Aaron Rodgers

https://www.newyorker.com/sports/sporting-scene/no-not-aaron-rodgers?utm_campaign=cm&utm_source=crm&utm_brand=tny&utm_mailing=TNY_SubPersRec_020520&utm_medium=email&bxid=5bea099724c17c6adf15aff5&cndid=31731848&hasha=16da5c0ec996505706af07a9a3a1bf12&hashb=5177e34c22ad847fc0b9f0576fb4c770a31a9882&hashc=d78a2a85f2831f72fe9259d047d90b07dba7701f17f8d61b0ca33fe738f5ce06&mbid=CRMNYR062419&utm_term=NYR_PersRec_CYGNUS_2023-09-13("No, Not Aaron Rodgers!")

If there was ever a perfect piece of sports writing this is it. Mr. Gopnik's angst, humor and infinite knowledge of his subject drip off the page. Each word in its proper place. Each phrase necessary. Each paragraph a gem. 

Yes, I liked it.

For those of us who take on these teams as if they were our own, who dream of victories and suffer nightmares of defeats, we understand the dark comedy that is the sworn existence of a Jet fan. Pledging allegiance to certain doom, taking an oath to a Groundhog day endless loop of failures handed out one painful morsel at a time. Decade after decade.

As visions of Aaron Rodgers  leading the Jets to the promised land turned into a mere 75 seconds of hope before disappearing into the darkness, there were surely thousands of the faithful drowning in the sorrow of the moment.

I have a nephew, near 40, who celebrated his birthday on the night this no longer remained Mr. Rodgers' neighborhood. When I sent him congratulations for his special day he replied that he had canceled his birthday as soon as Mr. Rodgers went down.

And that is exactly the feeling Mr. Gopnik has so masterfully captured.