Every Sunday is the worst Sunday. Sure, I may have gotten a ton of sleep. Awesome dream. Perfect shower temperature. Great breakfast. Beautiful weather. Sounds great right? Then why in any way, shape, or form, is this considered a bad day?

It’s all a facade. It’s God’s peculiar sense of humor. We were all put on this earth for a reason; football. To watch it, play it, analyze it, scream it, eat it, live it, breath it, be it. Sunday is a holy day for a reason. Football. Even seeing the word makes me sick. Bleh. Football. 32 teams, 50 states, hundreds of countries, thousands of leagues, millions of fans. And then there’s me.

See, you’re supposed to find your team at birth. Your allegiance is decided much like that of your name — your parents. If your born into the house of Dallas, Pittsburgh, Green Bay, New England, Indianapolis, San Francisco, Denver or New York (we’ll get back to that later), then good for you! Enjoy your perennial and consistent success and happiness. However, if you were born into that of a Houston, Oakland, Seattle, Jacksonville, Miami, Baltimore, Tampa Bay, Philadelphia, Chicago, Washington, Minnesota, Carolina, Detroit, San Diego, Arizona, Buffalo, Kansas City, Tennessee, Cleveland, St. Louis, New Orleans, Cincinnati, or Atlanta, well then screw you! Enjoy years of misery with some success sprinkled in. You may do good for a couple years, hell, you may even win it all once in awhile, but you will always find yourself at the bottom of the pile for a long period of time.

It can be even worse. You could be one of the lucky few who are part of the “perennials.” The teams who are never bad enough to truly make you lose hope, but not good enough to get anywhere. You’ll scream “THIS IS OUR YEAR!” every single year, only to be disappointed again and again. The difference between being a Browns fan, where the management is so inept that six wins is a “surprise,” and that of a Falcons fan, where they are just good enough to get into the playoffs but not win, is astronomical. Being a fan of a perennial is like being in an abusive relationship. You know that no matter what, no matter how much you put in, nothing good is coming out of this. No matter how good the relationship seems at the time, and some point or another, you’re gonna get kicked in the balls. Hard. And it will hurt. A lot.

I chose the wrong New York. You see, I’m one of the weirdos who chose their team after they were born. And even weirder, I didn’t just hike up onto the closest bandwagon at the time *Cough* Seattle *Cough*. I was born into a Giants/Yankees/Rangers/Knicks family. The purest of pedigrees, the greatest of success. With this combination, you were guaranteed a championship once every three, maybe four years? Either way, with this combination, you were set for life. Unfortunately, being fortunate in the sports world is not my kind of thing. So, at the ripe old age of 6, I made the switch. Gone was the Royal Blue and Red scattered about my room, replaced by Hunter Green and White. Gone was the expectation of a Super Bowl every year, replaced with the rowdiest, loudest, and most tight knit group of ragtag fans I have ever had the pleasure of being a part of. This felt like family. LIke sitting around the dinner table on Sunday in the Bronx, this fanbase is like the crazy uncle of the NFL. Rude, nonchalant, self aware, and with Dad noises galore, I chose the right New York. I chose the New York for me (with respect to Buffalo).

The losing still sucks. Striving for 8-8 seasons every year is not exactly the greatest feeling in the sports world. It’s even worse when they surprise you. The short spurts of “good” followed by the most absolute gut wrenching performance ever really counteract the feelings of hope at the start of the season. For each 10-6 or 11-5 season, there is an abundance of mediocrity. The Jets are an emotional rollercoaster, and the source of my bipolar disorder. There is a lot wrong with me.

Let me rephrase that. The Jets are not actually an emotional rollercoaster, as that would entail that there would be emotional highs at any point. The Jets are more like an emotional Titanic. And not the James Cameron film. Every year, it’s always the same. “The Titanic is unsinkable!” And just like that, BOOM! 6-10. Again. It’s even worse when they are actually relatively successful, and they get your hopes up. “Hey, look how far the Titanic is getting! It’s almost made it all the wa…” BOOM! Pittsburgh Steelers to the face! If it wasn’t for the fans, I really don’t think I could handle the mini heart attack I acquire each and every Sunday. But hey, even though I lose a couple days off my lifespan at the hands of this team, it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

These aren’t just fans. And this isn’t just a team. It’s a family. A ragtag, unorthodox, crude, and LOUD family. A family that loves all it’s members; even that weird jailbird who doesn’t realize that mullets look awful. A family that is both self aware, yet completely delusional. A family that’s very much like my own (minus the mullet). Whether we are up, down, hot, cold, we will always be there, and we always hope for the best.

Ohh, and before I forget, THIS IS OUR YEAR!!!