It was the day after Christmas, 1964. I’d recently celebrated my 13th birthday and my parents gave me two presents: a prayer book and a book on famous NFL quarterbacks. Being Irish Catholic, the prayer book was a given. The football book however was all me.
I was an only child growing up in a world defined by school and home responsibilities. Both my parents worked, making me a latchkey kid long before the term was created. My home life was solitary and often lonely. Then my parents took me to my first Buffalo Bills Game.
It was a night contest against The Boston Patriots. From the moment I found myself being swept along Dodge Street in a rushing stream of fans, wending our way through the dark stadium tunnels into the bright lights of War Memorial Stadium, Buffalo Bills Football became my world.
As my parents took me to more games I started collecting team signatures. When the two-minute end-of-game warning was given, I was off like a heat-seeking missile rushing to the depths of “The Rockpile.” There I would wait with other kids outside the player’s locker room for a chance to ask one of my Bills’ heroes for their signature.
I bonded with classmates and neighborhood friends over the team. We lived and died by their wins and losses. We played two-hand-touch street ball, tagging ourselves with Bills ID’s. We collected trading cards of our favorite players. WE were part of the team.
Back to the 1964 day after Christmas---that year the Bills had earned a ticket to play in the AFL Championship Game against the San Diego Chargers. My family had not. My parents and I were forced to stay home, relying on broadcaster, Van Miller, to help us envision the game via a tinny AM radio.
San Diego had scored in their first possession and were back on offense, driving again. I felt slightly hopeless that WE were going to lose the game. Then Bills middle linebacker, Mike Stratton stepped up to the line.
When the ball was snapped he honed in on Chargers halfback Keith Lincoln, who had just caught a swing pass from QB Tobin Rote. Stratton picked up Lincoln and crashed him into the frozen Rockpile tundra, causing the All-star to fumble the ball. The bone-crushing tackle also cracked three of Lincoln’s ribs, eliminating the talented runner from the game.
Van Miller gave voice to the tackle calling it, “the hit heard round the world.” At that moment, in my parent’s house, in houses across Western New York, and at War Memorial Stadium, hope for our team returned. The Bills became energized by Lincoln’s exit and went on to win the game 20-7. WE were champions.
This week the Buffalo Bills are once again preparing for a League Championship game, the ninth in their storied history. While I no longer wait outside their locker room for an autograph or collect their playing cards, social media has allowed a kind of first-person-access with the team of the type I treasured so many years ago.
Remarkably, the 2020 Bills remind me of their 1964 predecessors. They are professionals who practice hard and play harder, all the while remembering to enjoy and celebrate the ride. They are connected to our community and make sure to acknowledge that WE their fans matter and are part of the team’s success.
And on this Sunday, whatever the final score of that AFC Championship game, no matter how the rest of the world sees us, no doubt WE will be forever united in our memories of this game.