He would if he could, but he can’t. Jimmy Hoffa will be the only person at the Meadowlands to not cry watching the New York Giants play the New York Jets.
That’s probably the best way to assess both the New York Giants and the New York Jets’ playoff chances in 2019.
In a game that will certainly take football back half a century, somebody has to win when the Jets host the Giants on Sunday. Or they could tie. Really, who cares? All we know is that Jimmy Hoffa will be the only person at the Meadowlands not crying on Sunday.
There may not be any crying in baseball, but we’re about to see some tears in at MetLife. You would think half the tri-state area was binge-watching This Is Us outdoors on a Sunday afternoon just for the hell of it. Half of MetLife will be blue from perpetuating sadness and the other half green from another nauseating performance out of Gang Green.
With three wins combined, the Jets and Giants have as many this year as the Houston Astros had road victories in the 2019 World Series. Well, Houston had a problem taking care of business at home. So what happens when it’s sort of a home game for both teams on Sunday? The answer is we all lose. At least people drop some water weight due to persistent deluging from their eyeballs.
Sunday’s forecast in East Rutherford, New Jersey: Cloudy with a 100 percent chance of self-loathing and depression. The Meadowlands is about to be a soupier mess than whatever Andy Dufresne crawled through to freedom. Instead of Zihuatanejo, there’ll be no soup for us, only feral black cats to find comfort in.
When Adam Gase pulls his dark green ballcap down to his upper lip halfway through the second quarter, it won’t be to take his weekly trip down Smelling Salt Avenue. It will be to prevent Pat Shurmur from seeing him cry after attempting to console a crying Sam Darnold who either saw ghosts again or dropped the football out of the back of the end zone again. We all know it was both.
But the truth is Gase can’t see Shurmur on the other sideline, who is also crying because Daniel Jones is crying because he’s a scaredy-cat, terrified of wandering jet-black felines. Gase can’t see Shurmur because he’s using his oversized green ballcap as a circular, head-shaped, washable tissue again. All the while, the field of play will be flooded like a MetLife Stadium bathroom.
And so it goes. The eye water will matriculate to the bottom of the stadium like Reaganomics was supposed to do back in the 1980s.
As for Jimmy Hoffa, the long-standing rumor is he lays in a mythical coffin known as Giants Stadium. Beneath presumably two yards of concrete and certain steel reinforcement, he’ll be there alright, potentially in one piece. Best yet, there will not be a tear in sight. He didn’t have to watch this abomination.
No tears for Jimmy Sunday.
But hundreds of feet above him, there will be thousands of depressed New Yorkers and New Jerseyites spewing gallons of salty tears out of their eye sockets. Hoffa will be the lucky one, blissfully unaware.