My dad didn’t just root for the Jets. He endured them. Sundays meant hope, frustration, greasy diner food, and the quiet understanding that things would probably fall apart by the fourth quarter. And somehow, that became part of who he was — and who I became too. This isn’t a story about wins and losses. It’s about inheritance. About the teams we’re handed, the people who hand them to us, and the strange comfort of knowing that some suffering didn’t follow him into whatever

Half-empty stadiums. Paper bags pulled over heads. Online petitions that scream what ownership refuses to hear. At some point, loyalty stops looking like devotion and starts looking like punishment. Sports fandom is supposed to be irrational, but what happens when the people in charge exploit that irrationality for profit? When hope becomes a business model and patience becomes currency? This is not just about losing. It’s about what it costs to keep believing when the peo