Bad Jets Fans A Risin’

By DireJet38 — This is my view from Section 336.

When Jarvis Green came down on Chad Pennington’s ankle in the second quarter of the Jets vs. Patriots game this past Sunday at the Meadowlands, it was about more than a 300 lb. superhuman ringing up an immobile, white, farm bred quarterback.

As Chad’s ankle snapped and Jarvis tumbled down, the collective weight of the exorbitant amount of unethical bullshit crammed within the 77,000 seat stadium finally broke the dam, letting loose the ugliness within.

But let’s be realistic here. Sure, there were some cheers when Chad went down, but for the most part people were cheering for the arrival of Oregon raised Kellen Clemens. The old adage is true: The most popular quarterback in New York is always the back up.

But the cacophony directed toward the field was far from the underlying motif of the afternoon. This, clearly, is something the mainstream media has missed.

It was easy for Keith Olberman to glance over at the monitor, hear a mass of 77,000 screaming fans and mold it into a viable story — using his oh-so-coy tactics.

Worst Person(s) in the NFL: JETS FANS

It was too god damn easy.

But if Keith, Boomer Esiason, or any of the talking heads had dug a little deeper, investigated a tad more into the surrounding dystopia that was the Meadowlands on that unusually warm afternoon, they would have know that the incident was merely a capper in a day choc-filled with debauchery.

It all begins with the satellite parking lots, where fans were made to park. You see, unless you are a season ticket holder, there is no parking near the stadium. So people are made to park in off-site lots, while Xanadu screws up the concrete stricken earth, eventually giving birth to a capitalists wet dream in the form of a mall – or something of the sort.

These lots are owned located in the East Rutherford Industrial Park, which is a street tough name for corporate concentration camps.

As I approached the lot with my Dad, staring at the hollow, window paned buildings in front of me, I felt like a temp, preparing for another day at a horribly mindless job.

The cost to park in the privately owned lots? $25.00

The cost to park in the regular lots restricted to season ticket holders? $15.00 (which are vouchers given in the beginning of the season)

$65.00 +? Yea, that’s how much people are selling the 15.00 parking vouchers for on Ebay.

Okay, so we pay the $25.00 and are herded off toward a line of yellow school buses. There must be 30 buses lined up along the curb, and they are all humming, puffing black smoke onto the adjacent pine trees that line the aforementioned buildings.

Yes, $25.00 to park in an off-site lot, ride in big yellow and cruise along the oh-so-coarse Route 17W toward the stadium.

I will put this into perspective for a moment: I actually rode on a school bus the day before game, heading to a local Oktoberfest in Putnam Valley, New York. You see, the German Social Club – realizing the popularity of their glorious festival – ordered the buses to bring people over from the local high school.

The cost to park at the school? Nothing.

The cost to get into the fest and see a 30-piece band from Bavaria? $8.00

All right, back to New Jersey.

I boarded the bus, making my way to the back. Someone yelled, “Cool kids in the back!�

I glanced at my Dad; he was drinking a Diet Coke and eating a Dorito. This was the pinnacle of cool back in fifth grade.

The bus then took off toward the stadium, puttering along the road, straining to make it over 55 mph. We arrived at the stadium and were forced to wait in a line behind season ticket holders that were still jamming into the lot.

Gawking out the window to kill the time, I see a father, son and a host of other middle aged men walking in the distance. They are trudging – Forest Gump in Vietnam style — across major highways and over swampy terrain toward the stadium. One man is equipped with a bag of charcoal, the other has two 12 packs, and another has a soft cooler.

Finally off the bus, we arrive in the middle of a raucous tailgate.

A Patriots fan, getting off the bus in front of me and acclimating his Birkenstocks with the urine soaked pavement, is immediately accosted with “Masshole, Masssssssssshole.�

I push onward past the scene, secretly wishing the best for the poor bearded sap in the Bruschi jersey.

Walking around the stadium, there is a different kind of buzz in the air. The Patriots vs. Jets rivalry – which is mainly due to the media’s inflation – has truly grown into a smaller version of Boston vs. Yankeees, or at least that’s how it is perceived.

Anyone wearing Patriots gear is told to, “Go the f*ck back to Boston.�

This remains consistent, even for a guy wearing a University of Maine hat.

I traverse through the hordes of tailgaters en-route to the stadium, stopping briefly for a free cup of Jets Superbowl Blitz peanut butter ice cream. I open up the Dixie cup, seeing a puddle of milky disgust wading in the paper structure. I toss it to the side. The heat has ruined any chance for things to remain cool on this day.

Eventually, after checking out some tailgate set-ups, witnessing people grilling mammoth chunks of animal fat and consuming Coors Light at a “We are closing out the Jersey Shore on Labor Day� pace, I enter the stadium and take the escalator up to Section 336.

Finding my seats in the sky, I sit and watch the pre-game warm-ups, something I have never gotten the chance to do. You see, I am usually in the lot tailgating right up until the kick off.

I stare up at the sun as it glares down at an ungodly angle upon my forehead. Thinking once again about the imbibing folk in the lot, I fear for the madness that will stampede in.

With 30:00 till kickoff and the stadium still sparsely packed, a man a quarter of the way around the stadium starts screaming at Mike Nugent, who is practicing field goals.

“ALL AMERICAN!!!!! ALL AMERICAN!!!!!!�

He repeats this phrase, mixed in with “NUUUUUUUGE� here and there. He only really stops to take a sip of his plastic beer. His voice is unbelievably loud; it’s as if he has an amplifier transplanted into his larynx.

The maniacal screams eventually die out as the stadium begins to fill.

New England comes out first and Brady homo jokes fly as frequently as the paper airplanes from the nosebleeds.

Finally, the Jets are introduced and the crowd roars in approval.

…

It is pretty pointless for me to go into further detail about the game. Randy Moss tried again and torched the Jets secondary. Tom Brady shaved, impregnated Giselle and smoked a cigarette as he threw to Moss and Welker.

My section – luckily — wasn’t too ugly. It was just your standard – sane – Jets fans settling into the realization that it was going to be another long ass season. Maybe Eric isn’t a Mangenuis. Maybe he has too much in common with Herm, I mean they were both on HBO this year.

I left midway through the fourth.

I didn’t stick around to see Junior Seau play offense.

I went home.

Checking out the net later at night at my favorite Jets forum – www.jetnation.com — there was the article by Dan Leberfeld about the Pats filming the Jets signals on the sideline.

Belichick, an adulterous wretch, actually cheated?

There were a slew of complaints from fans, stating they had to leave the game early due to the unruliness of the crowd.

Fight stories, of course. Fights over spilled beer. Fights over Boston hats. Fights over Tom Brady’s sexuality.

Then there was the issue of Chad getting cheered as he limped off the field like a wounded fawn.

I ask you, Keith and Boomer, are you really surprised?

It was a Mike Brown-esque performance on the part of the media.

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