I do not relish this. Honestly, I don’t. It is the middle of November. In so many other cities, scribes are scribing about their football teams and they get to write uplifting prose about uplifting pros.
In Indianapolis, they write hopeful words that an old Giant named Daniel Jones can continue the home team’s march toward the top of the AFC, and in Seattle, they draft cautious essays about an ex-Jet named Sam Darnold shaking off a tough afternoon in Los Angeles, reverting to Pro Bowl form.
In Kansas City, they are worried about their football team, a concern magnified by all the glorious seasons that have preceded this one; in Boston and Providence and Hartford, they are ecstatic about their team, their coach, their quarterback, the prospect that a new hint of old glories are afoot. In Buffalo, they dream of a February parade amid lake effect snow. In LA, they are preparing the well-worn route of the Dodgers should the Rams keep this up.
In New York we write about … losing.