Music City Miracle: A Short Story

Wide right. The forward lateral pass leading to the infamous Music City Miracle. A playoff drought as old as I am – seventeen years, to be exact.

The Buffalo Bills have a reputation among the National Football League as a team of yearly high expectations and inevitable subsequent failure. Tabloids and social media have dubbed Bills fans some of the most passionate in the League, focusing solely on the notorious tailgate culture. While these perceptions of outsiders aren’t contestable, the impact of the Bills on the city and its residents encompasses much more.

It is one o’clock, and my Buffalo-native family is either circled up around the TV in our living room or relishing in the electric atmosphere of New Era Field, formerly known as Ralph Wilson Stadium, awaiting kickoff – the scene of almost every football Sunday since I can remember. Before I could speak in full sentences, my father taught me to raise my arms and yell “touchdown.” I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that it was my first word. When my Puerto Rican great-grandparents would join us, Spanish subtitles would roll across the bottom of the screen so they could also keep up with the quick play-calling. The

The Buffalo Bills were playing the Cincinnati Bengals, coming into the game with a 3 and 2 record. Instead of being with my entire family, as Sundays had been for years prior, I stood shivering on the field as the first snow of the season fell. There I watched, uncomfortably sandwiched between my dad and his then girlfriend, now fiancée, following a messy divorce between my parents. After two years, this was my first (relatively) voluntary interaction with the two of them together – all in the name of not missing the game. For a time before this, I would watch the games alone in my room, armed with the companionship of homemade chicken wing dip. The cold shoulder that I had been giving my father was comparable to the harshness of Buffalo