Vol 1. Issue No. 2: Trained in the art of pessimism
I've seen this film before. But I finally have a reason to like the ending. What's wrong with me?
Some of the most indelible memories from my childhood involve Sundays and sadness. And they are the furthest thing from mutually exclusive; in fact, I hardly ever had one without the other. I’d spend most of those sabbath afternoons planted in front of the television, family all around, our darkest emotions worn not just on our sleeves, but on our faces, in our voices, and in our movements alike. Impossible, it was, to escape them. That’s what the inadequacy of the Buffalo Bills could do to a person.
My brother and I regularly wouldn’t make it through a game’s entirety — it didn’t matter that these games were played but once a week by our one true, shared love, as well as the bane of our collective existence for far too many years. Once the fourth quarter rolled around, when Tom Brady or Donovan McNabb or whoever inevitably found his receiver alone in the endzone to extend what was already a 20-point lead, we’d storm off to our rooms. The remainder of the weekend, ruined by a measly sporting contest, just as it would be next week, and perhaps the week after that, and most likely the season after that, and probably the eight seasons to follow. So it goes for Buffalo Bills fans. Or, I suppose now I should say: so it went.
These days, I find myself gulping when someone expresses excitement about the Bills and appreciates my adoration for the team, because I am simply so unfamiliar with that state of mind. I’ve had the art of pessimism beaten into me, not by my parents or by other fans, but by the Bills themselves. For as many seasons as I can recall, I spent 17 weeks preparing for the worst and hoping for the best, often discovering that the latter was a silly, futile wish. Sunday sadness — which sounds more like a Lana Del Ray song than an eternal state of being — became a way of life. As the players on the back of my jerseys came and went, the pain persisted, growing more and more dull as the playoffs inched further away… for 20 whole years.
From 1998 (when I came into this world and thus was grandfathered into a lifetime of football-induced misery) to 2018, the Bills went a combined 148-188. It’s not as bad as, say, the Cleveland Browns, but it’s not all that encouraging. That’s a winning percentage of 44, which would be a nice season from the three-point line for JJ Redick, sure, but it’s hardly the mark you want to hit as a football team over the course of two decades.
But since 2019, the Bills are 23-9. Buffalo has been to the playoffs twice (after having only made it once in the previous 20 seasons, the one time I’ve ever truly cried at a sporting event), made it to the AFC Championship once, and found its franchise quarterback. Entering this year, they’re widely considered to be a Super Bowl contender, if not one of the favorites to win the whole thing.
I don’t exactly know what to do with that information, nor what to do with my hands as I attempt to digest it. So, I’ll just keep typing.
This is hard for me. Not because I relish being unhappy, but because I’m so used to the gloom. I’m so used to the 148-188 feeling; as lousy as it was for 17 weeks a year, I knew what to expect (save the one weird upset we’d pull off against the Patriots on Monday Night Football every 19th full moon) and never necessarily felt the pit in your stomach you get when you start to feel hope. I’m so opposite of used to going 13-and-flipping-three and being a few touchdowns away from the Super Bowl. I’d sooner believe that Harry Potter was a real person, and that sometime in the next 24-48 hours, he’d be calling upon me to take up a pivotal role atop the ranks of Dumbledore’s Army.
But alas, here we are: The Buffalo Bills are good. They’re really good. And yet… gosh, why can’t I just bring myself to revel in that idea? I wrote this in this issue’s subtitle, yet it bears repeating: What’s wrong with me?
Every day, I find a new reason to billieve, and every day, I can’t help but shoo said reasons away. Peter King picked the Bills to make the Super Bowl this season (and just barely lose to the Rams, that bastard); ESPN’s Bill Barnwell gave them the third-best chance to make the big game, just behind teams that employ Tom Brady and Patrick Mahomes; NFL executives picked Josh Allen to win MVP this season; on Wednesday’s episode of Peacock’s “Brother From Another,” Kyle Brandt picked the Bills to win it all over the Packers. Everything’s coming up roses, and yet I can’t help but focus on the thorns. I’m the worst. I’m damaged. I’m working on it.
Really, I’m practicing cautious optimism more than I’m maintaining pessimism. I’m not naive to the fact that my favorite team is good now. I just won’t be first in line to predict a 17-0 season (still weird to say) nor a Super Bowl victory (still weird to ponder). The idea of success as a regular at 1 Bills Drive is hardly something I’m familiar with, so I still have trouble believing in it when I hear about it, even in the most hypothetical terms. And lately, I’ve been hearing about it an awful lot. Saying something nice about the Bills once or twice is the introduction of a pleasant idea, and yeah, I’m all for it. But putting it out into the ether as a prediction, or worse, a norm? Plop me in front of a mirror and say “Candyman” five times, why don’t you.
Again, I’d be lying if I wrote this entire entry without acknowledging how excited I am for this NFL season; I’m ecstatic, and it’s all because of the GD Buffalo Bills. I’m hardly one to deny that, should they achieve the level of success most pundits are eager to predict they will, I will be one of the loudest screamers and ugliest happy-criers. But still, I’m as anxious as I’ve ever been. My expectations are finally beginning to warp, to accept reality. I’m starting to — gulp — feel the deadly tingle of hope. And it’s all because of the GD Buffalo Bills. (Well, that plus the fact that the league’s brass are pushing normalcy as the pandemic worsens, but one battle at a time.) I want this team to do so well, and frankly, I expect them to. Never before have I felt less prepared for the worst and more optimistic about the best, which is exactly what fuels my pessimism — er, my caution. I worry because I love.
We’ve all heard that from our mothers in the past; this team, for all intents and purposes, is my baby. I just want all its dreams to come true. And yeah, selfishly, for it to make mine come true, too.
Consumption Corner
I (somehow) find time to read a lot, watch a lot, and listen to a lot throughout my weeks here on the internet. Consumption Corner is where I’ll recommend some of the things I enjoyed the most. They may be old, or they may be new, but from shows to films to books, I figure the least I can do is lend some insight into the things that make me the cultured young man that I am.
What you need to read: I didn’t think a “couldn’t wait to read” distinction would be very appropriate here, but I do feel it’s important that, should you fail to do anything else this week, you read the following stories:
“The Falling Man” by Tom Junod (Esquire, from 2003)
“The Real Heroes Are Dead” by James B. Stewart (The New Yorker, from 2002)
Saturday marks 20 years since the horrors of September 11, 2001. I was a baby; I have no memory of that day. These two stories help to paint a small portrait of the tragedy that took place, but even more so, they peer into the lives of two distinct individuals that died that day. They are devastating, beautiful, brilliant, and expertly-constructed by two expert reporters. I read and weep through both every year, just as a small reminder of who was lost two decades ago.
Other good reads:
“But Who Tells Them What To Sing?” by Adrian Daub (Longreads)
“Unfortunately, Roger Goodell Deserves Some Credit” by Will Leitch (Intelligencer)
“The Evolution of Matt Damon” by Chris Heath (GQ)
“Kenny Mayne’s Second Act” by John Gonzalez (The Ringer)
“The magic and mystery of Los Angeles Chargers quarterback Justin Herbert” by Mina Kimes (ESPN)
“Going home with Luka Dončić” by Marc Stein (The Stein Line)
What I couldn’t stop watching: On my second time around, Sian Heder’s CODA proved yet again that having heart and following some pedestrian beats hardly means lacking substance. Ruby (Emilia Jones, transcendent), a child of deaf adults (hence the film’s acronymous title), is being pulled back and forth between her passions and her family; what Heder conjures here is as moving a film as I’ve seen all year, a beautiful tale of what it means to have dreams and what it is to be a family, no matter what differences may exist amongst the unit. I have this gut feeling that it could be a classic, if people make the effort to seek it out. (Which isn’t hard. It’s on Apple TV+, for God’s sake.)
What I haven’t been able to put down: With apologies to my employers, Sally Rooney’s Beautiful World, Where Are You arrived in the mail on Tuesday, and it’s consumed just about every waking moment since. To my knowledge, there isn’t a writer on this planet that can untangle the human mind’s web of intricacies, the heart’s dichotomous relationship with desire and with pain, and the body’s natural impulses better than Rooney. If you know of one, please direct me to their work as soon as possible. Otherwise, I’ll be ripping through the Irish wordsmith’s latest work of genius as though my life depends on it.
And finally… what else I’ve written lately:
The case for (and against) Ben Simmons becoming a Clipper (Clips Nation)
CelticsBlog Fantasy Draft (Part 1): The dynamic duos (CelticsBlog)
Juancho Hernangómez will have a ‘major role’ in Adam Sandler’s next film, “Hustle” (CelticsBlog)
A goodbye tweet:
Thanks, everyone. Back here next Thursday.
I could see your face as I read this. Nicely done. There is always hope.