LINK IN BIO (OR BOOKMARK FOR LATER)
Like a million and a half other bleary-eyed workers, I commute into Manhattan early every morning. My train ride takes me right through the foul-smelling no-man’s-land that is the wetlands between East Rutherford and Secaucus, New Jersey – a methane-laden marsh that is beautiful in a “don’t dig or you’ll find a low-level mob guy’s skeleton” kind of way.
And, as I stare off into the hazy distance, dominating the skyline is that bulging, pimple-shaped eyesore that is MetLife Stadium, home of the NFL’s New York Giants and New York Jets.
And on this sticky, humid, gray June morning, I peer out the dirt-encrusted window of the NJ transit train out towards the stadium, sitting empty in anticipation of the upcoming football season, when every Sunday it will be transformed into America’s equivalent of Chartres or the Temple at Karnak – a sacred and holy space complete with the images and symbols of venerated saints of past glory, and hordes of devout worshipers clamoring for a glimpse of greatness, desperate for the communal belonging that comes with the price of admission.