Aaron Rodgers owes Jets, hungry fans nothing less than Super Bowl

Aaron Rodgers wanted this, craved this, welcomed this, embraced this: A new team to call his own. Hero worship on the biggest and brightest stage. From new fans and teammates alike. A new lease on his twilight football life.

Savior of the New York Jets.

Joe Namath bowing down and offering up his retired No. 12. The organization hiring former Packers. Cheers at Madison Square Garden.

No one blames him for the torn Achilles that ruptured the Jets’ 2023 season .

But it is not unfair to ask him now to remind everyone why he was summoned to be the star of the Jets universe, the Straw That Stirs the Drink … if he still can be. If there truly is magic left in that beautiful arm and in that beautiful mind.

He owes the Jets and their fans so much more than four plays.

A playoff berth, and nothing less.

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And yes, a Super Bowl.

His second.

And the franchise’s second.

Mission: Impossible for 55 years running.

The Rodgers mandate: Bury “Same Old Jets” once and for all.

If not now, when?

Whether GM Joe Douglas mortgages what is left of the future for Davante Adams or not.

It is déjà vu all over again. Only this much has changed from a summer ago:

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He is 40 years old now. He is recovered from a torn Achilles. He has questions to answer about missing mandatory minicamp and stories to tell about Egypt .

This much has not changed:

The expectations on him to save the jobs of Douglas and head coach Robert Saleh.

And the spotlight of six prime-time games to show the notion that “life begins at 40” only for Brady is fuel for Rodgers’ New York legacy fire.

Rodgers’ well-documented proclivity to summon up motivation at the slightest hint from the doubters and skeptics should have his all-gas-no-brake tank full.

If all goes well — ahem, when has it all gone well for the Jets since Jan. 12, 1969? — Rodgers will stand and deliver in a way a future first-ballot Hall of Famer, even a 40-year-old future first-ballot Hall of Famer not named Brady, can still stand and deliver.

Douglas has built an upgraded wall around Rodgers, because 10 months ago he could not stand after four damn plays. It is an upgraded wall, as long as the talented injury-plagued veterans can stand themselves.

Garrett Wilson and Breece Hall are elite. The defense is elite. Rodgers doesn’t require an elite offensive coordinator. He is the offensive coordinator. He is the offense. He is the football savant.

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For a franchise that has led the league in demons for too long, he must be the Exorcist.

There will be no “Hard Knocks” to gush over him this summer, no warm and fuzzy meeting with Liev Schreiber, his “voice of God.”

And, even though he has thrown one regular-season pass across the past 18 months, no excuses.

It was Rodgers, from the top of the Empire State Building, who last year trumpeted the flushing of B.S. from the locker room or fuggedabout any winning culture. He won’t be RFK Jr.’s VP . It would behoove him to put his unflattering feud with Jimmy Kimmel in the rearview mirror.

It is incumbent upon Rodgers, more than anyone, to walk that talk.

Perhaps Rodgers was able to gaze at the Great Sphinx of Giza and will report to training camp Tuesday with the peace of mind that ayahuasca has given him over the years.

When he trots out for the first practice in his No. 8 on Wednesday, to the first huddle of Flight 2024, his will be a singular burden:

To change the fortunes and perception of the New York Jets. And with it, his legacy.

Because that one Lombardi Trophy inside the Jets Atlantic Health Training Center is still lonely.

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