Once More, My NYJ Malaise Has Begun In the Pre-Season

  Football season is upon us. Well, not exactly. But close enough. Time for a precursor to the 2026 campaign. 

NFL training camps opened in July. This past weekend, the full pre-season slate began. 

Colleges have mostly started their pre-season practices. The rule is that coaching can begin 29 days before the first scheduled game. 

High schoolers in New Jersey have been guided by their coaches since the beginning of August. The scrimmage season commences in earnest this week. Their season runs from August 27, 2026 through the state finals no later than November 29, 2026. 

I feel like higher-level football has bombarded us with preparation for the upcoming season. Which will stretch into January for the colleges and February for the Super Bowl. That game is scheduled for Valentine’s Day, which also coincides with President’s Weekend. Firsts for both. 

Add it up and it can be an eight month cycle for the pros. Colleges which survive to the  CFP Championship game have a six month window. 

Fortunately, most teams never make it to the final date—whether it is in high school, college or the NFL. The grind is already enough as it is. The injury toll and the mental fatigue is worrisome. And for the high schoolers and collegians, there is school to think about. 

So, as you must know by now, I have been a loyal New York Jets season ticket holder since 1977. Thus, the 2026 season makes my 50th season of attending home games at Shea Stadium; Giants Stadium; and now the stark grey Met Life Stadium in East Rutherford, New Jersey. 

You might also know that I have decided this will be my last season as a season ticket holder. Realistically, once the season ends, I will have no desire to go to another Jets game—even if, in there highly unlikely event they make it back to the Super Bowl. That would be for the first time since the 1969 season—way before I made the fateful decision to pay good money to see pro football in New York. 

What started out as a loving relationship has soured greatly. In my early years of traveling on Sunday mornings to Queens, fighting loads of Long Island Expressway traffic to and from the game and learning where to park for free, it was an adventure. Partly because the product wasn’t half bad. While in 1977 the team went 3-11 and the 1980 squad produced a 4-12 record, through 1982, the Jets were at .500 or better and made the playoffs twice. 

Mercifully for me, the 1983 season was the last one at decrepit, wind-blown Shea Stadium—a place built for baseball but which had moveable seating that gave an appearance for those in the lower stands, like myself, that you were fairly close to the action. There would be no more nightmarish drives to and from the venue, or parking in Manhattan and taking the 7 train to Flushing packed like sardines with grubby, grumpy patrons who were soused. 

The best thing to happen to the franchise was the move to Giants Stadium. Relocation to the New Jersey Meadowlands made my life a lot less miserable—at least on the roadways. From 1984 to 2000, there were four playoff appearances. In 1998, the Jets actually won the AFC East with a 12-4 record—only to lose in the AFC title game. But also in that span, the team-worst 1-5 record happened in 1996. 

Of course, the ill-fated West Side Stadium where the Jets would have been the prime occupants fizzled on so many levels. Going to Manhattan by train in regular cold weather clothes would have suited me just fine. Being seated indoors would have been a luxury. 

But, par for the franchise, the stadium to end all stadiums never happened. This led to the 50-50 partnership with the Giants for Met Life Stadium and no dome. 

Beginning with 2001, the Jets have made the playoffs six times, losing in the conference championship twice in a row under Rex Ryan. The 2010 appearance in the title game stands as the last playoff game for the franchise to this point. 

Jets ticket holders have been frustrated time and time again. By poor play. By bad coaching. With bad decisions regarding talent. Always with the belief that it can’t remain this bad forever. Chicago Cubs fans can understand; at least they had their prayers answered with the 2016 World Series win. 

Notwithstanding the Cubs’ phenomenon, it doesn’t remove the negativity surrounding the franchise. When the last time the team had a record above .500 was in 2015 with a 10-6 mark and no playoff appearance, cheering for the Jets has become rather dismal. 

I reached my decision to part ways with the Jets because of my dislike of the intense heat in September and the biting cold starting in November. When the team has very little to play for, not only is the market value of the product diminished, but so too is the enthusiasm to spend the day going home once more disappointed.

The fact that my family showed no interest to continue going after this season may have been the final straw. They, like me and my wife, can watch from the comfort of their abodes and be able to turn off the TV set instead of having to navigate the terrors of Route 3 West and the Garden State Parkway South after a treacherous escape from the few exits out of the parking lots surrounding the stadium. 

They would rather spend their money elsewhere and derive greater enjoyment. Believe me, so would I. If I had invested the money spent going to Jets games, I would have easily doubled that six figure amount. 

Yet I chose otherwise. Sanely or not, I have literally weathered my way through to this grand finale. 

There have been a number of players who donned the Green and White who I enjoyed watching. But I always felt that they were playing at a deficit due to poor coaching or management. Which resulted in the plethora of losing seasons that has marked my tenure with the franchise (16-26-7 in terms of winning, losing and .500 seasons in the 49 years I had season tickets).

I have watched prices skyrocket even while the product remained abysmal. I abhor that parking costs so much. And that the NFL and Jets include meaningless pre-season contests as part of the yearly package. 

Which is why I won’t watch the game which don’t count. And it was why, with the temperature at 85 degrees at the 7:00 pm game time on Friday, I elected not to attend. 

That was nearly $300 thrown away. Like I always have, I rationalize that and the upcoming Giants game at the end of August which I have given to a friend, can be added to the cost per game total by adding another $70. What’s money when you are having a great time, right?

I actually find myself bitter and angry with the way the season is likely to go. The return of Geno Smith to the franchise to be the quarterback does not enthuse me. For that matter, there aren’t a lot of players I have become familiar with because I am so jaded. 

Ditto for Head Coach Aaron Glenn, although I want to hope that his return to where he had success on the field as a player can translate into victories. That was not the case last season.

I know that the New England Patriots made it to the AFC Championship last season. Buffalo with heralded QB Josh Allen will someday break through and win a title. Miami is rebuilding but that means very little to a Jets team’s chances against the Dolphins. It never does. 

The word bleak comes to mind. That’s what the season outlook seems to be. Once more, Jets fans will have to embrace futility. 

Look, there are other franchises starving for wins, too. Twelve have never won a Super Bowl. Cleveland, Detroit, Houston and Jacksonville haven’t even appeared in the final game. At least NYJ is undefeated there (1-0) and that team with Joe Namath at the helm won the franchise’s sole AFL crown before the merger between the NFL and AFL. 

Dallas, a paragon for excellence, having won three titles with Jerry Jones as owner, is in a drought. Not since 1995 have the Cowboys won it all. And Jones was a first ballot inductee into the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 2017. 

Yet what do the legion of Dallas fans have to show for all of Jerry’s machinations? Bupkis. How ‘bout them Cowboys?

I can focus my hostility towards Jets owner Woody Johnson. He can be as fan friendly as he wants. However, since 2000, his teams have repeatedly come up empty. The talent wasn’t there.

I know that the era of Tom Brady at New England alongside Bill Belichick coincided with a lot of down years for the Jets. Brady owns a 30-7 regular season record against Gang Green. At least he is only 1-1 versus NYJ in the playoffs. As opposed to a 7-3 record in Super Bowls. 

I can’t wait for the regular season to begin. I plan on going to an away game this year—something I have never done. That could be fun. 

But I also can’t wait for the season to end, so that I can put this half century of misery behind me and enjoy the rest of my life in different ways. In 2027, if I don’t watch the Jets after another season of disappointment, then that’s okay. A good nap sounds a lot better anyway. 

Right now, there aren’t any national TV games involving the Jets. That’s a big, fat zero. Because the network executives just don’t feel that the talent necessary to attract audiences is there. Even with the Jets playing teams such as the Packers, Bears, Lions, Patriots, Bills, Chiefs and Broncos.

For me, that means that the bulk of the games are at 1:00 until November 22 when the team flies to Southern California to meet the Chargers (a game I might try to go to). A visit to Arizona on December 20 starts at 4:05 (My alternate game to go see NYJ on the road). No home games at dinner time. A small victory of sorts, I guess. 

So the countdown for me with the final season of the Jets is underway. With much antipathy as to the way the past 49 years have gone and with the cloudy forecast in year 50 making things no better. 

With the high schools, I primarily root for the local team, Jonathan Dayton. They aren’t much of a team. At last the new turf field is almost installed in time for the home opener when powerful Governor Livingston High School from Berkeley Heights comes to Springfield. 

I have circled October 16 on my calendar. That’s when my alma mater, Highland Park, plays around the corner from my home. HPHS was a powerhouse before and during my high school years. That is no longer the case. 

At least I can’t lose in that game. One of my teams has to win. 

As for my college teams, Franklin and Marshall is coming off of its first Centennial Conference championship with a stirring win over Johns Hopkins. While the Diplomats just miss the D III Football Pre-Season Top 25, Hopkins is ranked #4 after making the 2025 NCAA Division III semi-finals. 

Very little is going to top my euphoria from the overtime win last November which catapulted F&M to its first ever NCAA appearance. My expectations are low enough that I appreciate where the school stands athletically and academically. I am fine with that. 

Meanwhile, Rutgers has been picked for #16 in the Big Ten. Only Purdue and Maryland are slotted behind Greg Schiano’s Scarlet Knights. Never having enough cash and N-I-L money to compete with the big boys like Michigan, Ohio State and Penn State along with reigning national champion Indiana, a veritable newcomer to the top tier of FBS football, the expectation is for another miserable year with maybe a low-level bowl game if things break right. 

It’s my misfortune that I selected the Jets, F&M, and Rutgers as my teams to root for. One has a record way below .500 (NYJ). F&M has had some really good teams in its history, which dates back to 1887 with a first win over nearby Millersville in 1889. Rutgers’ cumulative record has also dipped below .500, a function of losing over 90 games as a member of the Big Ten. 

I don’t believe I’m going to Piscataway for a RU home game this year. I’m not yet saying no to a road game at Penn State in November—I have not seen the Knights play football away from its New Jersey campus. That’s a bucket list item. 

If I decide to see F&M play at Muhlenberg on October 10, if the weather cooperates, a day in the Lehigh Valley might be in the offing. Otherwise, no trips to Lancaster are planned by us. 

Which leaves me stuck with the New York Jets. Whether I like it or not. There isn’t going to be a New York Knicks-like championship in this team’s 2026 future. There is no one like Jalen Brunson with his magical leadership to make it happen. 

Once more, my NYJ malaise has begun in the pre-season. Maybe it’s the curse that is contained within the precursor that’s the cause.

"Too Hot To Handle"

  The weather has been oppressive lately. Temperature in the 90’s. High levels of humidity. It’s August. The dog days. 

My late Shetland Sheepdog never liked the heat—she preferred the cool surfaces inside the air conditioned house or lying in the shade of the silver maple tree on our front lawn. She didn’t like playing ball and she sure as heck hated football season, as the leader of her pack would scream at the television when the Jets would once more make a boneheaded play. 

NFL training camps and college football practices are invading the sanctity of baseball. With as many injuries as the New York Yankees have in April. 

I know that I am jaded because of the high salaries so many players receive, or in the case of too many college football players, very sweet N-I-L deals. Yet I think of those who aren’t going to make it through training camp, their dreams cut way short and facing an uncertain reality. 

Even more so, I think of those players who aren’t getting N-I-L money—the walk-ons, the reserves, who are sweating it out on a daily basis with the faint hope of impressing a coach to perhaps make it onto a special team, thus making the sacrifices worthwhile. There are the kids at the Division II and III levels who play for the fun of the game or who are first-generation college students looking to make their lives better in such an uncertain economic time. 

Then there are the high school kids who have risen from the semi-seriousness of youth football. They seek the glory associated with a football career that so very few ever ascend to. 

I saw two boys in Springfield peddling on bicycles to an alternate field in town for football practice. Since there wasn’t a locker room to dress in, they balanced their pads and helmet on the handlebars as they negotiated the imperfect sidewalks and avoided the cars whizzing by. All of this for a small school team which has little promise of winning titles. 

I was once one of those kids. A pudgy 5’2” 150 pound freshman in Highland Park who went out for freshman football because everyone else seemed to (We didn’t have a soccer team back then). I thought that I could throw a ball so far and accurately that I could be a quarterback. And I could tackle, so maybe linebacker was my spot. 

In reality, I was a fourth string QB, fourth string running back and a third string linebacker. Eventually I saw action on the kick return team, had one carry for five yards in a rout and enjoyed suiting up in my number 35 jersey which hardly got dirty. Because it was what you did in Highland Park if you had an ounce of athleticism. 

I had no business being on that practice field, let alone playing in games. Guys my height without great foot speed aren’t supposed to play football. 

I know I suffered a concussion once in summer practice. I hated taking salt pills to help retain water—except that we sweated like banshees in the dust of a repurposed baseball field twice a day in August. 

Like me, they all do this for tyrannical coaches who put these athletes through grueling sessions in the blazing sun so that they will be better conditioned when the cold arrives and the games count even more. Each one has their reasons—collectively it is for the glory so few can attain.

The first New York Jets pre-season game of my 50th and last season as a season ticket holder is Friday. In olden times of my youth, the games were referred to as exhibition games—like they are in baseball. Marketing geniuses on Madison Avenue re-branded these almost-meaningless games so that they seemed like they had great importance. 

For those trying to overcome rosters loaded with depth, it is the hope that their play will get them another week in camp to showcase their talents. Or that a different franchise might take note and scoop them up when the almost inevitable cuts occur. Or that they go to Canada to play. Or hope that indoor football or the UFL snares them. There is even pro football in Europe, Japan and Mexico. 

Many of these NFL players were once stars in high school. They may have received some recognition in college. It is uncertain how many never graduated with a degree in something which could set them up for a different path of success once their playing days were ended. 

In a way, I feel sad for those who do not make it in the NFL. For all of the work they put in, many felt they didn’t measure up to what was needed. 

Yet they knew what they were getting themselves into. All the days running in the heat, honing their bodies in weight rooms and working with trainers to better themselves. With very little to show for it all but arthritis, joint replacement, concussion-related memory loss and a wide assortment of problems that, years later, may appear as a result of this mania to reach the NFL. 

Even those who reach the pinnacle can only last so long. There is another hungry lion waiting to contest the throne. Plus injuries are even more devastating at the highest level when the stakes are the greatest and the speed and size of the players translates into a basic physics theory (see Mean Speed Theorem). 

Besides football, so many athletes toil in the heat to prepare for their seasons. Soccer players are far from immune from boiling practices. Runners—whether competitive or just casual—populate the tracks and roadways; the more sane ones try to get their work in before the sun is ablaze and the heat is too much. How many soaked shirts and so much glistening skin do I see from those running?

Basketball goes full force in sweltering gyms or on unforgiving asphalt. Shaping ones game takes repetition and competition. It doesn’t matter if it is pick up hoops or NBA players getting together to train with each other. 

This is another sport which I quickly to came realize that the fantasy of shooting hoops on a backboard and rim attached to the high wall over the garage was not reality. 5’5” hoopsters just aren’t bountiful. In the few competitive games I played in during high school and  intramurals at F&M, I wasn’t much of a scorer.(yes I did score in most every game I played but double figures—c’mon!) And defense was forgettable, given how everybody else was taller than me. 

And of course, baseball thrives in the summertime. Professional baseball is in full throttle, hurtling towards October and the World Series. 

I remember the wool uniforms I wore at Franklin and Marshall and how heavy they were. Prior to double knit, breathing fabric for jerseys and pants, the players of yesteryear had to swelter in the heat of some of the hotter places like D.C., St. Louis and Cincinnati, worn down by the clothing they had on. It boggles my mind even more that people attending games actually dressed in ties and jackets and dresses. 

In my youth, I played in plenty of early evening games where the fields were unforgiving. So, too, did I play our version of stickball on school playgrounds made of heat-retaining pavement and brick walls. At least I could go home and dunk myself in my backyard pool to cool down. 

Because I made All-Star teams and had hardly ever sat on the bench since I was eight years of age, I always felt that baseball was my great equalizer. I could throw as far if not farther than a lot of others. I could steal bases. And I could hit. Nobody discouraged me from having dreams except when prejudice creeped into play, sidelining me in high school. 

Even when I knew I wasn’t going to play organized baseball after my freshman year at Highland Park H.S., I never stopped going out in the heat of the day and evening to work on my defense and throwing. 

Which is why when I came to F&M, I was the kid they didn’t know about. The one who opened eyes when I threw and hit. 

For two years I lived the dream of starting and playing amongst the big boys. Size didn’t matter. All those days and nights in the heat of the Summer paid dividends. Until injuries creeped in, sending my collegiate dreams to the sidelines. 

Yes, I played slow-pitch softball. Another summertime pastime. In the heat of D.C. in 1971. And on burnt out grass in parks in Essex County in the 1970’s and 80’s. 

I was never a fan of that sport. The size of the ball was too cumbersome and the bats were too small for my taste. 

But being on softball teams was the direct by-product of all those countless days of playing in the heat. Which led to my meeting some very influential people in Washington and playing alongside some of the top attorneys and judges in New Jersey. I was hired, in part, at the Office of the Public Defender because they considered me to be a ringer for their moribund team (I hope that wasn’t the primary reason I got the job).

Golf is a very popular sport. So is tennis. The heat never stops those who participate. The smarter ones play in the morning—if they can. This is true whether it is in hot and humid Florida or the toasty Northeast. 

When I did play golf, it was when I was in my teens. I wasn’t very good at it. I would be on hot and dry courses in Middlesex County where my ball skidded because there were droughts. 

Or if we were in Las Vegas, my father would drop me off at the Stardust, Dunes or Desert Inn courses where the 100 degree temperatures would melt me; I quickly understood why there was water everywhere on the Nevada courses. Standing on putting greens by itself was torture. 

I came to understand why golfers have such massive tans, wear light-fitting clothing and sport logos on hats to shade their eyes. They had to be sweating buckets on the PGA Tour because the men wear long pants; the LIV Tour eschews the slacks as does college and amateur play while the women wear shorts because marketing believes it is sexy to watch. 

Tennis on hard courts in the United States is brutal. Hard courts are absolute heat traps. Plus the sun can blind you depending on the angle in the sky and how the court is situated. 

I would bring extra shirts when playing outdoors—sometimes to give me some relief and sometimes so I wouldn’t sweat in the car driving home. Water jugs were a necessity, for hydration is a must. 

Where we have our gym—which itself can get warm and uncomfortable and humid when the doors to the adjacent indoor pool remain open—there is a summer camp and adults take lessons indoors. The kids come out frazzled and the adults invariably complain about the sauna-like conditions they endured. 

New paddleball courts were installed recently adjacent to the outdoor tennis courts. This has become a wildly popular sport. Yet I have not seen anybody over the age of 60 playing beyond 10:00 am, likely in fear that they would be felled by heat stroke. 

Speaking of which, a New York Jets player was taken from the facility in Florham Park by ambulance to a hospital after passing out. Whether it was a preexisting condition or the oppressive weather, that illuminates the danger of overexertion in the Summer swelter. 

Maybe it’s age. I don’t find that lying out in the sun then hopping in a pool, lake or other body of water is what I want to do anymore. Getting tanned was something which I felt made me look healthy. 

Now SPF 30 or higher goes on if I venture into the sun for an exercise walk. I can’t imagine lasting more than an hour at a beach without withering. 

Sitting outdoors to eat used to be fun. Now it has to be a day where it is 80 degrees and comfortable, in a location devoid of sunshine, with a light breeze for added comfort. Sidewalk eating is a non-starter. 

Cooking on the barbecue becomes a race to avoid the high heat generated in addition to the daily temperatures. Timing is everything when escaping the air conditioned comfort of my den to walk onto the skillet disguised as a patio. 

Going to games largely used to be uneventful. To begin with, the travel to and from the contest takes about 8 hours. More if I go with Fan X to Baltimore (or our family’s recent 14 hour excursion necessitated by an overheated hotel). Using the New York subways from June to September can be pungent and precarious, in addition to being a heat trap. 

High temperatures make the games unenjoyable. Making sure that seats are in the shade is a must. 

My NYJ seats are partially in the sun when the season starts, necessitating water bottle refills, cooling towels and suntan lotion. That, along with the cold weather, made my decision to stop after 50 years of a variety of weather very easy to forego (too many lousy teams was a very compelling reason, too).

Now sitting in my den or TV room, with comfort food, easy access to the bathroom and climate control sounds so good. I think I have earned that right. Besides, the Jets have done just fine with the money I have paid them to watch a lot of losing. 

My wife claims that Global Warming has contributed to the rise in temperature and the violent storms which seem to be more prevalent. She might not be wrong. The advent of air conditioning has made it easier to survive the almost unceasing warmth. 

I empathize with those who opt to play sports and endure oppressive heat. I get it. 

That empathy is tinged with sympathy. Even if they have chosen to willingly step outdoors to play a game, nobody wants to see dehydration, nausea and a variety of heat-related ailments affecting those who share a field, court or sit in the stands. 

Whether it’s “The Summertime Blues” or “Summertime, Summertime,” the lyrics of those and other songs resonate. In so many ways. 

I could go listen to the greatest hits album “Sounds of Summer” by The Beach Boys. Although that does not include the hit “All Summer Long.” For sure we’re in the “Lazy-Hazy-Crazy Days of Summer”. 

And you might have thought I was going to extol George Lombard, Jr., the rookie sensation at shortstop for the New York Yankees. Nope. 

Instead, “Blame It On The Rain.” This year, it’s “Too Hot To Handle.”