This is the night Rex Ryan and Mark Sanchez and the Jets walk the walk like they have never walked it before, that precious, glorious, 60-minute walk into the playoffs.
Wincinnati.
I say this with a measure of trepidation, of course, given the state of the NFL and this cursed franchise and my foggy crystal ball, but I have caught Rexitis and, more recently, Braylonitis, and I can’t shake it.
This is the blustery, wind-chilled night when the blustery Jolly Green Jets head coach and his talk-the-talk team bid a fond farewell to a place their 25 predecessors will mostly remember as Heartbreak Hotel and transform it into a football Times Square on New Jets Eve a little before midnight.
Win-and-incinnati.
The Bengals could be playing for a No. 3 seed if the Texans beat the Patriots in their 1 p.m. game. They could certainly be hosting the Jets next weekend. I don’t care if Bengals coach Marvin Lewis decides he wants to build momentum for the playoffs. I don’t care if he wants to give his old pal Ryan a second gift in two weeks by yanking Carson Palmer and Chad Ochocinco by halftime and throwing J.T. O’Sullivan to the frothing wolves. The Jets are playing for the No. 5 seed or not playing any more.
Take the fifth or forever hold your tongues.
This is the night the Jets douse Ryan with a Gatorade bath.
“I don’t know about that,” Bart Scott said, chuckling. “I know he’s a big man, man, but you don’t know what that body temperature’s gonna be like out there in that cold weather. I don’t want ’em to have to bring the debfribillator out, man, and wrap him up in aluminum foil so he can get his temperature back.”
So that won’t happen.
“Maybe pour some rice on him or something, have everybody go in like he’s getting married or something,” Scott said.
Rice, of course, might be a dangerous proposition anywhere near their fearless, hungry leader.
“Well it’s not pre-boiled yet so it’s safe,” Scott said.
This is the night the Jets get to try to carry Ryan off the field on their shoulders.
“We got the guys that can do it, we got a couple that can get him up,” Scott said. “We gotta get some of our stronger guys. . . . We gotta get Ropati [Pitoitua] up there, get [Mike] DeVito, he’s a hoss. . . . Wayne [Hunter], Wayne’s a hoss. . . . [Matthew] Mulligan . . . Believe it or not, we can get him up.”
Discretion is the better part of valor, so Scott would be lurking nearby.
“I’ll be part of the ‘catch’ team, in case he falls backwards or something, you know, sacrifice myself, I just dive out like a grenade and let him fall on me,” Scott said.
Giants Stadium owes the Jets a magic moment. There was Bill Parcells’ 38-24 victory over Tom Coughlin and the Jaguars, the game that got them to Denver for the ill-fated 1998 AFC Championship game. There was the 41-0 2002 AFC wild-card rout of Peyton Manning and the Colts, a raucous night when Manning wished he could have come out of the game in the third quarter. The Monday Night Miracle, of course. Beating Tom Brady in September. Not enough memories like that.
The 2009 Jets owe their fans, too. Remember how Ryan taped that recorded message to season-ticket holders before the Patriots game? Since then, the Jets have treated their 12th Man to losses against the Bills, Dolphins, Jaguars and Falcons.
This is the night the Jets play to win from start to finish, no matter whether Palmer or J.T. Sullivan is the quarterback, no matter whether Ochocinco or Andre Caldwell dares venture onto Revis Island. At all costs. They hide nothing, they spare no one. They sell out. They throw the kitchen sink at the Bengals. They can worry about next week next week.
If you fancy yourself a playoff team, you show New York, you show America, that you are. You do not waver, you do not crack, you ball your fists and beat the evil ghosts of yesteryear, those Same Old Jets ghosts, to a bloody pulp.
If you do not want this game more, shame on you. If you dare show up the way the Giants did in their last game at Giants Stadium, disgracing Lawrence Taylor and Harry Carson the way they did, then you can do New York a favor and all go home and watch the playoffs on your couches.
You hit the Bengals in the mouth, and you keep hitting them. You run Thomas Jones and you run Shonn Greene and you keep your excitable rookie quarterback bridled and every man on defense plays every last play like Joe Klecko — or Revis.
Walk the walk, that precious, glorious 60-minute walk into the playoffs.
Wincinnati.
steve.serby@nypost.com