I live in Manhattan. The city is clogged with cars and teeming with people sporting Giants Blue and White. Kids are playing hooky from school, with a wink and a nod from parents and teachers. Two million people are cramming into lower Manhattan at this moment to catch a glimpse of the Lombardi and watch Hizzoner give the team the Key to the City. Do I feel the sting of disappointment? Of course I do. But then, the clouds part for a few moments and I realize how much more badly, how intensely miserable, how downright depressed, Jets fans are today. Sure, Jets fans probably felt a moment's delight at our misery on Sunday and they will, in their usual mindless and classless way, think they can rub it in when they play us next year. But, they have to live with their obnoxious Giant neighbors the other 50 weeks of the year; they have to live with being a distant, poor, vague and indistinct shadow of the Champions in a town that has little time for shadows and wannabes headed by a loudmouth Coach and brain-dead owner from New Jersey. New York City forgives a lot of things. It does not forgive big promises followed by abject failure. It does not forgive braggarts unless they deliver on their braggadocio. So, as the clouds part, I can see the sun. And, for the first time since Sunday, a smile crosses my face, if only for a few moments. We-are-NOT-Jets-fans today! Even in the midst of our disappointment, we can stand tall and proud at having come up a little short on the greatest stage of all, after having walked upon that same stage seven times since their team was last on it. It's not a "happy day," but it ain't all that bad either.