Pain Is Love: How I Became a Buffalo Bills Fan

I grew up just outside of Baltimore, MD. I get asked all the time why on earth I chose the Buffalo Bills as my team. And the truth is, I didn't pick them at all. The Bills were picked for me.

My mother grew up in Buffalo, and she and all her family live and die on Sundays watching their Bills. My first experience sharing this passion with her came in 1991. Super Bowl XXV. And when the day started, I probably could've cared less about the outcome.

After all, I was only four years old. Watching a game of football, even the Super Bowl, on television just wasn't overly exciting to me. I was more interested in the Bills logo my mother had painted on my face than in the one on the helmets of players who wore jersey numbers like 12, 34, 78, and 83.

I knew I was supposed to cheer for these men, but I didn't know why. And when given the choice between watching a game I had not yet fallen in love with and playing ping-pong in the basement with the neighbor's kids, I chose the latter.

As the night wore on, I could hear my parents cheering on Thurman Thomas to what was surely an MVP performance. I could hear the groans as Ottis Anderson did his best to keep pace. 

And then my mother came downstairs to fetch us kids. 

"Come up here, guys! The Bills are about to kick a field goal that will win the Super Bowl!"

We ran up, suddenly energized to watch a game we had paid very little attention to. We watched Scott Norwood line up. We watched players on both sidelines holding onto each other praying that once he kicked that ball, their team would be Super Bowl Champions. We watched the ball get kicked and sail high... and long... and right. 

I knew it was a bad thing. I knew what I just saw was bad. That ball was supposed to go between those two yellow poles if we were going to be celebrating. 

But then I looked to my mother, and that's when I realized just how bad of a thing we'd just witnessed. 

My mother, who used to dance for Kenmore West's "Devil's Choice" at halftime shows at the old War Memorial Stadium, wanted so badly to see her Buffalo Bills win the big one. If not for herself, then for her city, her neighbors, her parents. 

She wept that night. And I didn't understand why. All I knew was that silly logo that I had painted on my face had just taken on a brand new meaning to me. 

I became a Bills fan during one of the greatest, and one of the worst, times to be a fan. 

As the years went on, I had to constantly defend my fandom as my team went from four years of Boy I Love Losing Super Bowls to frequent playoff trips, but no championships, to relative obscurity. 

When someone who doesn't know me asks who my NFL team is and hears "Buffalo Bills" as an answer, they generally respond with "Really? Why?"

For my mother. My mother bred me to be a fan of the Buffalo Bills. And I'm darn proud of that fact. 

When every offseason brings me hope, and every regular season takes that hope and tears it apart in the most devastating of fashions, I question why I don't just turn to the Baltimore Ravens, the home team, the easy way out. 

And then I think about the next offseason. The next chance for hope that my Buffalo Bills will return to the playoffs. Then to greatness and all the Super Bowl championships that come with it. 

And then everything (Wide Right, four SB losses, the Music City Miracle, Rob Johnson) will have been worth it. 

I'll be able to hold my head up proudly and say, "I'm a Bills fan.

"And I've been here this whole time."