Ode to a Jets Fan (my wife)

I’ve been to a variety of sporting events in a large number of places around the world.  I sat in awe in Wembley during the five nations (it was still the Five Nations as Italy hadn’t grown enough yet to join), two hours before kickoff, listening to the songs being sung by 10’s of thousands.  I’ve been to cricket matches, NFL games, hockey, baseball, etc.  But I’m not sure if I can say I’ve ever found a more superstitious fan than a Jets fan.

Tonight, the Jets played the Patriots (New York/New England (Boston) for those over seas) in American football (the NFL or ‘Gridiron’ in Oz).   The Patriots have been a stellar team this year, spanking the Jets on the last outing.  And the Jets have this amazing history (sans the last 2 years) of being a woulda, shoulda, coulda team, offering moments of brilliance followed by eons of agony.  But this year (potentially two years) the tide has changed – but that doesn’t change the fan!

My sister-in-law has a history of getting Christmas presents of a Jets jersey.  The year she gets the jersey from her favorite player he either becomes injured or is traded away the next season. We have friends that have to watch the game from certain locations (not just the home in which the watch, not the TV upon which they view the spectacle, but down to the chair in the house where they MUST sit to view the game.)  My wife believes she must be in the kitchen cooking in order for the Jets to win.  Which means the rest of us get to watch the game as well as be fed, but she cannot view the TV more than the time it takes to bring the food to the table or the buffet.

On my last post I mentioned the cold that comes around goes around.  Well, my wife got hit with this nasty bugger this week and has been miserable.  An ugly chest cold where on Thursday she just didn’t sleep (nor did I get much either).  Friday I went out and got her some cough medicine but it didn’t much help.  And she was too sick to teach church school today.  That being said, IF SHE’S NOT COOKING, THE JETS WON’T WIN!  So she invited a few families, including kids, over for the game and she cooked.  And cooked, and cooked, and then cleaned.   She watched the final 1:24 seconds (when the game was essentially won) but was missing the rest of the entire match.  All this while barely being able to speak due to her throat being so raw!  Six bottles of wine, just a few (8) bottles of beer, and a half bottle of grappa (my recommendation upon the end of the game) later my wife had drank nothing but water but served tortellini, salad, faux fried (baked) chicken, and sauteed asparagus.  Along with dessert, etc.  I was responsible for cleaning approximately 7 forks, a serving knife and taking out the recycling (which will hopefully gain the respect of the porters in our building with all our bottles – The McHugh’s always throw a good bash!), my wife did the rest!

Although the comment was made that Rex Ryan threw out a thank you to Lillian for hosting the party that helped make the decision, it was quite funny throughout the night.  K was not allowed to NOT drink white wine – the minute she switched to seltzer things started looking bad.  When D got up and started drinking wine he was ordered to get a beer and sit back on the couch.  My wife was recommended to return to the kitchen multiple times.  One of the mothers of British descent (who doesn’t much care for NFL and arrived late) was almost asked to go back home.  And one of the kids was made to stand at the end of the TV with his hands up and fingers crossed for much of the game.

But through it all, my wife was the stalwart, cooking, cleaning and making everyone happy behind the scenes.  I wasn’t allowed to leave my seat (and luckily my switch to an IPA was met w/ a fumble and turn-over to the Jets or I would have had to drink that nasty French wine I put out!)  The only concern I have was the graphic that came up on the television, after the Jets had won, announcing that the Jets would next play on Sunday, 1830, against the Pittsburgh Steelers, to which one of the fathers replied, “So we’ll see you around 1730 next Sunday?”

J-E-T-S — Jets, Jets, Jets!