Hey Joe - Shut the Fuck Up (An Open Letter to Joe Namath)

Dear Mr. Namath:

As a life-long Jets fan, I've admired your career accomplishments for quite a while - both on the field and in the boudoir. I was raised to be a Jets fan and a Namath fan by my father, an Iranian immigrant who sailed to the US from Europe in 1965 to meet up with a lady-friend from New Jersey he had gotten to know in Germany. Given his dedication to make a lengthy sojourn to secure copulative action, he was a kindred spirit of yours in at least one way.

But unlike you, Mr. Namath, my Dad did not lead a charmed life as a college student. He worked 105 hours a week over the summer (not an exaggeration) to make ends meet at a small private college in New Jersey while you were playing for Bear Bryant. He hustled the women in the financial aid office for grants and served meals at the cafeteria in between classes and studying. He ended up graduating with a BS in Chemistry in 1970 and entering the work world.

My father worshipped you, Mr. Namath. You were the American Dream to him - a young bachelor living the good life as a famous athlete in Gotham. He followed your career closely. I remember him relaying the story of the Heidi game to me at a young age. He hated watching you at the tail end of your career, hobbling around in a Rams uniform in 1977. The two of us watched a lot of Jets games together in the early 1980's, including the horrendous 14-0 loss to the Dolphins in a monsoon in the AFC Championship game in January 1983. So as I grew up as a Jets fan, I kept you in high regard as a Jets legend, despite your pedestrian statistics. I even tried to convince myself you were anything but a mediocre color commentator on AFC games in the 1980's.

When your largest public faux pas happened on that infamous Monday Night Football game in 2003, I did not laugh. I was mortified. It was beyond embarrassing. I believe it proved to be a turning point in your life as it prompted you to seek treatment for your alcoholism. You appear to have conquered that demon.

My father passed away in 2004. In 2008, I came off the wait list for Jets seasons tickets after ten years. I felt compelled to purchase a jersey. In tribute to my father (and partially due to the high turnover of players) I selected a Namath jersey. I have worn it religiously to games since, and it has proved somewhat resilient to my predilection to spill things on myself.

Unfortunately Joe, it is now 2012. Father Time is advancing on you almost as quickly as your belt-line is advancing on your nipples. You are quickly morphing from a Jet legend to a sideshow freak, proffering opinions on all things Jets. You have an opinion on Rex Ryan, an opinion on Mark Sanchez and now you have an opinion on Tim Tebow. Know what Joe? I have an opinion on Tebow too. And I bet it's just as uninformed as yours. So do most other football fans. But unlike you, we don't have the opportunity to get in front of the media. But you do. And you babble whatever the hell enters into your fermented cranium because you feel you have diplomatic immunity after wining a Super Bowl 44 years ago. So you hopped in front of a mike and crushed the trade and said it was a bad move, a publicity stunt that would hurt Mark Sanchez.

You know what I say to that Joe? SHUT THE FUCK UP. You wear your pants above your belly button and have hair like Lloyd Christmas. SHUT THE FUCK UP. You are a recovering alcoholic who has lived off of one Super Bowl title for almost half a century. SHUT THE FUCK UP. You have a career passer rating of 65.5. SHUT THE FUCK UP. You never sat down with Tony Sparano, creator of the Wildcat, to discuss how Tebow could be used. SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Sincerely,

(at least one member of) Gheorghe: The Blog