comin' back in effect full force. Since, as has so often been pointed out, fans just root for laundry, the tone will be changing drastically from condescending snark to hero worship and, presumably, a lot of excuse-making. I'll re-do the masthead this week and we'll be on our way. We're gonna call it "Favre: the Deeper Shade of Green Years". Enjoy!