Another season ends, and once again, my beloved Buffalo Bills fell short of the Super Bowl. It's an all-too-familiar heartbreak for us fans, the Bills Mafia.
Who's to blame? The coaches? The players? The league itself? I blame the referees who can't tell where a ball should be spotted. But honestly, all of the above share some of the blame—including myself.
I can't help it that I care so much about a child's game with rules, as my lady aptly puts it, "written by lawyers." And I've come to wonder: Why do I pour so much of my hope, energy, and time into this? Is it foolish to dream about one championship before I shuffle off this mortal coil? Maybe. But what else am I supposed to do?
This isn't just about football. It's about identity. It's about belonging to something bigger than myself through every high and low, to the bitter end. And yes, dreaming of that parade down Chippewa in February.
Being a Bills fan means licking your wounds, bundling up for the long winter, and hoping for next year—until we don’t. It's resilience bordering on madness. And let's face it, countless broken tables. It's finding comfort in the shared agony of a missed kick or a blown call.
So here we are again, battered but not broken. As Hemingway put it, "A man can be destroyed, but not defeated." Why? Because we're all Mr. Brightside.
What about you? What keeps you coming back to something that seems to bring you more pain than joy? Let me know in the comments and support my work at jamesbrowntv.substack.com.
On that note, I'm James Brown. And as always, be well. And of course, Go Bills!
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