SO HERE he is at last, come to rescue Gotham from the terrifying grip of The Joker, aka Bill Belichick, the evil mastermind of the New England Patriots.
It seems as if it is 4 score and seven years ago that the Jets last won a Super Bowl. Actually it was 4 decades since their last superhero, Joe Namath, the man they called Broadway Joe, ruled the night and Sunday afternoons, too, beating back Al Davis’ Darth Raiders at a frozen Shea in something called the AFL Championship game a couple of weeks before Jan. 12, 1969.
Once New York turned its lonely eyes to you, Joe DiMaggio.
Now all the lonely eyes turn to you, The Favre Knight.
Brett Favre has come out of retirement to accept this great challenge, left his heart not in San Francisco but in Green Bay, which didn’t want a conflicted 38-year-old battling all the villains in the NFC North.
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Unlike Broadway Joe, The Favre Knight offers no guarantees. Perhaps because he suddenly finds himself thrust on the greatest stage in sports, the brightest lights shining on a graybeard who has never had the NFL’s Heath Ledger standing directly and defiantly between him and the Lombardi Trophy, with baby-faced assassin Tom Brady his partner in crime.
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Or perhaps it is the specter of Father Time, another insidious adversary, lurking ominously in the background. Father Time is eager to tap him on the shoulder pads and tell him in no uncertain terms that he no longer is what he was, that he no longer can set a city ablaze with his gunslinger’s right arm and the unbridled joy and improvisation with which he plays. Or perhaps it the kind of sky-high expectations in a strange town with strangers as teammates that only a Reggie Jackson or a Mark Messier could stare down.
Because the sidewalks of New York are littered with the bodies of mercenaries or carpetbaggers or faded glories who came here to be fitted for their rings and wound up only with a treacherous ride down the Canyon of Zeroes.
Randy Johnson revealed himself as a square peg in a round, Pinstriped hole when he shoved his hand over a trailing cameraman walking the streets on his very first day in town. After failing in Game 3 of the AL Division Series against the Angels and Game 3 of the AL Division Series against the Tigers, the Big Unit scurried back to Arizona, where he told the media reports of his surliness were greatly exaggerated: If you’re going to use me as a floor mat there . . . write your own stories and not come to get to know me, then I don’t want to sit there and give you my time.
Neil O’Donnell left the comfort of Pittsburgh for a five-year, $25 million contract with the Jets, and Keyshawn Johnson called him a stiff puppet in his book, and Bill Parcells soon whacked him for Glenn Foley.
Bobby Bonilla left Pittsburgh after six seasons for a record five-year, $29 million deal with the Mets and immediately dared the media to knock the smile off his face, wore earplugs at the plate to drown out the boos, and offered to show one scribe his Bronx.
It was painful watching Alex Rodriguez vs. Alex Rodriguez – As A-Rod Turns – for the first few years here, especially in October. Even now, after he desperately opted back into the madness.
Chuck Knoblauch was an All-Star in Minnesota, then had Yankees fans in the stands behind first base yearning for helmets whenever their shell-shocked second baseman cocked his arm.
George Foster, following 11 seasons in Cincinnati, was traded to the Mets in 1982 and signed a five-year contract worth more than $10 million. Foster was a shell of his old self and claimed racism when the Mets released him in August of their 1986 championship season.
Jets fans only slightly scarred by The Mud Bowl, by The Fake Spike, by the 1998 AFC Championship game, by this and by that, will cling desperately to the hope that Favre join the list of stars who came, saw and, in some cases, conquered New York: Captain Messier . . . Reg-gie . . . Mike Piazza . . . Paul ONeill . . . Keith Hernandez . . . Gary (Kid) Carter . . . Curtis Martin . . . Kevin Mawae . . . Kerry Collins . . . Latrell Sprewell . . . Roger Clemens, eventually.
Because that is what Favre represents, hope. That is who Favre is, their Hope Diamond. All the hype is about all the hope he brings to his new fans, to his new teammates, to his new coaches, to his new owner, who can sleep better now when the PSL invoices are sent to panhandling season-ticket holders.
It is probably more realistic for them to expect what Wayne Gretzky, aka The Great One, gave the Rangers when he joined old pal Messier at the end of his career in 1996 at age 36. Gretzky showed flashes of his genius (team-high 97 points and league-high 72 assists), but, alas, no championship by the time he retired after three seasons.
Ready or not, here he comes. It all starts Sunday, likely under a Miami sun hot enough to melt any foam cheesehead, against Chad Pennington and the Dolphins. The Jets will be asking The Favre Knight to be 4 ever young, even if it’s for just one season. One season when they can push the defending Super Bowl champion Giants to the background. One season like 1968. 4 once. And 4 ever.
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