On 14 October 2024, having never supported a team before, or, to be honest, especially liked sports at all, I became a Buffalo Bills fan. I’d been going out with my Buffalonian boyfriend for more than a year, which I think in his parents’ eyes meant my introduction to the team that animates their entire hometown was overdue. They drove down to New York City, kitted me out in a Bills baseball cap, hoodie and blanket (and plastic Bills bag to hold it all in) – and took me to a game.
I thought I’d seen enough Super Bowls to know I didn’t care about football, but wrapped in that staticky blanket, one of the few spots of Buffalo blue in a snake-green sea of Jets supporters at MetLife Stadium, I realized what I’d been missing: a team. Or more specifically: this team.
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In Buffalo, the Bills are everywhere. I used to find this bewildering on my trips up to western New York (never call it upstate); now I find it comforting. Signs saying “Billieve” welcome you into people’s houses; babies wear Bills onesies; coats, T-shirts, jewellery and underwear all feature the team’s chic streaking buffalo. Even in the off-season, a car’s horn tooting “Let’s go Buffalo!” can set off canon of identical beeps from nearby vehicles. “Go Bills” means both hello and goodbye, sometimes even the last goodbye, as I discovered in a local cemetery, where a grave featured the phrase as an epitaph. I’m sure it’s not the only one.
That’s because the Bills are Buffalo. They’re the spirit of the city, and for many Buffalonians, a metaphor for it too. Buffalo’s boom times are long behind it, though the architectural marvels built by the money flowing through the Erie Canal speak to its former importance as an industrial hub. The city is generally depicted as hard on its luck, featuring in the news usually only when there’s a disaster, like the shooting of 10…
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