New York City is a Jets town this week. Lots of barking from players, columnists and the man on the street. I guess I haven’t been paying attention over the years–I was an avid NFL fan, a Jets fan, for most of the 1980s, but haven’t been emotionally charged about the game since–but I don’t understand why so many Jets fans are as brash as they are. I would be waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the Jets to crumble. The older Jets fans I know will be watching Sunday’s AFC Championship game with one eye closed and their nerves decidedly clenched.

This morning, I talked to one of the security guards in my office building about the game. He’s a Mets fan and a Giants fan but he pulls for New York teams across the board. “The Jets are going to win, man,” he said. “I love Peyton, but this is the year for teh Jets.”

I asked if he was betting on the game. “No, I can’t do that, can’d do that. I bet with my heart. I can’t bet against the Jets. I go with my heart.”  Better not to bet at all.

I went upstairs and walked through the kitchenette on my floor. One of the kitchen staff was stocking the fridge full of milk. He is Haitian and has family back home, four brothers and a couple of sisters. He has heard from one of his brothers but doesn’t know about many of his cousins, especially after yesterday’s aftershock. One of his brothers’ wife is pregnant, due to give birth in a few weeks. His brother is trying to convince him to come back to Haiti to help out. But there is no place to live and it is dangerous. He has his own family and doesn’t have money to send. He is not sure what he is going to do. What he can do.

He is a powerfully built man with broad shoulders but has a gentle touch. His face is sympathetic.

I said good morning.

“Same old,” he said. “Same old.” He shrugged. The same thing he says all the time though it doesn’t ring true at the moment. “Same old, but it is good,” he said. “We have life.”