Wait ‘till You’re My Age: Thoughts on Getting Older, with Quotes

            

Wait 'till you're my age...

           

            I remember being a freshman in high school, a lightweight on the wrestling team, and hearing a senior teammate complain about aches and pains and whatnot. “What’s your problem?” I asked one day.

            “Wait ‘till you’re my age,” he quickly responded, “then you’ll understand.”

            Boy, did he seem old to me back then.

            A few years went by and I became a senior, and an alumnus stopped by practice while home from college. He was much heavier than any of us remembered, and severely out of shape. “What happened to you?” I asked.

            “Wait ‘till you’re my age…”

            I didn’t wait. I refused. I went off to college myself and joined the rugby club, where the older members complained. “Wait ‘till you’re my age…” they all said.

            And then I was their age, and it was men in their mid twenties repeating that line I had already heard so many times throughout my life. And then men in their late twenties. And then their early thirties. “Wait ‘till you’re my age…”

            This week I celebrate another year on Earth, and can you believe it, I’m still waiting. I’m still waiting for that day when I can tell someone younger than me: “Wait ‘till you’re my age…” Truth be told, age is what you make of it. There are teenagers who act as if life has already passed them by, and then there are senior citizens who treat life like it’s just begun. It’s all in the way you perceive your own life—how "old" do you feel?

            I know there are naysayers out there who will disagree, who believe that aging is more than one's own perception, that aging has more to do with the physical toll it takes on the human body. Well, I personally know men well into their forties that are in better shape than most men in their twenties. Hell, I know women in their fifties who are in better shape than most men in their twenties. Sure, as you get older, your muscles might get a little tighter, which means that you have to stretch a little more. And your metabolism might slow down, which means you have to eat a little healthier. But that doesn’t mean you have to feel older, that just means you have to live smarter. Some scientists believe that someone of my generation will live to be 200 years old. If that happens, then everything we believe about aging will drastically change. Forty will no longer be the “new thirty;” forty suddenly becomes the “new twenty.” This means, if I’m turning 32 this week, it’s about time to celebrate like I’m finally old enough to get my driver’s license! (And old enough to drink, of course.) And if you think that sounds crazy, that I’m merely being over-optimistic about getting older, then, well, just wait ‘till you’re my age…

            On that note, I’d like to end with some quotes on aging, because, after all, if somebody said something about something at some point, then, you know, it must be true:

“A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.” –John Barrymore

“The great thing about getting older is that you don’t lose all the other ages you’ve been.”

–Madeleine L’Engle

“I will never be an old man. To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am.” –Francis Bacon

“You don’t stop laughing when you grow old, you grow old when you stop laughing.”

–George Bernard Shaw

“Men do not stop playing because they grow old; they grow old because they stop playing.”

–Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.

“Aging is not lost youth but a new stage of opportunity and strength.” –Betty Freidan

“The aging process has you firmly in its grasp if you never get the urge to throw a snowball.”

–Doug Larson

 “The older I get, the more I realize, the less I know.” –Jon Penfold

Horseshoes

Good news and bad news. Bad news first--I didn't have the time or energy to write a new blog post this week. The good news--I've been writing for a long time, so I have plenty of stories filed away in the archives, most that have never been read by anyone before. This one is from the summer of 2008, when I rode my bicycle across the United States, from my then-home in New York, to my current-home in Oregon. From the archives, this is "Horseshoes." I hope you enjoy.

         

           It’s my first experience with “dry” heat and I can’t get over the fact that I’m not sweating—105 degrees outside but not a drop of perspiration. My whole life I’ve been accustomed to the drenched armpits, soggy crotch, and dripping hair; a mop-top after it’s been soaked in a bucket. There are no sweaty palms, damp socks, or droplets bubbling up, flowing down my arms and legs in long, thin streams. There is only heat; a sun-baking, skin-burning, hair-bleaching, lip-chapping, eye-drying heat, pounding down on myself and the world around me. And I like it.

            I am traveling through the barren desert of western Colorado. Looking back towards the east I can barely make out the Rocky Mountains; now just jagged bumps, a saw blade's edge on the horizon line. The road runs straight, rising and falling over rolling hills, and there is nowhere to hide from the sun. The ground is burnt umber and the big yellow star hangs so high that even the largest hill doesn’t cast so much as a sliver of shade. Trees are scarce, their branches twisted and bare, contorted in such a way that I probably couldn’t identify them if I had a resource book in front of me. And besides that there is next to nothing—no people, no buildings, no animals that I can see, no clouds, no water; only the occasional eighteen wheeler flying by at a cool 75 miles per hour.

            It’s mid-afternoon and my water supply is running low. I’ve tried my best to conserve, but in this environment my mouth always seems to be dry, my body always yearning for liquid. I’m down to a half bottle and decide that I will stop at the next building I see. And there it is! How about that? A small restaurant/bar in the godforsaken middle of nowhere. Strange, I think of something and poof, it’s there, right in front of me. Could it be luck, the power of the mind, or just sheer coincidence? Either way, I am a happy man.

            I lean my bicycle outside the building, next to the door. I don‘t bother locking it, because after all, there is nobody around to steal it. I walk inside and the room is as dark as a cave. I remove my sunglasses but it still takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. The place appears to be empty but then I hear somebody’s voice. “Howdy,” it says, but I look around and don’t see a soul. Am I hearing things? Is there a ghost in the room? Or am I just going crazy from the sun? Then the same voice, “Sure is a hot one today.”

            I walk over to the bar and standing behind it there is a small child, his body rolling with fat, his eyes barely level with the counter top. “What can I get for you?” he asks.

            “I’ll take a Pepsi.”

            “One Pepsi, coming up.” He grabs a glass, fills it with ice, opens a sliding cooler and removes a can of soda. He cracks the top, pours it to the brim and sets the filled glass and half empty can on the bar top in front of me. “You hungry?” he asks. “Kitchen’s open. Can cook you something up.”

            “No thanks, the soda will do just fine.” I am confused. I quickly scan the room to see if there are any adults hiding in the shadows. Not a soul in site. Now I begin to think that this kid is an adult himself. I’ve seen these people on TV before, on Discover, or The Learning Channel or something. Some rare genetic disorder causes their bodies to remain the same size even as they grow older, like that kid from the show Webster. But how am I to know? That isn’t something that you just go ahead and ask somebody. I just need to be careful not to insult him in any way.

            “Have you ever heard of a restaurant named McDonalds?” All right, now he’s just fucking with me.

            “Yeah,” I say with a chuckle, “I think I’ve been to McDonalds before.”

            “They’ve got a sandwich there, it’s called a Big Mac. Ever had one before?”

            I have just officially entered the Twilight Zone. “Yeah, I’ve had a Big Mac once or twice in my day.”

            “Two all-beef patties, cheese, lettuce, onion, pickles, on a sesame seed bun.”

            “Yep, that’s the one.”

            “They call it a special sauce,” he says as he gives me a wink of the eye, “but that’s just regular old thousand island dressing. Ain’t foolin’ this guy. If you want I can make you one of those. Ain’t no trouble, the kitchen’s open, the fryer’s on.”

            “No thanks,” I say, “the soda’s just fine.”

            “You sure, ’cuz like I said, ain’t no trouble.”

            Suddenly, out of nowhere a woman enters from a back room. “God damn it Earl, what did I tell you about being behind the bar. You’re lucky your father ain’t here to see this.”

            “But mom…”

            “Don’t you ‘but mom’ me. I ain’t gonna tell you again. You are not allowed behind this bar.”

            Well that mystery is solved. “I’m sorry about that,” the woman says. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

            “No thanks.”

            “You sure? You hungry? I can cook something up for you. Ain’t no trouble.”

            “The soda will be just fine.”

            “I already asked him momma.” I look over and the kid is sitting on the stool right beside me. “He says he don’t want nothing else.”

            “Well,” says the woman, “if you change your mind, just holler. ‘Cause like I said, ain’t no trouble.”

            “Thank you.”

            “You ever play horseshoes?” says the voice beside me.

            “Yeah, I play horseshoes.”

            “Got some pits outback, wanna play a game?”

            “Sure, I’ll play a game of horseshoes with you.”

            “All right,” says the child, “but I best warn you, I’m really good.”

            As we walk out the backdoor and towards the pits, the child carries on about how good he is at horseshoes, how he beat his father and his uncle. But what he doesn’t know is that I’m pretty good at horseshoes myself. In fact, I spent almost an entire summer after college, doing little more than throwing horseshoes everyday for hours on end. It is a rarity that I find somebody that can even challenge me. But what the hell, for all I know this kid could be some sort of prodigy, a Bobby Fisher or Tiger Woods of horseshoes.

            I immediately realize that’s not the case. His first throw is a good ten feet short of the pit, and his second shoe hit’s a tree about five feet to the right, ricocheting off the trunk and rolling back to only a few inches from the pin. “One to nothing,” he says with a smile. “Told you I was good.”

            Now I don’t take pride in crushing young children at adult games, so I toss left handed for the first few rounds, making him feel like he’s got a chance. But I quickly realize that it doesn’t matter, because he can’t even get his shoes close to the sand. So after about five minutes, the score is still 1-0. “You guys ever get any business out here in the desert?” I ask.

            “Oh yeah. On mother’s day we were packed. And on Easter we did pretty well too.”

            Is that all it takes, I think, to operate a business in the middle of nowhere, a few minor holidays and maybe a couple of regular drunks? Not a bad way to live really; simple, easy, stress-free. I switch to my right hand, my good hand, my throwing hand. I let the shoe go. It sails through the air, one complete flip, and wraps around the stake. Ringer! I look at the kid, “Three to one,” I say.

            As we walk to the other side to retrieve our shoes a man makes his way to the backdoor of the bar. “Hey, dad,” yells the child with enthusiasm. “I was winning one nothing, but he just threw a ringer, but I can feel a comeback.”

            “Well don’t get too cocky,” says the man as he disappears through the door.

            “That’s my dad. I just beat him yesterday.”

            Another round and another ringer. The score is 6-1. “You know there’s a special rule,” says the kid as we gather our shoes out of the sand. “Anybody under the age of ten gets to stand up to five feet closer if they want.”

            Now the little brat is making up his own rules. “Hell,” I say, “you can stand wherever you want. Doesn’t matter to me.”

            “No, but for real, it’s in the rule book.”

            “Oh yeah. You got that rule book handy?”

            “Ah…ah… I don’t know where it is right now, but I’m telling you, it’s in there. Plus my arm’s tired from beating my pa yesterday.”

            “So, first it’s a rule, and now your arm’s tired.”

            “But it is a rule.”

            “You can stand right in front of the pin for all I care.”

            The child edges up about five feet closer to the pit but it doesn’t make a difference; he still couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn. Every round I score a few points and every round he shuffles a few feet closer. The excuses start piling up: “I’m tired,” “I just ate,” “The sun is in my eyes,” “I think I got a sliver in my throwing hand.” Before long the score is 15-1, my Pepsi is gone, and it’s about time to get back on the road. I look over at the child and say, “You want to see a ringer?”

            He doesn’t say a word but gives me a look that speaks volumes—yeah right, let‘s see a ringer. I toss the shoe in the air and it falls perfectly around the pin. “That was luck,” he says.

            “You want to see another one?” Again I toss the shoe and a second later the sweet sound of metal on metal. Clink. Clank. Double ringer. “Twenty-one to one,” I say as I shake his small hand. “Nice game, kid. Keep practicing.”

            “You want to play again?”

            “No thanks. I gotta get going.”

            The kid follows me back into the building where his parents are standing behind the bar talking. I pay for my Pepsi and as I’m heading towards the front door the child yells out, “Come back again, will ya?”

            I turn around and say, “Yeah, if I’m ever traveling through these parts again, I promise I’ll stop by, play another games of shoes.”

            I walk outside, and am about to hop on my bike when I realize that I forgot to fill up my water bottles. I gather them in my arms and make my way back through the front door. The child is yapping at his parents with a voice filled with pure enthusiasm. “…and then he asked me if I wanted to see a ringer. And then he went and threw one. Just like that. Then you know what, he did it again. It was unbelievable. He must be the best horseshoe player I’ve ever seen in my life. You know he might be the best horseshoe player in the…” He notices me walking towards the bar. “Hey, you’re back.”

            “Just hoping that I could fill up my water bottles.”

            “Definitely,” says the child. “Over here, you can use the sink.”

            I fill up my bottles and return to my bike. I ride off into the sunset and can’t help but smile. And that’s the story of how I became a horseshoe-throwing legend, the greatest in all of western Colorado.

         

Ten Reasons Why October is the Best Month of the Year

Though each month of the year has reason to celebrate, some are simply superior to others. December often gets a lot of attention—for obvious reasons—while July and August are frequently praised for their warm summer weather. Still, there is one month that stands above the rest—October. Why? Here are ten reasons:

10. The beginning of “film” season. Every calendar year starts with the annual winter dumping ground—where Hollywood releases all the garbage that wasn’t good enough for the year before—and then slowly fades into a months’ long onslaught of brainless blockbusters. And though I can’t wait to see X-Men: Transformers vs. Avengers in the Battle for the Planet of the Apes of the Guardians of the Galaxy in IMAX REAL3D, it’s the fall movie season that builds excitement for fans of intelligent filmmaking. Just look at this short list of movies previously released in October: Gravity, Fight Club, The Social Network, Captain Phillips, Michael Clayton, Margin Call, Argo, Seven Psychopaths, All is Lost, 12 Years a Slave, Gone Girl, Saw 3D…okay, maybe not that last one.

9. The most comfortable weather of the year. Nobody talks about the weather in October. Do you know why nobody talks about the weather in October? Because it’s comfortable. You just spent the last three months hearing people complain about how hot it is outside, and you’ll spend the next six months listening to people complain about how cold, rainy , and snowy it is. Enjoy October. You deserve it.

8. The kids are back in school. In some parts of the country, kids go back to school in August. In other parts, September. Now it’s October, which means no matter where you live, the kids are locked up Monday through Friday, out of sight, out of mind. Sorry teachers.

7. Awareness Month. Unless you can’t see the color pink, you’re probably aware that October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. But did you also know that it’s also “Awareness Month” for the following: Celiac Sprue, Health Literacy, Liver, Healthy Lung, Dental Hygiene, Down Syndrome, Infertility, Domestic Violence, Lupus, Spina Bifida, Rett Syndrome, Sudden Infant Death, Medical Ultrasound, Blindness, and Mental Illness? Can you think of a specific challenge to raise money for each?

6. Columbus Day. It’s the twenty-first century and we know for a fact that Christopher Columbus did NOT discover the United States. It is also widely believed among scholars that the explorer was a murderer, rapist, and a pedophile. Still, our government gives all of its employees a paid day off to celebrate the man. But would you expect anything less from our government? U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!

5. Oktoberfest! Holidays are oftentimes celebrated by drinking large quantities of beer. This holiday is a celebration of drinking large quantities of beer. If the government is going to give a day off of work for anything…

4. I was born is October! I know what you’re thinking: how does your birthday make October better for anyone else? Well, if I was never born, then you wouldn’t be reading this awesome top ten list.

3. Foliage. There are few things in nature more beautiful.

2. Halloween.  Though it is perfectly legal for adults to dress in silly costumes and get drunk any night of the year, Halloween in the one night where nobody will call the cops on you. No guarantees though.

1. The World Series, and other sports. There is not a more exciting time in sports than October baseball. I think last week’s one game playoff between Kansas City and Oakland proved that. And if you don’t like baseball, October is the only month of the year where all four professional sports are playing at the same time—football, basketball, hockey, and baseball! And if you don’t like sports, then, well, there are plenty of great films playing at your local movie theater…

The Highs and Lows of Hempstalk

Bongs. Bowls. Pipes. Grinders. Guns. Guns? The first four items listed are all things one would expect to find at a festival celebrating marijuana. The fifth item—guns—is the last thing anyone wants to see at a festival celebrating marijuana. But yet, as we walk through the north entrance, past security, as a man rifles through Katelin’s backpack, I am absolutely taken aback by all of the guns.

We are at Hempstalk 2014, the 10^th annual festival that “advocates decriminalization of marijuana for medicinal, industrial, and recreational use.” Unlike the past few years, which saw the festival hidden far from public viewing at Kelley Point Park in North Portland, this year’s event is taking place right in the heart of the city, at Tom McCall Waterfront Park, smack dab between the Willamette River and the towering structures of downtown. The advertisement in the local rag promised a fashion show, a hemposium (whatever that is), crafts, food vendors, and music. Lots of music. With artists with names like Los Marijuanos, Herbivores, Mac & Dub and the Smokin’ Section, and the Cannabidroids. Yes, this festival seems to have everything a marijuana enthusiast could ask for. Except one thing—Marijuana!

Once security decides that Katelin isn’t hiding any drugs in her bag, we are allowed to enter the venue. On a stage to the right, a comedian is telling horrible jokes about what Christmas would be like if Jews celebrated it. No one is laughing. No one is laughing because no one is high. Also, because it’s not funny (perhaps it might be funny if you were high?). And also, because there are only a handful of people listening. The large grassy area in front of the stage is empty. The comedian is performing for no one. Because no one wants to go to a marijuana festival where marijuana is prohibited. It would be like going to a beer festival that had no beer. And, nobody wants to go to a marijuana festival where an army of security personal dressed like the cast of the Expendables 3 outnumber people with tie-dyed t-shirts and dread locks. It makes me wonder: What the hell were the organizers thinking?

Performing stand-up for nobody is hard...

This November, Oregonians get to vote on whether or not to make Marijuana legal. By putting Hempstalk front and center, in the public eye, the organizers probably thought it would help to promote their initiative. Unfortunately, I think their strategy may have backfired. When I think about Marijuana, I think about the underground—anti-government, anti-corporation, anti-“the man.” But as I walk around Hempstalk, the only thing I really see is consumerism at its worst. Everything is for sale. It’s like a Walmart for stoners—cannabis camouflage, Seattle Seahawks bongs, pipes that look like something Gandalf would smoke out of, crystals shaped like skulls, “FREE BONG With purchase of a grinder.” On their website, founder Paul Stanford claims that "Hempstalk is about the many uses of agricultural hemp fiber, oil, protein, fuel and medicine.” Yet, as far as I can tell, 99% of the vendors here are trying to make a quick buck from those who use the plant for purely recreational purposes. Can you even imagine what it’s going to be like when the big corporations get their hands in the cookie jar?

After walking around for about a half-hour, it becomes perfectly clear that Hempstalk is not for us--the atmosphere feels more like a trade show than a festival. I know for a fact that there is not a single thing in this entire venue that is necessary for the consumption of marijuana. In fact, the only thing absolutely needed for the consumption of marijuana is the one thing that you won’t find at the festival. Plus, nothing makes me more uncomfortable than a bunch of people walking around with guns. If this is any indication of what the world will be like with legalized weed, then I’m not so sure that legalization is the way to go. And with the threat of giant money-hungry corporations quickly putting them out of business, I wonder if that’s the reaction the organizers were really hoping for all along.  

The Ride to the Race

Wake up. Drink. Water, then coffee. Eat. Oatmeal, banana, honey, peanut butter, raisons. Mush. Mash. Paste. Pulp. Like something you would feed to an infant. Or livestock. Or the elderly. Clean your chain. Oil it. Clean the oil from the chain. Attach your saddlebag. Fill it with a repair kit. And sandals. And a change of clothes. Get dressed. Spandex, socks, shoes. A jersey with numbers pinned on the back. Numbers that hide your sponsors’ logos. Fill your water bottle. Finish your coffee. Clip on your helmet. Kiss your girlfriend goodbye. Out the door. On the road.

Pedal. Across Stark Street. Up 86^th. A right on Burnside. Across the Max tracks. Careful not to get your thin tires caught in the groove. On to the bike path. The one that follows the 205. Pedal. Pass the bums that lounge beneath the bridges. Pass the smokers who lollygag on the path. Pass the dog walkers and the Saturday strollers. Swing a left. Cross the big bridge. The Glenn Jackson. The one that opened the year you were born. 1982. The one that sees over 100,000 automobiles a day. The one that is two miles long. The one that saw three men die during its construction. The one with four lanes going both ways. The one with a bike path smack dab in the middle of those eight lanes. Pedal. As cars fly towards you on your left side. Pedal. As cars zip by on your right. Seventy miles per hour. Their taillights disappearing in the distance.

Enter Washington. Where pot is legal. Enter Vancouver. Named after George. The explorer. From British Royal Navy fame. The guy who gave Mount St. Helens its name. Along with Mount Hood. And Mount Rainier. All of which can be seen in the distance. All of which can be seen on this crystal-clear blue-sky day. Pedal. Uphill. Northeast. Right. Left. Right. Repeat. Right. Left. Right. Repeat. Think. About anything. But not about the race. Think. About life. About love. About death. No. Don’t think about death. Not while riding on these busy streets. Think. About society. About passion. About writing. About a new style. Call it scatter-shot. Scatter-shot writing. Here. There. Everywhere. Now. Then. Over again. Wow! Are people going to hate it…

Pedal. On country roads with no shoulders. Pedal. As cars whip by. Cars that are too close for comfort. Focus on the white line. Not on the ditch to your right. Not on the ditch that falls five feet deep. Focus. On the road. Not on the cars. The cars with bicycles on their roofs. Cars with bicycles on their trunks. Trucks with bicycles in their beds. At least you know you’re going the right way. Pedal. Up hills. Steep hills that test your chain. Steep hills that test your legs. Pedal. Into the wind. Twenty miles per hour. The wind speed. Not yours. Uphill. Into the wind. Singlespeed. 38 by 16. Five miles per hour. At best. Pedal.

Fly. Downhill. Finally. Fly. As fast as you can go. Beneath a canopy of trees. Shade that blocks the midday sun. The midday sun that’s scorching the Earth. 90 degrees and climbing. Fly. Down the winding road. Until it comes to a dead-end. Until you’re at the venue. Alderwood Park. Thirty miles from home. Find your team. Find your tent. Drop your bag. Refill your water. Study the course. Eat a gel. Use the bathroom. Line up for your race. Listen for your name. Hear it. Roll to the starting line. Listen to the official. “Single speeds ready.” Listen for the whistle. Go!

Adventures in Urban Hiking

I’m not exactly sure what’s in the pipe, but I can guarantee it has a funny name—something like L.A. Woman, or White Widow, or Blueberry Kush. We take long drags. We hold the smoke in our lungs. We fill the living room with clouds that smell faintly like skunk. And then we head outdoors, through the backyard, past the chickens, sunglasses hiding our bloodshot eyes. We stick to the back alleys, far from the traffic, hidden from the hustle and bustle. There is no designated route—no little blue circles with black silhouettes of a day hiker telling us where to go. No red diamonds. No signs saying “Stay on Trail.” We go where we want—right, left, straight, another right, up a staircase, down a dirt trail. We pass urban artifacts, abandoned tires, light pole art, million dollar homes, hundred dollar cars, directional signs telling us that we’re far from everywhere. We hit the main drag—Haight Ashbury for Trophy Kids. The weirdoes are out, with their fixed-gear bikes and their fluorescent hair and their punk rock t-shirts and their backpack hydration systems and their tiger-print sunglasses and their urban-hiking footwear. They sell garbage on the side of the road, masquerading it as hip décor and vintage wear. They sell garbage in trendy restaurants with clever names, charging rich prices for poor quality. Temporary bliss is all we achieve as we dump that garbage in our bodies.
We stop at a hole-in-the-wall, where I give a few quick billiards lessons. We stop at a parlor and have a slice. We stop at a tavern that has a Founding Fathers theme. On the wall, George Washington crosses the Delaware. Behind the bar, the tender entertains us with stories of her drug-filled exploits. Her hair is grey and we are taken aback, because when you think about hard drugs, you usually don’t think about middle-aged women. “Have fun on your walk-about,” she says as we shuffle out the door. In the heart of the city, we pass urban wildlife—goats, bums, automobile enthusiasts, garbage collectors, a possible werewolf. “That’s not a werewolf,” Katelin says. “Prove that it isn’t,” I demand. She can’t. We head into the tunnels, where drunken men used to be shanghaied. Now, drunken men sit at bars and just get drunker. As do we. It’s dark when we leave. The street-kids are out, taking up space on the sidewalks, hoping for change. “Make us famous!” They yell as I snap a photo of them.  We stumble on a parade. Or is it a protest? It’s hard to tell. The police are out in full force. We light up, in the middle of the city, cops all around us. We don’t care. Neither does anybody else. We’re drunk. We’re high. We’re tired. Six miles from where we started, so we hitch a ride home, feeding singles into electronic jaws, pulling a thin yellow strand at our stop. 

 

 

What I Talk About When I Talk About the Buffalo Bills

I never thought this day would come. I’m standing on the waterfront in downtown Buffalo, among a crowd of a hundred-thousand strong, watching the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the brand new Ralph Wilson Stadium, the NFL’s most advanced, state-of-the-art arena, complete with a retractable dome and the world’s largest scoreboard. Everyone who is anyone is here: Andre Reed, Steve Tasker, Marv Levy, Thurman Thomas, Bruce Smith, Fred Smerlas—all the greats—the list goes on and on. Buffalo Mayor Scott Norwood cuts a red, white, and blue ribbon with a pair of over-sized scissors as the Goo Goo Dolls perform a rendition of “Shout.” Speeches are given: three-time Super Bowl MVP Jim Kelly tells the story of what it felt like to watch now-Mayor Norwood split the uprights to end Super Bowl XXV, and how he never imagined that the team would go on to win six more in a row; Kelly’s replacement, two-time Super Bowl MVP Todd Collins, reminisces over his five Super Bowl victories; and our current quarterback, Russell Wilson (who we stole in the third round of 2012 draft), talks about the future of the team and how proud he is to reside in Buffalo, New York, or what is commonly referred to as “Football City, U.S.A.” When the current President of the United States, Mr. O.J. Simpson, unexpectedly shows up to unveil a fifty-foot tall portrait of the late Ralph Wilson, the crowd goes absolutely wild…and then I wake up.

It’s hard. Being a Bills’ fan, that is. Sure, I can dream—like I did in the above paragraph—but the truth is there are few other professional sports franchises that are as heartbreaking to root for. Everybody from Buffalo knows that Scott Norwood missed that 48-yard field goal to end Super Bowl XXV, and that the Bills went on to lose four in a row; Todd Collins turned out to be a bust, one among many lousy draft picks, which seem to have become a yearly tradition; and as for O.J. Simpson, well, let’s just say that he didn’t become president. The Bills haven’t even made the playoffs since 1999—the longest current drought in the NFL—making them the only team who hasn’t seen the postseason this century (I blame it on the “Doug Flutie Curse,” but that’s a different story for a different day). There is no new stadium, and with the passing of Ralph Wilson earlier this year, millionaires are currently targeting the team, many with hopes of a future relocation in mind (you weren’t fooling anyone, Bon Jovi). No, it’s not easy being a Bills’ fan.

I’ll be 32 years old this fall and I still sleep with a Buffalo Bills blanket. I don’t live in New York anymore, but like many of my generation who moved away in search of work, adventure, or better weather, I still hold a special spot in my heart for Western New York, and for the Buffalo Bills in particular. While others worship their gods on Sunday, I worship a mediocre football team that has become the laughing stock of the entire league. Even three-thousand miles away, I still hear the jokes, at the local bar, as I sit in the corner by myself and watch the games on the only television in the joint that isn’t a flat-screen. When I tell people which team I follow, they almost always reply with the same two words: “I’m sorry.” But that’s just the way things are when you choose to live so far away from something you’re truly passionate about. Regardless, I still get excited when I see anything that has to do with the Bills: a license plate holder, a baseball cap with the standing buffalo logo, a homeless man wearing a Bills jacket (for some reason unbeknownst to me, most of the Bills merchandise I see is being worn by the homeless, which might seem fitting). As I currently reside in the Pacific Northwest, it would be awfully convenient to convert to a Seahawks fan (everybody else here has), but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I just can’t get the Buffalo Bills out of my blood.

          

The preseason has just ended and again the Bills look absolutely awful, but still, I dream—that’s just what Bills fans do. What else can we do? Maybe we played bad on purpose, to trick the other teams into thinking we’re no good. After all, we did have a team in the early 90’s that lost all of their preseason games, yet still made it to the Super Bowl. Maybe the signing of Kyle Orton over the weekend will light a fire under the young E J Manuel; or, maybe, Kyle Orton will win the starting job and become the next Kurt Warner, leading a young Bills team to their first championship. Maybe we don’t need a good offense. Maybe our defense will be strong enough to carry the team all the way, like the Ravens in 2000. Or maybe we’ll just be mediocre, like last year, and the year before, and the twelve seasons before that. But I don’t think so. I think this is the year we break out. The year people around the nation start talking about the Buffalo Bills again. The year dreams become reality. No, it’s not easy being a Bills’ fan, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. My 2014 prediction: 10-6 with a wildcard playoff berth. Go Bills!