A Season of Reflection
A fan covers his eyes just before the Bills attempted a two point conversion during the second half of their game against the Baltimore Ravens at Highmark Stadium in Orchard Park on Sept. 7, 2025. © Tina MacIntyre-Yee/Democrat and Chronicle / USA TODAY NETWORK via Imagn Images
It’s freezing outside, but I’m sweating. The tan couch cushion teeters as I sit on the edge. Me and my wife wait for the next snap.
4th and 5.
The Bills’ last chance to get points on the board before the clock strikes triple zeros. Their last chance to punch their ticket to the Super Bowl. Our two daughters are fast asleep upstairs, their earlier proclamations about staying up for the whole game gave way to childhood exhaustion.
Josh Allen drops back. A sea of crimson crashes through the offensive line. Allen scrambles even further back. He finally heaves the ball high into the air, completely off balance.
This game is over.
My mind might be convinced, but my heart skips a beat as I wring my hands together. There are too many defenders, and I groan as the ball hangs in the air for far too long.
And the Bills always find a way to lose.
One of our receivers dives forward. He attempts to cradle the ball. It smacks against his right arm and squirts away, dropping harmlessly to the ground.
Turnover on downs.
Chiefs ball.
Game over.
“It’s over,” I say to my wife. Even with two minutes left, I know the defense can’t stop them.
In past years, I would have thrown something. My phone, a dog toy. Even a piece of fruit was not safe from my anger. I’ve broken an overhead light and even sat on the porch, my feet melting tracks into the snow as I searched for answers. One fateful trip to Vegas, I sulked for the better part of a day because the Bills lost. The friends I was with sat at a different table, watching my behavior with quiet embarrassment.
Instead of unrelenting anger, I feel a deep sadness. I simply grab my black bills hat, place it gently on the bench in the mudroom, and slip my number 17 jersey off. I don’t throw it. I don’t scream a bunch of expletives, vowing to disown the whole team and give up on them completely. I fold it and place it on the stairs, so I remember to take it up with me when I go.
The sink is full of dishes. Bowls still caked with the remains of game-day white chicken chili, cutting boards with white onion tops and wafer thin skin, and popcorn bowls lined with uneaten kernels. I lean on the sink and exhale.
They had a chance to win, and didn’t execute. My wife turns off the TV, kisses me softly and says, sorry, before heading to bed.
***
In the early 90’s, the Bills went to four straight Super bowls. I was three and a half when the first one kicked off in January of 1990. I remember being at a friend’s house, the adults all huddled around the square TV in the corner of the room. I would venture in and out, playing with dinosaurs and GI Joe’s one minute, the next holding a Bills clad troll and rubbing its hair for good luck.
The Bills lost that Super Bowl. As a matter of fact, they lost all four of them. And with each year came a new understanding of what football was to me and my family. We gathered for the games and watched with such intensity. My dad, a lifelong Vikings fan, waffled on his fandom. “Here they go again, same old Bills,” he’d say almost every game. My mom’s loyalty never wavered as she sat next to us on the couch or milled around the kitchen. Her go to Phrase was “Oh, sugar,” if they made a mistake.
It’s not hard to recognize that this is a very mild version of fandom. As the playoffs neared, we would make signs and hang them around the house. Bills T-shirts and hats were worn, washed, and worn again. Living in Rochester, NY allowed continuous access to our beloved Bills, and the media in the area was frenetic with its coverage.
It’s a slippery slope, though, to make something like this your identity. Over the next several years, my love of the sport and intensity about the Bills grew into something I viewed as almost bigger than myself. I made a giant pillow that had all the NFL helmets on it. I sat on it every Saturday and Sunday in the fall, consuming as many college and NFL games as I could. I watched the pregame shows. I threw the football in the side yard at halftime. I reveled in Bills’ victories and sulked after defeats.
My intensity was easily matched by the community. We all lived and died with the Bills. Even the most casual fans could partake in the fun. We commiserated and celebrated together all season. I felt safe with all the like-minded energy I was surrounded by. Even as we set up the nativity scene at our local church, all anyone could talk about was the upcoming playoff game. This only fed my fandom.
My passion grew when I went to college. Now I had to contend with Giants and Jets fans. And I even found people that didn’t watch or even like football (gasp!). I had to justify my fandom, and it wasn’t always easy. The Bills were only about halfway through a seventeen-year playoff drought. They sucked, and that made me root for them even harder. Because their success was my success.
Drinking only complicated things. I was so focused on the games that beer after beer slipped in and out of my koozie as I watched. Every emotion, both good and bad, was amplified. Including the hangovers.
Come Monday morning, I was predictably irritability. Not a huge deal in college where I could wear sweatpants to class and nap during lunch. But when I entered the workforce, those luxuries were gone. Eating a thanksgiving dinner amount of greasy and fatty foods and slogging down a ton of beer made Monday’s almost unbearable. And that was if they won. When they lost, it was far worse. Because on top of all these physical feelings were the emotional ones. The depression and shame around the team. Because, in my eyes, The Bills were a part of me.
And my attitude around losing sucked. There’s a home video of me at my families cottage when I was young. We were playing a big game of soccer, and I was standing in the center, demanding the ball. Pass after pass went around and by me, and I soon became frustrated. I crossed my arms, started to cry, and marched off the field.
This is not an isolated incident. I would become furious if my brother beat me in Madden. Board games, Rec. volleyball, kids vs. teacher’s kickball. I needed to win, or something inside me felt like it was going to burst.
And as I got older, I began to have better control over most of those situations (though Catan still sparks a fiery rage inside me). But up until this year, the Bills were always life and death.
***
As I finished the last of the dishes, my sadness slowly simmered to disappointment. I lamented the opportunity they squandered. Notice I say they. Not we. If the absence of rage wasn’t a loud enough signal that I had changed, then this grabbed my attention.
I know I’m not a part of the team. They don’t even know I exist. The urge of every fan to throw a “we” into the conversation is not without merit. It’s being a part of something bigger than yourself. For me, though, it meant I had some say in the outcome. But standing in the dark kitchen I severed my imaginary involvement with the organization.
And what was left was a fan.
For starters, I watched eight games sober. By choice. And it was great. I was tuned into every play, I could analyze the situations as they were happening, and I had a chance to geek out over the intricacies of the game. The inebriated version of me would try to do that, but the superfan would always take over. Make it personal.
And although they only lost four games in the regular season, I was not controlled by how they performed. Even more, I was able to move past my feelings the day of the game, win or lose. I made dinners, played with my girls, and functioned with energy and clarity.
Sobriety brought what was truly important about these games to the forefront.
My daughters are six and four. Right around the age I was when I recognized my parents’ love for the team. They match my intensity because they want to be like me, want to have connection. And seeing that this year, I knew I needed to be a different kind of fan.
When the AFC Championship game started, my four-year-old snuggled in next to me. She wrapped a black and red checkered blanket over us and nuzzled into my side.
“That’s Josh Allen,” she said as she pointed at the screen.
“It is,” I replied. “How many points do you think he’ll score today?”
“A hundred touchdowns.” If the confidence in her voice wasn’t enough to convince you, her little arms crossed over her chest would have done the trick.
“That’s seven hundred points,” I said, leaving the discussion of PAT’s and two-point conversions for another day. Her eyes went wide as she peeled her eyes from the screen.
“Can he do that?” She stared up at me, eyes wide.
“I think he can,” I said. “Josh can do anything.”
This is not the first, nor will it be the last time we discuss Josh Allen’s potential for legendary achievements. But it is something new this season.
We are constantly bringing up our team, sometimes in unexpected ways. Several days before they played the Miami Dolphins, I said our usual diss.
“Squish the Fish!”
The girls repeated the mantra and we chanted it several times. The silence that followed was heavy and we all sort of looked at each other.
Then my youngest said, “But we like dolphins, right. Like, um, the animal dolphin.”
“I love dolphins,” My oldest chimed in, holding a tented hand to her chest. “We just don’t like Miami people.”
My wife and I laughed. This was a typical exploration of meaning and clarification for these girls.
“It’s not even the people of Miami,” my wife said. “It’s the team.”
“We say it for two reasons, girls. One, dolphins aren’t fish, so that makes Dolphins’ fans upset. And then, obviously, no one wants to be squished, so there’s that.”
“And Dolphins are mammals, right?” My wife said to the girls. The discussion quickly shifted to mammals, what sounds dolphins made, and what they might eat. Needless to say, we were able to compartmentalize together.
***
Shout, a song by the Isley Brothers, has been covered by a number of artists over the years, but recent generations will remember it best as a wedding anthem. For Bills fans, though, it’s to celebrate points on the board.
In our family, the Shout song is played after touchdowns. It’s an important part of the Bills experience, but I didn’t realize how invested all of us were in the games. Until one night, week four of the season, when I had a bad case of pneumonia. It was a night game and the girls were already in bed. The only one snuggling me at the time was our sixty-five pound boxer, Flynn. The Bills scored, and I turned to my parents, who were visiting at the time.
“We’d play the Shout Song if the girls were up.”
“Play it anyway,” my mom said.
From my horizontal position on the couch, I grabbed my phone, held back a hacking, mucusy cough, and pressed the button for the shout song to start.
The moment the snare drums started rolling and the first trumpet projected its high pitched honk, Flynn jumped up from between my legs, and bound to his toy bin. He grabbed his ratty old rope, the one we tug on as we dance around the room, his muscular body jostling here and there with the effort of pulling him around. On this night, he wheeled around, looking at all the humans, waiting for someone to dance with him.
I recognized then that what we were doing was special. During day games, the girls would either watch with us or play games somewhere in the house. My wife and I would be in the living room, glued to the TV.
“They scored!” I would shout, as I turned the speaker on and waited for my phone to connect. The sound of little, sprinting feet would fill the house as the girls hustled to the living room.
“Wait, wait,” they’d say as they took a position. Sometimes they stood on the sectional, the ottoman or jumped into our arms. Once given the cue, I would fire up the song and we would begin dancing.
If you currently have an image of a choreographed dance that the four of us would perform, then you couldn’t be more wrong. This dance is never the same twice. I grab the dogs rope and swing it back and forth while he holds on. My girls jump from couch cushion to couch cushion, getting as much air as possible. My wife and I turn in circles, sometimes taking the girls by their hands and swinging them around.
Everyone has their go-to moves, but wild cards always pop up. My youngest will flatten her hands out and move them toward and away from her body, like a crab walk without the claws. My oldest has grabbed a nifty boa that was lying in the room and performed ballet to the song on a number of occasions.
What never changes is our breathless enthusiasm as we sing the words together, culminating in a victorious “The Bills make me wanna…SHOUT!”
Then we crumple to the couch, the commercials droning on as we wait for the game to resume.
***
As I sifted through my feelings the day after the Bills loss to the Kansas City Chiefs in the 2025 AFC Championship game, I couldn’t help but be brought back to my family. In other years, it was the disgrace of staying with a team that hadn’t been to the playoffs. Or now, the shame of being unable to get over the hump and win the championship.
But instead of focusing on the team and the beers and the food, I’ve focused on the family and community we’ve built in this house. We regularly have people over for games, a notion that was unheard of in the past, especially if they weren’t Bills fans. The kids play, the adults watch the game and talk. But I’m not glued to the TV. I’m engaged and present. It’s a party.
The girls watch with us. Or they don’t. And that’s all okay, because the Shout Song always brings us back together. When the game is on too late, they ask for a ceremonial rendition, one that preps them for bed and the victory wakeup call the next morning.
They watch the Bills videos posted to Instagram, whether it’s the victory post, the “BIG DUBS” videos immediately following a win, or any number of the other silly things the social media team over there likes to upload. They’re excited for the team in a way I haven’t experienced in decades. It’s pure curiosity mixed with realistic expectations. We don’t just cheer on the players. Sometimes, we have to cheer them up. If we say something like, Tyler Bass missed a field goal” or “This guy dropped a pass,” my youngest will always pipe up.
“That’s okay. He’ll try again next time.”
What a healthy way to deal with disappointment.
***
The girls had mixed reactions the morning after the loss. My oldest came into our room first, and the news made her sad. Not so much for the Bills, but for the fact that she wouldn’t be able to stay up for the entire Super Bowl like she so desperately wanted. She loves a good show, including halftime and all the commercials.
I had to wake up my youngest. Two hours of skiing with dad the previous day always wipes her out. She sat up quickly, like she always does, and crawled into my lap.
“I’ve got some bad news, sweety,” I said as I held her tight. Her body was so warm, having just emerged from the blankets. “The Bills lost.”
“Oh no,” she said in a sleepy voice. “But I wanted them to win.”
“I know. Me too. They had a chance to win it at the end, but Josh couldn’t find a receiver in time.”
“That’s okay, Daddy,” she said with a little more pep. “They’ll do it next time.”
The next time will be in the fall. Both girls will be a little bit older. They’ll look a little bit different. Their interests will have shifted, and they’ll have started a new school year. She sniffled a little in my arms and I knew she was upset, even if the words she said were the right way to think about the situation.
“Do you want waffles with syrup for breakfast?”
Her eyes met mine, wide and excited.
“Yes!” she shouted, and scooched out of my grasp to dance down the stairs. Because football is so much more than just the game or the players. It’s the traditions and moments we share with one another. I’m a different kind of fan, just as fierce, but very much aware of the moments I want to hold onto.
“Daddy, are you coming!”
“On my way,” I said as I stood from her bed and gave her a piggy-back ride downstairs. Because win or lose, the sun keeps rising, the waffles get toasted, and the day moves on.