Alright, let’s see if I can nail this chaotic doodad. So, the Jets went with this Membou dude in the draft, right? Seventh pick, cool. Apparently, he’s some kind of big deal, and they didn’t totally flub the choice. But, in typical Jets fashion, there’s that nagging thought. You know, did they just let some sparkling, jaw-dropping gem slip through their fingers? I mean, it’s the Jets.
Anyway, Membou’s got this shiny college resume, started 29 games at Mizzou. At 21, he’s practically a baby in NFL years. They’re expecting him to just walk right in and own that right tackle spot, like opposite of this other guy named Olu Fashanu. He’s last year’s snag. So, picture this: you’ve got a line that’s just full of these high-caliber picks. Three first-rounders and a second. It’s like building an empire or something. Or a castle made of giant men.
Coach Glenn, he’s new, but he talks like Membou was meant to be a Jet. A cosmic alignment of sorts. He calls him mean, nasty, and tough, like he’s describing a guard dog or a spicy curry. He says when they saw Membou was available, it was just obvious, like picking the only ripe banana from a fruit stand. “This is our guy,” he says. You can practically hear the stadium-applause crescendo in his voice.
And really, sometimes life hands you a no-brainer like that. Football’s a weird journey, full of missed buses and wrong turns, but maybe, just maybe, Membou’s the road that takes them somewhere interesting. And who knows what “interesting” really means when you’re a Jets fan? Leaves you wondering, though, if your next trip to the Meadowlands might be more thrill and less heartbreak.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
