Pete Carroll wasn’t trying to offend anyone but, then, it’s those unguarded comments that sometimes carry the sharpest blades, right?
Thirteen minutes into his leadoff Super Bowl press conference Sunday night, the Seahawks coach was growing nostalgic, remembering his time as the coach of the Jets, talking about how good it was to be back in New York, even if it had all gone to hell once Dan Marino faked the spike, and …
And then, Jersey snarled.
“Coach, I just want to say something,” came a voice from the back of the crowded ballroom at the Westin Jersey City. “I’m Rich Boggiano, with the City Council. You said you’re glad to be back in New York, but I just want to remind you: you’re in New Jersey …”
And there you had it. The first official shot. By all accounts Boggiano is a faithful public servant, a former cop. He is a New Yorker by birth, but a New Jerseyan by choice (full disclosure: so is your humble narrator), and he represents that segment of the 8.9 million residents of the Garden State who couldn’t wait to pounce on the great Semantic Indiscretion of the week.
New Jersey, simply put, is Glenn Close as Alex Forrest this week.
“I will not be IGNORED, Dan!”
“New Jersey deserves credit for hosting the game,” Seattle tight end Zach Miller said, and he added he and his teammates had agreed to all but strike the words “NEW YORK” from their vocabulary, and that’s swell, but later on Miller also conceded, “I actually visited New York a couple of years ago with my wife, so we did all of the tourist stuff then, stuff in Manhattan.”
He didn’t mention that time he and Mrs. Miller spent a romantic getaway weekend in Ho-Ho-Kus, or inside the Inn at Ramsey.
OK. That’s the last cheap shot I’m going to lob at my adopted home state. I live there gladly, not at gunpoint. But I also live there because of its proximity to the city in which I work: New York City. And I admit it, when I’m in St. Louis or St. Kitts, when I’m asked where I’m from, I often say “New York,” more for geographic simplicity than geographic slight.
(Please don’t tell Mr. Boggiano.)
Jersey wants its props. Jersey wants to be counted, wants to be more than just the E Street Band backing up The Boss.
And look: Jersey has been counted. Of course the game itself will be played in East Rutherford this Sunday. Of course Tuesday’s sweaty, supercharged Media Day was held in Newark’s Prudential Center. Of course the teams are quartered in Jersey City, about a mile away from each other (even if the Jersey City waterfront is so close to Manhattan’s West Side the great Sonny Werblin once quipped the Hudson River should be renamed “Thirteenth Avenue”).
(Hey, Mr. B … those were Sonny’s words, not mine …)
“Look, it’s the greatest city in the world,” Denver cornerback Dominique Rodgers-Cromartie said. “It’s an amazing honor that the game should be played in New York …”
At this point, you could see Rodgers-Cromartie could see the Chamber of Commerce closing in on him. Or maybe just the regulars from Satriale’s.
“ … in the New York-New Jersey area,” he quickly self-corrected.
Look, there’s no reason we all can’t get along here, both sides of the hyphen, both sides of the Hudson. Every now and again it bothers the folks on the Jersey side the football teams who play in Bergen County both have “NY” on their helmets.
And let’s not forget, the hard feelings work both ways: before Wellington Mara was promoted to “beloved patriarch” he was previously known as “greedy carpetbagger” for making like Walter O’Malley, moving the Giants 30 miles instead of 3,000, famously inspiring Ed Koch to sneer of a championship Giants team: “If they want a parade, let them parade in front of the oil drums in Moonachie.”
Maybe it’s like the philosopher Peter Clemenza once said: “These things gotta happen every five years or so, every 10 years. Helps to get rid of the bad blood.”
(Aha. I see you don’t want to argue with Clemenza, Mr. B. Wise choice.)
So here we go again, battling over Super Sunday the way we’ve always fought over Lady Liberty, with Sen. Booker and Gov. Christie weighing in (and maybe someone should point out to the governor his famous traffic jam was caused in part by so many people trying to go FROM Jersey TO New York), when even the most ardent Jerseyan would admit, under truth serum, the Super Bowl would sooner come to Easter Island than East Rutherford if not for the fact its neighbor happens to be, Rodgers-Cromartie’s words: “the greatest city in the world.”
After all, Max Weinberg is a hell of a fine drummer. But would he be in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame if he didn’t happen to share a band with a guitar player named Springsteen?