James Bond should be dead. We all should be, actually.
Think about it: in almost every 007 movie he gets a nice whack on the head with a gun. Add that kind of pistol-whipping up over time and you are looking at some very serious brain damage. Factor in his age and various STDs and Mr. Bond isn’t stirring very much of anything anymore.
Why is this relevant, you ask? Do you know what a slang term for pistol-whipping is? Buffalo.
In less than twelve hours the Buffalo Bills will be on the field.
I have no idea how that will go. That may be what is keeping me up tonight, but no matter how much game tape I watch there isn’t much I can do to prevent Travis Henry from scoring a touchdown for every child he fathers. In fact, that mental image alone just may give me nightmares forever.
What really keeps me awake at night is the pistol-whipping that each new season brings. Buffalo is famous for it, and no matter how many times we get that tolchock to the head we pop back up for more in next year’s feature. It’s a sick, twisted metaphor for hope in our sports world, one that we all know far too well.
The difference between us and James Bond is that everything works out in the end for 007. We sports fans are left alone to find our bearings after each train wreck, while it is Bond that gets the gun and the girl by movie’s close.
So what is it that keeps us going? If Bond gets a paycheck, gadgets, and Rolling Stones style “Satisfaction” for each whack, what is our reward?
Nothing of value, that’s for freaking sure. We haven’t won a single thing, in the monetary or Biblical sense. And while many grow tired of this drought and drop off the bandwagon, well, I’ve been doing this too long to quit.
What I keep with me is the hope that someday all those beatings will be worth wile. Eventually, something’s gotta give, whether in my head or in the pistol. In the meantime, the little things become a bit more important.
Cheering hard for John DiGiorgio because his mother and girlfriend are sitting the row below you. Buying a “Money” shirt and wearing it around no matter how pale and Irish you are. Debating if firing off a cap gun is in support of the Bills or Broncos, as well as how dumb you will look doing so.
The point is this: no matter how cruel an ending this season may have, there is no reason it shouldn’t be fun. The team is young, J.P. may be coming into his own, and at the very least the stadium should be full every game. Plus the Dolphins are garbage! That makes it a good year already!
So no matter what happens tomorrow, I’ll be okay. We all will be. Our faces here in Buffalo may be bloody and broken, but our hearts are strong. Solid, even.
And it don’t get no better than solid.