..from Rich Cimini. I believe that this was written after the first few games of the 2002 season. Long but great read..... A long, strange trip There's never a dull moment when covering the Jets By RICH CIMINI For me, it began on a perfect June night in 1989, at an Italian restaurant on the Great South Bay of Long Island. I was the new Jets beat writer for Newsday - or, as Bill Belichick might say, a BW assigned to the NYJ - and coach Joe Walton had agreed to a get-acquainted dinner. For three hours, from angel hair pasta to Sambuca cordials, the four of us - including his wife and my future wife - shared a wonderful evening. A loose and carefree Walton, far away from the "Joe Must Go!" chants, regaled us with stories about everyone from Frank Gifford to Mark Gastineau. It was impossible to know at the time, but when I left the restaurant that night, only 26 and greener than my spinach salad, it marked the end of an innocence. My Wonder Years lasted only a few months. In that time, the Jets bottomed out at 4-12, Walton was fired the day after Christmas (bah, humbug) and I was sucked into the coach-changing, fan-teasing, December-collapsing madness of the Jets. The rookie in me was forever gone. It was the beginning of a 14-year run that would include everything from football follies to funerals. I've witnessed a lot of losing over the years - the Jets have lost 59% of the 215 games I've covered - and now, after five years of relative prosperity, it's happening again. A feel-good offseason has been washed away by a 1-4 start, a four-game losing streak in which they were outscored, 102-13, in the first three. "How does this compare to the bad years?" people have asked. Good question. Over the bye weekend, while Herman Edwards & Co. reflected on their four weeks of hell, I went back, back, back, recalling 14 years on the beat, the last seven with the Daily News. What it's like covering one of the most star-crossed franchises in professional sports? Always challenging, never boring. You'd be surprised how much good - and bad - comes out of losing. I was there when Bruce Coslet, blown out in a Monday night game, conducted his day-after news conference via conference call. His office was maybe a 45-second walk to the press room, but he said he didn't have time to meet us face-to-face. How lame. The day he was fired, after the '93 season, I called Coslet at home for comment. He hung up on me. Maybe I should've arranged a conference call. I was there when Coslet, defending his play-calling, blurted out, "My quarterback sucks. You know it, I know it, the whole world knows it." The quarterback was Ken O'Brien, who was too classy to be treated like that. Coslet's outburst was off the record. Sorry, Bruce, but the statute of limitations has expired. I was there when Dan Marino delivered a fake spike through the Jets' heart in '94. The next day, flighty Johnny Mitchell staged a loud rant in the locker room, bemoaning the team's losing mentality. Nearby, Ronnie Lott, a future Hall of Famer, passed out playoff-possibility sheets, imploring his demoralized teammates to keep the faith. They didn't. It took more than two seasons to recover. I was there at the end of the '94 season, when James Hasty, beaten down after seven years of losing, cried in his locker. When offensive linemen Dave Cadigan and Jeff Criswell (a.k.a. the Penalty Pals), decided to gang up on a writer - me. What was it like? Imagine Beavis and Butthead coming at you, with the volume turned up. When the late Leon Hess, announcing the firing of Pete Carroll and hiring of Rich Kotite, turned into George Burns/George Steinbrenner, declaring, "I'm 80 years old. I want results now." When Keyshawn Johnson wrote his controversial book, in which he refers to me as "nosy and obnoxious." Hey, I was flattered; I got more ink than some of his teammates. Imagine what he would've written if he had known I was going to print excerpts from the book before its release date, messing up his publicity schedule. When Neil O'Donnell, the $25 million savior (what a crock), popped a calf muscle in pregame warmups, slipping on a rain-soaked Jets logo in the artificial turf. That incident tops the "You-can't-make-this-stuff-up" category. Under Kotite, it was a weekly show of Stupid Jet Tricks. In back-to-back games in '95, Kotite assigned two players with no experience to mark the opposing team's best player. Cornerback Vance Joseph was burned repeatedly by the Raiders' Tim Brown and left tackle Everett McIver missed a block on the Bills' Bruce Smith, causing quarterback Boomer Esiason to miss a month with a concussion. Esiason's replacement, Bubby Brister, was the one who needed his head examined. The next week, against the Panthers, he flipped a shovel pass to the wrong team and it was returned for a touchdown, giving the expansion team its first victory. The Jets won three games that year, the last victory coming after Hess' "Horses' asses" speech. In his annual Thanksgiving address to the team, a fired-up Hess said, "Let's go out and show them we're not a bunch of horses' asses." If I'm not mistaken, the gentleman from The Times substituted Hess' salty words with "equine derriere." As the Jets stumbled toward a 1-15 record in '96, it became apparent that Kotite was going to be dumped. One night, we received an anonymous tip at the Daily News, a caller claiming he had gotten wind of Hess' plans for the team. The caller said he overheard Hess at an oil meeting, and that the owner was planning to fire Kotite, hire the Patriots' Bill Parcells and, failing that, settle for Parcells' right-hand man, Belichick. I was summoned from the office Christmas party to pursue what seemed to be an outlandish story - too outlandish to be confirmed. Six weeks later, Belichick was named the coach, Parcells a consultant. The anonymous oil guy was right. A few days later, after a nasty tug-of-war with the Patriots, Parcells became the coach. Poor Kotite. He wasn't a good coach (players have told me they used to see him sneaking out of the complex to play golf), but he was a decent man. I'll never forget the time he assisted an ailing beat writer. The writer was on a table in the Jets' trainer's room, writhing in severe stomach pain, and Kotite massaged his back, offered kind words and ordered an ambulance. He missed the first few minutes of practice, but he didn't seem to care. Won-lost records don't mean everything. The most heart-wrenching period on the Jets beat occurred in 1992. On Thanksgiving, I received a tip that Al Toon, sidelined by multiple concussions, was about to retire. I worked the phones, calling players and coaches. I reached Dennis Byrd at home, where he was watching the Lions. At halftime, the Lions honored Mike Utley, who was relegated to a wheelchair after a spinal-cord injury. On the phone, Byrd sounded almost choked up, moved by Utley's courage. Three days later, Byrd became Utley, breaking his neck in a freak collision. Afterward, players - grown men - were crying at their lockers. A week later, there were tears of joy, as the woeful and injury-riddled Jets, buoyed by news from New York that the paralyzed Byrd had moved his big toe, upset the mighty Bills in Buffalo. The Jets were a 17-point underdog, but as an emotional Mark Boyer said afterward, "You can't put a point spread on the human spirit." I put that game up there with the Midnight Miracle over Miami in 2000 as the two most memorable I've covered. Two months later, Byrd, with the aid of canes, walked out of the hospital. If I never get to cover the Jets in the championship, that moment - Byrd walking - will be my Super Bowl. Indeed, this beat has transcended football. Over the years, I attended the funerals of three good men - Hess, former GM Dick Steinberg and Al Testaverde. I never will forget Vinny's poignant eulogy, referring to his father as "my hero" as he choked back tears. Everything changed in '97, when Parcells arrived. He cleaned up the mess, leading them to the AFC Championship Game in '98, but his four-year run caused plenty of agita for the writers. He was was the best coach to cover - and the worst. Quick with a quote, but quick with his temper. One time, Parcells tore into me for informing the NFL office that he had refused to let the media into the locker room after a game - a violation of league rules. He was fined $10,000, and he made sure to let me know it came out of his wallet. Parcells contended that he did me a favor, that I had more access to the players with a closed locker room. How did he know this? He told me that my game story included quotes from more players than usual. I found it odd that a man of his stature had time to count quotes. Complex man, Parcells. This is the same man who, after my mother died, sent a touching note of condolence. The same man - er, tyrant - who refused to let his assistants speak with the media. No exceptions. That policy prompted plenty of laughs at the '99 Pro Bowl, where I sipped Mai Tais and ate sushi with his assistants at a posh cocktail party at the AFC hotel in Hawaii. (Parcells was a no-show.) I still can visualize Belichick, wearing a colorful lei and a seldom-seen smile. He seemed liberated, knowing Parcells was 5,000 miles away. Who knew that, a year later, on the day he was supposed to succeed Parcells, Belichick would walk away? There were rumblings, of course. The night before, I asked a person in the organization if Belichick was getting cold feet. There was a pause. My antenna went up. I just never thought he'd go through with it. When you cover the Jets, anything is possible. That's why, over these next 11 games, something will happen. Something unforgettable.
