On Sunday, January 21st, 2024, the Buffalo Bills hosted the Kansas City Chiefs in Orchard Park, NY. It was the first time the Bills held home-field advantage since 2020 when COVID restrictions barred fans from attending the game. Bills Mafia had been chomping at the bit for this moment: Patrick Mahomes was going to play on our turf, in front of our fans.
The narratives surrounding the game tantalized any NFL fan with a pulse. Could the Bills avenge their 13-second meltdown? Could Josh Allen be one of the few to take on Patrick Mahomes in the postseason and win? Would Taylor Swift and Hailee Steinfeld grace Buffalo with their presence…and maybe even kiss?
The Buffalo Bills vs. the Kansas City Chiefs. Josh Allen vs. Patrick Mahomes. Me and a 6-pack of “Pils Mafia” vs. the cold and a stomach full of butterflies. The stage was set, and this time I was confident things would be different.
I knew Bills Mafia’s vociferous support could be a difference-maker, especially since I’d be there. There was no way the 2x Super Bowl and League MVP, Patrick Mahomes, was walking out of OP with the W – not when faced with the barbarian roar of a lanky man-child who hadn’t played a snap of football since the third grade. I would will the Bills to victory with my sheer presence.
Four quarters, a few beers, and two fried vocal cords later, I made the sullen and hollow walk back to my cousin’s car (always have a DD at a Bills game – Over the Limit, Under Arrest). A familiar stench wafted from the thousands of Bills fans as they departed the stadium. That stench was defeat – an odor similar to a month-old box of Duff’s wings you forgot in the back of your fridge. The Bills postseason ended in the Divisional round for a third year in a row, and the Chiefs knocked us out for a third time.
Shakespeare wrote, “[Life] is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” So is the tale of the Buffalo Bills 2023-24 season, as told by me to my bored children somewhere in the distant future. All the ear-ringing sound and fury of that stadium; the dramatic comeback from 6-6 to Division Champs; the promise of taking on Patrick Mahomes and the Chiefs in our home stadium; it was all meaningless in the end.
This is Buffalo, after all. We haven’t had a championship in any of the four major sports leagues during the city’s entire existence. Those odds are cut by 50% since we don’t have teams in the MLB or NBA. I’m convinced we’re cursed, at this point.
Maybe the Quakers put a curse on Buffalo for building a General Mills Factory here instead of a Quaker Oats one. Everyone thinks of them as teetotaling pacifists, but they’re vengeful people. “Never trust a Quaker,” that’s what I always say.
Or maybe the indigenous peoples’ spirits have risen in vengeance from the graves that the Bills stadium is built on. We tried to satisfy them with sacrifices to The Pit, but it wasn’t enough. I suppose the Chiefs would be the team the native spirits root for, too.
And so, instead of a tale of triumph, I sit here two weeks later, my keyboard drenched with snot and tears, expounding on the hopelessness of being a Buffalo Bills fan. As Theodore Roosevelt put it, the light has gone out of my life. He wrote that when his mother and wife died, but you can’t convince me that your favorite team losing in the postseason is any less painful.
Like most reasonable adult NFL fans, I emotionally invest in the outcome of my team’s games. It determines my mood for the next week. Now, the offseason calls to me like a black hole of uncertainty. I must get through the next seven months without anything to do on Sundays but dread the upcoming week. In less than a month, the NFL discourse will become a speculative farce of mock drafts and trivial gossip about players, teams, and coaches.
The next season will begin, though. It’s only a matter of time. And, to be honest, the tale may be meaningless, but I don’t care what it signifies. The memories I have of the sound and fury of Highmark Stadium on a Sunday night…well…my tears of sadness are replaced with tears of joy. I’d relive these meaningless seasons 1,000,000x. I find more significance in the sound and fury than the results of the games. My hope is not extinguished. I will circle the wagons, once more.
But if Brandon Beane doesn’t draft a first-round receiver I will kill myself.
Why the Long Face? 