Whenever seasons like the one the Knicks just completed end, I always find myself back outside the visiting locker room at old Mile High Stadium. I always find myself standing with a handful of writers surrounding Bill Parcells maybe half an hour after the Jets lost the AFC Championship game to the Broncos.
The date was Jan. 17, 1999. The Jets had taken a 10-0 lead at altitude against the defending Super Bowl champs, and they seemed primed to write another chapter in a season in which they’d done nothing but surprise and delight their fans.
They didn’t finish the deal. Ten-nothing to the good ended 23-10 to the bad. And it wasn’t just the turnaround and the resulting disappointment in the dressing room that was jarring, it was Parcells.
“I’m exhausted, fellas,” he whispered.
And he wasn’t lying.
All the color had drained from his face. All the life had escaped his slumped shoulders. He leaned against a wall, and it seemed like that was the only thing that kept him from slipping to the floor. Parcells was 57 years old that early evening in Denver. He looked 87. Careening toward 97.
And it wasn’t just the shattering buzzkill of what had already happened that weighed on him. It was acknowledging all that lay ahead.
“You realize just how much work you have to go through just to get right back to where we are right now,” Parcells finally said. “Free agency. The draft. Voluntary workouts. Training camp. Sixteen games. All of it. Just to get back. Just to get right back to where we’re standing right now.”
He wiped his face.
“I’m exhausted,” he said.
