By John Wingspread Howell
If you've read my previous columns, you know I've been gone
longer than I lived here, but that doesn't seem to matter. That's because
Buffalo isn't just a place, it's a state of mind, a religion, a cultural
overlay that works like ethnicity even though it isn't exactly. It isn't,
but it is. It's like being Jewish in a way (Buffalo-ish?). Even if
you're Buffalo Blueblood. Even if your grandparents actually owned one of
the mansions on Delaware when they were still single family homes. Being
Buffalonian in Buffalo is the great equalizer. But, the rest of the world isn't exactly Buffalo-friendly. Being
Buffalonian outside of Buffalo, is like being Jewish in Tehran. And therein lies the bulk of my experience. The ex-pat. The
Diaspora. If there is a Jewish bar in Tehran, I can imagine the comradery
there. Pretty much like what you'd find at the Buffalo Nickel in Tampa or
Buffalo bars in a hundred other cities that get less snow. It's instant
kinship. Run into someone wearing Bills or Sabres gear in the airport, on
the beach, in some other city's stadium when the Buffalo teams aren't even
playing, and it's like meeting the twin you never knew you had. All you
have to do is say, "Wide Right," or "In the Crease" and
you'll keep buying each other drinks until you both need a designated driver. One thing about Buffalo in general that's amplified among
ex-pat's, is sports. Team loyalties run deep. It's as if we wear
cattle-brands of the team logos on our chests. You can imagine how excited we
ex-pats get when the Bills are scheduled for Sunday night or Monday night. At
least we get to watch the games at home on our own TV sets and we don't need Sunday
Ticket. Sunday Ticket is the greatest invention since color TV. The
only problem is, I can't get Direct TV where I live. Fortunately, my son
can get it. I drive 75 minutes to watch at his house most Sundays. I wear
my throwback logo baseball cap because it reminds me of the Kemp-Dubenion era
when the Bills were the class of the AFL. But not just because of that. The old grazing buffalo is pure (as opposed to the flashy,
charging one with speed-lines). I wish they'd go back to the old uni's
permanently, like the Jets did. That retro look fits Buffalo, in the way
Buffalo is eternally retro, always was retro before retro was retro, sort of
iconic in a way that's both quaint and a little musty. Of course the speeding
Buffalo reminds us of the K-gun. Like I said, I like the retro look. Back when those were our uniforms, we had dreams of making the
Superbowl without the accompanying nightmares, without the creeping, nagging
suspicion that the Bills may have morphed into the Cubs of the NFL. And the Sabres seem equally cursed. From Kate Smith and
the Aud in the fog in 76, to a non-goal in the crease nearly twenty years
later, things don't go better with Coke in the HSBC any more than they do in
the Ralph. So in a way I feel guilty. I don't have to live with the
misery of Buffalo fandom full time. I'm "staying" in Chicago
now. I can forget I'm from Buffalo when the Bulls are winning. And
I've been lucky in ways no Buffalonian deserves to be lucky. I lived in
Denver the first time the Broncos won it all. I lived in Chicago all six
times the Bulls did it. And I was here when the Sox won the Series. In a way I feel guilty, but in a way I don't. Because the
success of teams in my adopted home towns only deepens the pain of the failures
of my home teams. It's like, why the hell couldn't I have brought this
luck to the Bills or the Sabres? Do I need to move back? Would that
do it? And, why don't I move back? One word. Four letters. S-N-O-W! "But you
live in Chicago," you say. True, but do you know the difference
between East and West relative to lake effect? But I digress. The thing is, it isn't really about sports at all. Sports are
the metaphor, the religious rite. It's what makes the Buffalo
sort-of-but-not-but-sort-of ethnicity so similar to being Jewish. We are
bonded not only by our common roots but to the ritual. Watching the Bills
or the Sabres is like going to Temple for Yom Kippur. We have this common
ritual of atonement. Atonement for what? In a way, for being Buffalonians!
We're like Rodney. We "don't get no respect." Our town is
often reviled as Cleveland's ugly stepsister. Queen City? Not unless it's
Drag Queen. Like the Jews, we've wandered in the wilderness for generations
awaiting deliverance. We await the coming Messiah, having endured many false
prophets. We thought it would be O.J., McAdoo, the French Connection, then
Kelly and company, then Dominick Hasek. We thought the second coming of the
Mighty Marv might finally lead us to the promised land. (And it still
might, after the fact, but it hurts too much to hope.) So, like the Jews
we wander. We hope. We have our hopes dashed. We hope again.
And we go to Temple. The Ralph. The HSBC. We fast. We
sacrifice. We sob. We celebrate. Ok. Buffalo's no Chicago, but that's not a bad thing. It's
a city simultaneously mature and reborn, retro and post-modern, art-deco and
just art. Whenever I come back, I don't want to leave. But in a way, I
never do, and I never have.
This is the first in a 3-part installment by John
Wingspread Howell, author of three novels, a columnist,
theologian, poet, psychologist, political advocate, and in his day job--a
financial strategist with Northwestern Mutual. A Buffalo native, he
currently lives in Chicago. He publishes the website: www.BuffaloEx-Pat.com. Image:
ECB
We will be having a UB Bowl/Sabres party tomorrow here in Philly. I don't think I would compare my experience to that of a diaspora, if that were the case then there's a lot of people from many towns in the same boat, see all rustbelt cities.