NY Jets #43 - Part 2

Do you recognize this man?

No? Don't even. To whit: Clarence Jackson, Jr. preferred to be called "Jazz" by his teammates. Out of respect for this, we speak of Jazz Jackson #43, a running back for the Jets from 1974-76. In the 1975 Jets Yearbook, he is crowned with dull distinction: "(Jazz) is a very muscular and durable runner despite his size" (5'8") and the "shortest Jet ever." This was before the arrival Bruce Harper, so not even that last comment holds true anymore. The only memory I have of him is an exhibition game against St. Louis in 1976 where he fumbled. He recovered it, though. The announcer on Channel 5 did that thing that all announcers do, putting words in the mouths of the players on TV. "Look at him," the announcer said. "Where the heck's that ball!? Get back here!"

Where indeed. Jackson's hands were in the right place at the right time in the second game of the 1974 season, at Soldier Field. "Clarence Jackson" recovered a fumble committed by, of all people, John Riggins and then ran it for a touchdown. Here it is, starting at the :34 mark. Don't neglect a chance to see Pat Summerall and Tom Brookshier in their nifty red blazers at the start of the video. They look like Avis ticket clerks.



The Jets won the game 23-21, their first of the season. They wouldn't win another game for six weeks. Then, having taken themselves out of the playoffs at 1-7, they would go on to win every game left in the season. This means that Jazz Jackson's accidental touchdown provided the only real link to winning that the Jets would have that whole season until they traveled to the Yale Bowl to play the Giants. It was a strange one as Jets seasons go, with a resurgence where the Jets usually flagged. They should offer college seminars on the subject of New York Jets' December downward spirals. Which one was your favorite? Why? Explain.

1974 New York Jets

Then in the middle of that season, Jackson started against Houston at Shea and scored the only other touchdown of his career, a 20-yard reception of a Namath pass. What I wouldn't give to hear that Beaver Falls accent say, "Nice one...Jazz," when he came to the sideline. We should all be so lucky. If Dad went to the Oilers game, he's not remembering it. I think the seed of his abandoning his beloved season tickets in 1977 was probably planted in that 1-7 nosedive in '74. He probably stayed home for most of the home games that season. Jazz Jackson's arrival didn't cause the Jets to start their franchise slide; he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, a choral performer during Namath's vanishing years.

Signed as an undrafted free agent in 1995, Vance Joseph #43 (left) played for a franchise about to hit a low much deeper than the one that came with Jazz Jackson's career. Ritchie Kotite's squad went 3-13 in '95, and that was the better of the two Kotite seasons. The Kotite years are the Years Of Shame. Every franchise has them. The Indianapolis Colts had them. The New England Patriots had them. Years of absolute incompetence at every conceivable level. For the New Orleans Saints that was the first twenty seasons. Vance Joseph could not have been comforted by this; none of us were. But looking at his wikipedia, Vance Joseph had long career after the pros coaching college football at his alma mater of Colorado, then at Wyoming and Bowling Green; this has then led him to his current position as secondary coach with former Jet Johnnie Lynn for the 49ers. He was an offensive player in college who would eventually end up coaching the defensive position to which he had to become accustomed as a undrafted pro. No scandal, no funny stories, no ambiguous connections between life and work, no shame. Just work.

There's no shame in being Roger Vick either, although he makes us feel shame sometimes because he was a draft bust. If the success of people who don't even know we exist makes us happier than our own achievements should, then their disappointments make us feel the same secret regrets that accompany our own persistent mistakes. Suffice it to say that the other undergraduate course that should be made available is the psychological study that bad draft choices have had on our club up until about 2000. Mel Kiper once said that "the Jets clearly have no idea what the draft is all about," and he was right (though I don't think anyone could say that about our last six or seven years in the draft, minus Vernon Gholsten). For a long time what the Jets didn't know about the draft you couldn't squeeze into the Meadowlands.

Drafted #1 by the Jets in 1987, Roger Vick #43 was the running back who was supposed to accompany or even replace Freeman McNeil. The fact that he was drafted at the start of a strike season would set anyone off course. He began his career in the pros at the same time I began college, and if the faculty had gone on strike in my freshman year, it would have thrown me off, too. His best season was 1988, with 660 total yards. Beyond that, his sun sets as fast as it does on a playoff Sunday. The famous video on Jets draft blunders includes Roger Vick, of course. In lieu of him, the Jets could have drafted Harris Barton, Bruce Armstrong, Jim Harbaugh or Cris Carter, all of whom were still available. It hurts a little.

But it's a good kind of pain, edifying to the soul, reminding us of life's inherent limits. Confronted with the draft, Jets fans are like the speaker in Claude McKay's "America" who "loves this cultured hell that tests my youth." Why do so few Giants fans go to the draft the way Jets fans do? It's simple. Jets fans are proud of and enriched by the hell that is the draft day blunder. To have survived it over and over is to be a true fan. The draft is the ceremony that embodies our most essential experience with mortality and powerlessness. The draft is the acreage in the soul where accident and design meet, a place where chaos reigns as management makes absolutely the wrong decision. You despair, and because of that, you are more equipped to handle the various bits of outrageously bad fortune that this ridiculous world throws at you. This why our fans are the Draft Day's mascots. Assembled on the upper deck of Radio City, they are like a profane Greek chorus, echoing all of our mortal anxieties in their familiar refrains:

Don't blow this. Don't. You'll probably screw this up.
Like you did with Lam Jones.
And Ken O'Brien.
And Blair Thomas.
And Roger Vick.
Please, not again.
You're going to blow it.
I just know it.

Surprised?

Yes, I was surprised that the Jets actually went ahead and did it. But I'm not happy about it.

There are lots of reasons to be unhappy about it. There are lots of reasons to be unhappy. I know I don't have to take them all seriously, but there are some tawdry parts of this already tainted draft process that make me even queasier than usual. Mark Sanchez was selected in a gesture of exceptional draft ballet in large measure because the Jets need a "marquee" player to fill their stadium, to justify their PSL's. And if the blather is to be believed, Shonn Greene was picked because his considerable potential will send a message to the unhappy Thomas Jones. Each of these is worthy of George Steinbrenner in its machinations, and because the Jets have never had a front office that works this way (and that may be a good thing) I am vaguely intrigued.

But it's cynical, isn't it? It's about seats and contracts, not about building a team. It's about short-term goals, not in building a future. How can Mark Sanchez, in a couple of years, possibly fulfill the financial aspirations of a limping football team in the most competitive market in America? On the other hand, the Patriots continue to think for the future, imagining the picks they might get in 2010. We worry about a contract dispute.

Promises, Promises

It's been a while since I last wrote; I'm in the process of buying a house. The word "process" is appropriate. It's a little like a quest, a spirit journey, even a fruitless errand. There's negotiation, duck, fade, feint, rebound, masquerading and even presenting one's rear. The NFL Draft obsesses us because it has all of the qualities of this most American obsession with buying our dreams; it encompasses so many desires of beginning again and creating something entirely new. Most of this is an illusion. The person I will find myself to be on another day in another place is very likely the same person writing this in his t-shirt and boxers on his couch on a Saturday, waiting for the NFL Draft to start.

The Draft itself is filled with illusory promises. What's remarkable is that most of us who have followed football for a couple of decades, if not more, already know this. Most of the time, the draft produces careers tinged with moments of success yet doomed to early ends. The Jets Among Men (shameless, desperate promotion #1), my current life's work, seems to suggest that whether we were picked in the first or third rounds, our careers in football ("ours?") will be short. Football is all about attrition, yet the draft promises immortality to young men in their first expensive suits who put the caps of their new teams awkwardly on their heads. This moment will exist forever. Most of the time, it's a bust. Most of the time, we know it's going to be a bust. When JaMarcus Russell held out for as long as he did after being drafted by the idiotic Raiders, we knew all along (as we know now) that the entire affair was a waste of time.


It's an extension of the constant tests of loyalty we fans in football must endure. We must endure the false promises, the ridiculous hype, the personal shame, the recriminations with every pick. Who knows? This might be the season. No, it's not. In the balcony of Radio City each year, the locals in green and white show up and perform an impromptu opera of disappointment and hope, demanding what they know full well they will never get. If they did not feel this way, they would not be fans, let alone Jets fans.

We need a really good receiver, a really good tight end, and another really good prospect at quarterback if such a one exists after Mark Sanchez. Josh Freeman will not be the answer; I just don't believe a good quarterback can be drafted into the market of New York, except if he plays for the Giants. I would like to see us draft Brandon Pettigrew from OK State. I would also like to believe that Vernon Gholsten will make good on his promise at linebacker after one year with us. But I know it's an illusion. The thing with feathers strikes again.

On God and the Draft

My recent little Jets draft blunder item, from Toni Monkovic of the Times:

Dewayne Robertson was cut by the Broncos. The Jets moved up in the 2003 draft, trading two first-round picks, to get him at No. 4. That strategy almost never works. And certainly didn’t in this case.

(from Rotoworld):

Broncos released DLs Dewayne Robertson and John Engelberger, LBs Jamie Winborn and Niko Koutouvides, TE Nate Jackson, and SS Marquand Manuel.

The moves save a cool $22.2M under the salary cap. Robertson’s cap figure was $16M, a ridiculous amount for a league-average wave tackle with bum knees. The No. 4 overall pick in 2003, Robertson is 27 but may not have more than a season left in him.

Extra point: The Jets gave up their No. 13 and No. 22 picks to get Robertston. Had they stayed put, they could have chosen from among Troy Polamalu, Calvin Pace, Willis McGahee, Dallas Clark, Larry Johnson, Nick Barnett and Nnamdi Asomugha, all of whom went in the 16-31 range.

Monkovic also quotes Mike Florio of PFT on the relationship American football players (rarely the smartest kids in your college Psych class) have with their understanding of the will of God. Though I sometimes think the draft is God's curse on Gang Green, I remember that the Jets are just inept. God love them.

Die Draft Schadenfreude

Football's a funny game. Whereas baseball seems to produce surprises among teams, especially in terms of individual growth and performance (those naturally enhanced, mind you), football really is a game that is about a player's proscribed role in a given position, with a given team. Actually that's not that funny. It speaks to how limited the game is, I suppose. Nowhere is this more true than when one watches the draft, where it seems choosing the absolutely the right player is essential. Vernon Gholston is a good choice because he fits with the 3-4 system. Dustin Keller is a surprising tight end who can fit into the Jets' need to pay someone other than Chris Baker for the job. As many Jets fans know, Bubba Franks is getting paid more than Baker for being his backup. Ah, Mangini. He is ruthless about money, isn't he?

There are other fits. The secondary. Wide receiver (over 6'0", please). And quarterback. I'm glad all the commentators and writers are in less denial than the organization itself. We still need a quarterback. And of course, right on cue, Mel Kiper of ESPN said that Gholston is grossly overrated. Sigh. So let the funny game begin. I'm getting very, very ready.

Gholston Schmolsten

And yet now the Jets are giving Arkansas' RB Darren McFadden the tour of the city, which could take at least a week if you include trips to the Cloisters and Grant's Tomb. There are a number of neglected sites in Queens, of course. May I recommend its highly underrated Museum of Art? Would he benefit from a walking tour around Park Slope in Brooklyn? According to a Los Angeles Times article, his mother does not like New York for its sheer size, so maybe we should just show him Hofstra.

I'm still hoping the Jets will choose Vernon Gholston. If you are to believe Newsday, the Jets have more needs than a set of draft picks can solve. The Times seemed to think the Jets have done nearly enough in the free agent market. Sounds like Jets coverage to me. As I recall, the Jets already have two fairly able running backs. I'm going to also suggest drafting, getting, training or creating from insubstantial elements a quarterback. Am I wrong for refusing to pretend that Kellen Clemens is the answer?