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