Once upon a time, in a late 70s America of weekend custody, excessive trips to the zoo and way too much McDonald's, I became a New York Jets fan. I cheered with delight the questionable quartebacks, the one-eyed receivers, and the sizeable Sack Exchange from the time I was just a tot. I made Dad proud each and every Sunday. In fact, by the mid-80s, my biggest crush was on erstwhile QB Ken O'Brien -- I have the scrapbook cutouts and the beat-up plastic action figure to prove it. I've been a green-and-white girl for as long as I can remember.

On this past Monday night, December 2, 2002, I was not a Jets fan.

Fickle? Fair-weather? I beg for your consideration.

Squeezed into the very last row in the very far end zone of Network Associates Coliseum, flanked by two Raiders fans in head-to-toe black and silver, beers in each hand, 300-pound frames quivering with Raider love, Bryan and I hooted and hollered and whooped as if we'd toughed the streets of Oakland all our lives. I mean, this was the clear choice! For if I'd worn my Wayne Chrebet jersey, as many who came before warned me against, I surely would've suffered the same fate as the woeful Jets fan four rows ahead. His plight inspired this little poem, tentatively titled: Prayer for a Jets Fan.

Lone Jets fan
In a seething swell of gray and black
Please!
Ignore the insults
The threats
The obscenities
The peanuts.
I worry for your green jersey,
Your green hat
And your little green Jets-fan-in-training.

Don't worry, the Jets lost. Hooray!