I remember the day Jacksonville got an expansion team. I was home from college, sitting in my father's living room, watching his giant, mattress-sized television (the kind of room-swallowing TV set all dads get with their second wives), as he hooted and cheered the news that at long last the NFL was coming to our town. From our seats on the couch, you could hear the same hollering happening outside, as Jacksonvillians let loose a collective roar of appreciation and validation. It was like geographic Pinocchio. At last we were a real town!
Say what you will about Texas, but Florida is where football lives. Rife with championship college teams, home to legendary franchises, Floridians love football more than they love Jesus, more than they love BBQ. So it was, and is, an abiding mystery as to why, since their debut in 1995, the Jags have yet to feel the unbridled love of say, the Packers or the Bears. Even when, at one time, Jacksonville had the highest winning percentage of any sports team that season.
Some folks blame the pivotal 1999 season, when, with a record of 14 and 2 (plus two playoff wins), the Jags choked on Titan mythology, flaming out so spectacularly that many fans went blind. Others point fingers (generally their middle ones) at former coach and unwavering crank Tom Coughlin. Owner Wayne Weaver also gets some heat, accused of being cheap and greedy—Donald Trump without the gold fetish. (So formidable is Wayne's ego, his brother Ron is addressed as T.O. "The Other" Weaver.)
Also, the uniforms suck.
Truth is, we Jacksonvillians like the Jags just fine. But they kind of turned out like that really hot girl you always wanted to date, and then finally you got your chance and you married her, and then you realized one morning that she has corns, nipple hair and an annoying nose whistle while she sleeps.
Our NFL fantasies were/are just that: An impossible dream of unebbing greatness. But we're awake now. Thirteen seasons later, for better or worse, our expectations are leveling out. And some love has even survived. Take last year, when Garrard began leading the team toward a solid, genuinely inspirational season.
A sign at a local café read, "Free sweet tea for David Garrard for life! Or, until you lose."