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The Jets who can't fly high enough to reach the jets

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It was the worst of times, it was even worser times, it was scoring for the wrong team, it was allowing the other team to score, it was the time of failure, it was the time with no success, it was the win less season, it was the season with no wins, it was the team with two quarterbacks, it was the team who didn’t have a reliable quarterback, in short, the team, who lacked in so many different aspects, had a coach whom refused, no, eschewed the thought of changing any of the wonderful things they had going in their favor.

The roaring engines of the jets stormed the stadium; forcing the maniacal crowd onto the balls of their feet, anticipating and betting (of course while having a few drinks) on the starting line-up; particular referring to the person who will occupy the quarterback position. Between the intoxicated overgrown man on the right, or the pigeon-toed simpleton tarnished with ignorance on the left, the motor that powers the Jets, Fireman Ed, has run out of steam and can no longer deal with the deteriorating jet engines; nor the maniacal crowd. Linked not by hand and hand, but by the gruesome reality of a lost cause, the unified crowd slowly transforms from licentious clusters of humans, to individual immoral beasts, criticizing and ridiculing even the most redundant plays. The sanity has vanished, the motor has vanished, the unity has vanished, the pure love of the game has vanished; it is the inexorable thought of not only the coach, but the players, that an acknowledgement of remorse, and the fraudulent justification of their losing streak is enough of an atonement in order to continue (or dare I say destroy) the rest of their already horrendous season.



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