Aaron Glenn, the new head coach of the New York Jets, just stood at a podium and boldly declared that Geno Smith—in his second act with the franchise—will lead them to “the promised land.” I was drinking a glass of water when I read this quote, and I physically gagged. Water went up my nose. I was coughing for ten minutes. The hubris. The sheer, blinding delusion.
There Is No Promised Land in New Jersey
The New York Jets do not go to the promised land. The New York Jets go to the Meadowlands, where hope goes to be intercepted on a crucial 3rd-and-long. Geno Smith had a great run in Seattle, but bringing him back to the Jets is like voluntarily walking back into a burning building because you think the fire might be friendly this time.
I Cannot Trust Happiness
Every time someone predicts success for the Jets, the universe actively punishes them with a catastrophic injury or a butt-fumble. Aaron Glenn is tempting fate, and as a highly neurotic sports fan, I am terrified of the impending karma. I am going to draft the opposing team’s defense in fantasy every single week because the collapse is inevitable.
