Remy and the Jets: How passing down my love (and hate) of sports brings so much joy

Editor's note: We see the joy in sports all year. This seven-part series was created to share some of the memorable, happy, heartfelt and inspiring moments from USA TODAY's reporters and columnists. 

There's an iconic line in one of the finest pieces of American cinema to ever grace the silver screen that goes a little something like this:

"The goddamn Jets."

As a Jet fan, I was never curious how I was roped into this life. I have questioned, though, why I stay in it. That's something I ask myself most Sunday, Monday or Thursday nights when the New York Jets take the field (especially so when the Tim Boyle-Trevor Siemian combo suits up). Still, I've had plenty of Michael Corleone-in-"The Godfather: Part III"-moments:

"Just when I think I'm out, they pull me back in."

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As for the "how" I ended up a Jets fan, of course, I have my father to begrudgingly thank, because no self-respecting NFL fan willingly chooses this life. Only deeply embedded dads would impose this fandom on their children — and now I'm one of them.

Jose Rivera was just a starry-eyed, 14-year-old fixated on the coolness of Joe Namath when the Jets last won the Super Bowl, and he remains devoted till this day. Some days, I wonder if I was named after Joe Willie himself, a question that's better left unanswered.

Growing up, I always knew sports were a foundational piece in my relationship with my father. Even through the debates we had — we had a knockdown, drag-out fight over the Jets' 2006 NFL Draft, one which I was very wrong about — there was always a certain level of appreciation of the inherent passion we both had. Sports bridged the gap between the Baby Boomer generation and the Millennial; a universal language and one of the few topics we both were passionate about that helped break down those walls.

The generational gap is something that parents have to deal with, but maybe not as drastically as the one between my stoic, down-to-business father and myself. As I grew up, he wasn't overly chatty or outgoing, but he was a man who, like most fathers, teach you about sacrifice, and saved his words for things that meant a lot to him, like the Jets, or the Yankees. Phone calls with my uncles became vibrant and lively at the mention of the bullpen or a team's offensive woes.

Sports connected us in more ways than just conversation. Like the time we played hoops in a nearby park and he, at a crispy 45ish years old, attempted to dribble the ball between his legs. He had the ball stolen by a 14-year-old and he nearly busted his butt in the process.

There were other times, like when I'd have to go to work with my dad on a Saturday at a printing press and he'd throw a tennis ball as far as he could into the sky, nearly reaching orbit. I'd chase it down, only to throw it back a quarter as high and an eighth as slow. I swore then my father had a stronger arm than Vinny Testaverde in his prime.

They're small memories, but vivid ones, and there are tons more; I was enamored with the softball trophy he had hidden away in his closet. I listened to him talk about why basketball of the '70s, '80s and '90s was a superior product to what we see today. Any conversation about sports cracked through the exterior and led to longer conversations about life, the universe, and everything.

That all said, the impact of sports on my life didn't exactly hit me until another Jets loss in Week 13 of the 2023 season, when my father jokingly asked:

"Are you still a Jets fan?"

As it goes, sports can often be a lesson in generational trauma — why would lifelong Jets fans want to share this pain with their offspring? — and that became very apparent to me on July 10, 2023, when my son, the world's latest (unknowing) Jets diehard, came screaming into this world. And, by the way, his Jets fandom was solidified when they destroyed (read as: outlasted) the Giants in the barnburner of a game in Week 8; his mother is a true-blue Giants fan. It remains one of the best days of my life. (Only being slightly hyperbolic.)

As the new father of Remy, a babbling, hyperactive and giggly 5-month-old, things have certainly changed since his birth. Sleeping habits (his and mine), personal time and patience have undergone major facelifts. The same can be said about the way I view my favorite teams. Coincidentally, it took a Jets loss to make me realize that.

During the Jets-Chargers "Monday Night Football" matchup Week 9, the sleepless boy rested across my arms, drifting further into rest while the matchup slipped further away from the Jets. A 27-6 Chargers win over the Jets, another national nightmare on national TV. But the loss didn't sting as much as plenty of others have over the years — The Buttfumble Game. Week 1 2023. Doug Brien. Through it all, I didn't have the urge to light up my group chat with colorful language you absolutely will not see in a USA TODAY article, to say the least.

That's not because of the magnitude of the matchup or the manner in which they lost, but because I realized I'll have someone else to share the pain with in the future. And to explain the importance of the offensive line. And to throw tennis balls. And to tell "back in my day..." stories.

Now, I say that half-joking, but it was a full-circle moment. I'm sure there were games when I was still a drooling, screaming brat in Pampers that my father held me, knowing that one day the high of seeing a Super Bowl might hit me, too. I'm still a drooling, screaming brat some days, but I've ditched the Pampers for Hanes.

Sadly, that next Super Bowl hasn't happened yet, but I smile knowing my child may get to see it, and hopefully my dad, too. For a select few Sundays this year, watching Remy take in some Jets football, no matter how putrid, was well worth a little bit of unadvised screen time (relax, Parent Police).

The reaction to those games was about what you'd expect from an infant: A few high-pitched squeals, lots of kicking and stomping and some tears shed. Remy didn't have much to say, but he seemed to be very into it all the same, the poor child.

That said, Remy has smiled a bit wider and paid a little more attention to the Xs and Os than an episode of "The Price is Right."

While sports have given me a wonderful career and even brighter memories, both personally and professionally, I now better understand the importance of them in my life, and how I can share those highs with my son over the coming years, the same way my father did with me: The first baseball glove. The Dr. J-esque dunk on a Fisher Price hoop. The first listen to a pissed-off caller on WFAN. The small memories that turn out to be core ones.

With the added risk of sounding like a meme or a cliché, in today's sports society we can get lost in the world of hot takes, statistics and proud parenting that we lose sight of the joy. There's a reason that every few years or so, a new clip of a kid playing teeball goes viral, or a player who made it to the pros buying his mom a car. After all, at its simplest, isn't that what it's all about? The thrill of accomplishment and the happiness it brings a stressed, overtired parent?

There will be heartbreak and elation, failures at quarterback, and hopefully, maybe, at least one success. Entering our first Christmas together, it's clear why sports mattered as much to my father as they do to me now.

There's nothing I can look forward to more than sharing my fandom and my love of sports with Remy once he's nascent. No matter how much it may suck in the immediate, I know one day he'll get to share in all the same highs sports have given me, no matter how infrequent they may be.

Even if he is a fan of the goddamn Jets.