A Riverhouse Divided Cannot Stand
Denver vs. Buffalo. May God have mercy on us all
I was born in Lexington, Kentucky in 1972. My father was an electrical engineer, and soon after I was born he moved us to Houston for a job at Texas Instruments. My brother was born there in 1974, and unlikely as it sounds I have a hazy memory of my mother bringing him home from the hospital. I have two other surviving memories of my life in Texas: walking with my Dad into what was then known as the Houston Astrodome, presumably for an Astros game. The other surviving memory, as I once told you, is of a Texas-sized cockroach running up my mother’s leg as the two of us sat in a rocking chair. The way I remember it she leapt up and screamed and I landed on the floor, but there’s some disagreement in the family about the particulars. What’s indisputable is that in 1977 we moved to Ft. Collins, Colorado for a job with Hewlett Packard.
The oldest Colorado memory I have is watching Superbowl XII with Dad in a neighbor’s garage. It was Denver vs. Dallas, and as recent Texan immigrants we were still fans of Tom Landry’s Cowboys, who won the game. I would live in Colorado, with my family, until 1996, but more importantly: I would never again in my life consider myself anything close to a Cowboys fan. Like every living person in Colorado and much of the population of the neighboring giant, rectangular states, I became a Broncos fan, and I remain one to this day.
Sports fan-dom is not a personal choice. When I eventually moved to New York I thought maybe I would convert to the Giants or (shiver) Jets, but it just wasn’t to be. I could change my haircut, I could change my religion, I could change my name if I felt like it. But this Broncos thing is indelible. If it had been up to me I would have picked a team with a better overall record and a more flattering color scheme.
I still live in New York, where for some reason a large portion of my associates and chosen family are Buffalo Bills fans. For example — Dan, among my closest friends, who has been texting me infuriating shit like this all week:
And my so-called friend Mary, who sent me this incendiary Canadian beer commercial:
When I complained about this she replied “blow it out your beloved horses’ asses.” Nice. Real nice stuff there from my friends.
My friend Nassim has been waging a years-long campaign to turn Maya toward the Bills as well. Here’s how that’s currently going:
That’s Maya in Buffalo from earlier in the season, in full Bills regalia. And that’s Judy, Mary’s mom, who surprised Maya and Nassim at the bus stop on their way to Highmark Stadium. Bo Nix never had a chance against this withering charm offensive.
Closer to home, the real sticky wicket is Ben, my brother-in-law, with whom we share a Brooklyn neighborhood and a Pennsylvania vacation house. Ben is a life-long, passionate Bills fan whose father, just like Nassim’s, moved from Buffalo to California in the ‘eighties.
I’ve been enjoying Bills games with Ben and his Buffalovian cohort for years. Last weekend we watched Allen and co. defeat Jacksonville, and here’s the lunch that was served at halftime:
In case you don’t have any friends from Buffalo: what you’re looking at there is a half beef on weck with wings and fries. My understanding is that every man, woman, and child in Buffalo eats this meal three times a day, and yes, that includes Hailee Steinfeld herself.
Anyway, here is how Ben and other Bills fans decorate their homes:
So I’ve developed an attachment to the Bills over the years. I think of them as the Eastern Broncos: a cold weather team without a dome who more often than not winds up disappointing. Here’s the main difference: Denver eventually won the big dance after many, many losses, and Buffalo is still looking for their first win.
Hey- now that somebody mentioned Super Bowl XXXII, let’s pause and re-live some highlights:
Ahhh… the Terrell Davis era. I can almost hear the Fatboy Slim MP3s. Let’s go swing dancing and talk about how John Elway’s career is going to be perfect and inspiring forever.
So with these dynamics in mind, friends have been asking all week: is it going to be awkward with Ben? The answer is hell yes it is. In fact we likely won’t watch the game together. I’ll watch it at home, with poor Maya (in a Broncos sweatshirt over a secret Bills tee) and Murphy, who really doesn’t have a choice. I’ll be wearing my lucky shirt, and building a tower of Athletic IPA empties as my phone goes off every six seconds with anxious texts from my mom or various pals from high school.
Then we will all meet up afterward and get on with it. The good news is that this happened last year as well, when Buffalo unceremoniously dispatched Denver 31-7. And here’s the weird part: I don’t even remember watching the game. I was celebrating dry January then as now, before you decide that I was on some sort of orange and blue bender. The truth is that I have a mysterious superpower: the day after the Superbowl the entire content of the season evaporate painlessly from my head. As emotional as all of this seems now, it won’t matter to me at all soon.
So good luck to all of us! Let’s wrap this up with obligatory photos of dogs dressed as football fans.
What is this a football newsletter now?
Sorry, everybody. Like I said, soon this will all be forgotten. Here are two excellent new songs that have very little to do with football:
This game ended the Bills and Broncos seasons as well as McDermott's run in Buffalo. The monkey paw is out of fingers.
Love this so much. Pruitt is less worried about the injuries- and more plagued by thoughts like- “how much is mom going to yell and scream at the TV?”