September Song

But it's a long, long while
From May to December
And the days grow short
When you reach September...

Ah, the mellow strains of "September Song," written by Maxwell Anderson and the great Kurt Weill, radical Jewish refugee from Germany—and, in one of history's little ironies, put in the mouth of Pieter Stuyvesant, the very religious, rabidly anti-Semitic governor of New Amsterdam.

It's a melancholy song that suits the season.  September means the end of baseball approacheth.  But even worse, it means that football bullies its way back on the scene, to hog all the attention and take over the sporting scene.

(Except, of course, at The New York Times, which last Sunday featured a three-page spread on soccer in Greenland.  I'm not making this up.)

Football, we have to concede, is now our true national sport, and especially pro football.  Just why this should be so eludes me, at least anywhere outside of New England.

Pro football, these days, strikes me as just as one-dimensional and even more drawn-out than baseball.  Four-hour passing games, in essence, with the winner of the bombastic title match usually determined by who has sustained somewhat fewer catastrophic injuries over the course of the endless season.

People love it.

Why that should be so, I dunno.  I suspect it's mostly the ceaseless violence.  But never mind why, this time of year the pigskin game takes over.

And the days turn to gold
As they grow few
September...

This season, the Yankees have turned in a pretty incredible performance, despite devastating the injuries.  The Mets were, at least, highly entertaining and full of heart despite being, in the end...Mets.

But even local sports shows and tabloids immediately rushed to give priority to "our" pro football teams, situated both literally and metaphorically "somewhere in the swamps of Jersey," as The Boss sang.

We have heard endlessly about what a big year this was going to be for the Jets, a ludicrous franchise which has not reached the championship game of their sport in half-a-century, and whose latest hopes were dashed when their overrated, underschooled, USC quarterback managed to fumble while running into the buttocks of one of his own linemen.

Oh, wait, I'm sorry!

That was their former overrated, underschooled USC quarterback.  The current one is out with mono.  Also, he was found to have a hickey, and he was repeatedly late for homeroom.

With the Jets, history not only repeats itself, it giggles.

The Jets new leader (apparently), Le'veon B'ell, responded by tweeting that the Jets would show all the "haters" out there how their hateful hatred would just cause the team to rally and play all the harder.

Le'v'e'o'n, we don't hate you.  We don't even know you.

The Giants, of course, are a team with considerably more provenance; a greater legacy, probably, than any New York team except the Yankees.  And everyone was gaga when it seemed last Sunday that, against all indications, their new QB is the real deal, driving the team to a thrilling win (Made more thrilling when the other team's kicker missed a chip-shot field goal.  But still.  There was a thrill).

Now all the Giants need to do is find another 21 players, and they'll have a team.  Particularly since their prized rookie from last year is already hurt.

And let's get real:  the Jints have had a winning record in only one of the last six seasons, and 13 of the last 28.  In their history, which goes back to 1925, they have won a total of 8 NFL championships and have a record of 693-598-33, with a playoff record of 24-25.

In other words, in an average two years, you can expect the Jersey Giants to go 8-8 and 9-7, and every 12 seasons, they might win you a title.

That's fine, and better than most.  But it doesn't really compare to, say, your New York Yankees, who have averaged 89 wins a season in 117 years (and 92 wins a year from 1920, minus strike years).

That's right—close to .600 ball, for a century, and their overall, .570 pct. is the highest percentage in major-league history.  In the postseason...they've been even better, 232-164 .586.

They even have an outside—far outside—shot to win their 28th World Series this season.

But now that September's here...why, to most of the sporting press, they're as visible as Domingo German.  

And the days dwindle down
To a precious few
September, November
And these few precious days
I'd spend with you
These precious days I'd spend with you.