Elastic Hearts

Ever since the red light went on to end Game Five, and with it the Sabres' season, I've been struggling to put into words the incomprehensible yet familiar mix of sadness, disgust, and longing that's taken up residence between my ears of late. Last night it came to me, and I started digging through my old computer in search of the piece that triggered my deja vu.

At some point in high school, I remember reading a short story by John Updike that was originally a Boston Globe article around thirty years ago. Searching for it online hasn't turned up anything, but I did manage to find the paper that I wrote for the assignment that accompanied it. A cursory reading of the essay told me two things: Number one, my writing was a lot more verbose and fundamentally correct in 11th grade. But more importantly, the excerpts I took from the article confirmed that I was indeed thinking of the right piece.

That article was called "The First Kiss," and it was printed shortly before the BoSox season opener sometime between 1970 and 1980. Like most pre-title Sox writing, it was heavy on heartbreak and "woe is me." Which is fine, believe me. I'm Irish. Nobody appreciates a good dose of self-loathing and martyrdom like we do.

The thing about this article that really resonated with me, the reason that it suddenly popped into my head again this week after almost five years, was the way Updike described Boston's fans. Long before they became Red Sox Nation, International Consumer Entity, John Updike referred to Boston faithful as a "many-headed monster with an elastic heart." Every offseason they declare: "Enough...you'll never get us to care again, Red Sox." But that is, of course, a lie.

My point in all of this is the following: I'm slowly coming to the realization that it takes a special kind of person to be a Buffalo sports fan. You truly do need an elastic heart. Anything less and it would be impossible to move past the failures that have defined us as a sports city. This year's playoff exit was a gut-check, for sure. The sad reality is, we've been through far worse. I guess the thing that feels so foreign right now is that unlike so many other times, we saw this one coming. We had time to accept it and start moving on before the playoffs even ended. Even people who believed that coming back from 0-3 was a possibility acknowledged that it probably wouldn't happen.

So here we are, about a week into our offseason, and for the first time I can remember, I'm okay. I shouldn't be "okay" this soon. I should be railing on officials, thinking of creative ways to say horribly inappropriate and offensive things about the Senators, making Dany Heatly DUI jokes...but I'm not. I should be swearing off the Sabres for a while, and reconciling with them in a couple of months. But I'm not. I'm not doing those things, telling those lies, that normally come at the end of a season. I guess I'm wondering why that is...

Could it be that all of us, all of Buffalo, has just gotten used to it? Have our collective tragedies on the rink and on the football field really made our hearts, to steal from Updike, elastic? Maybe we know better, and maybe our hearts don't break anymore...they just sort of bend.


Actually, I don't really think that's it at all. I think it's more the case that we, as a city, have taken the sports world's best shot. Over and over again, square in the jaw. Right now, Buffalo is less like a perpetually heartbroken Red Sox Nation than say, Brad Pitt in Fight Club. You know the scene I'm talking about, the one where Lou discovers that his basement is being used for the titular club's meetings. He then proceeds to beat the holy hell out of Brad Pitt in an attempt to convince him to leave. Pitt doesn't leave, though. He just lays there, taking Lou's best shots and laughing. Finally, Lou realizes that this guy is indeed the kind of lunatic who is willing to sit there and get punched in the face until he gets what he wants. As he comes to this realization, Pitt grabs him and screams through split lips: "You don't know where I've been, Lou! You don't know where I've been! Just let us have the basement."


So if you've listening, sports gods, just...just let us have one, one of these years. You really don't know where we've been.

I Believe

I've always thought that context is important, especially when reading someone else's writing. Motivation, biases, opinions. They all matter, and they all influence how you write. A guy from LA and a guy from Atlanta are going to have different takes on the same Braves/Dodgers game, and they're damn well going to have different opinions on Michael Vick's, uh, alleged dogfighting issues.

With that in mind, here are a few tangents to give you a little bit better idea where I'm coming from when I write.

I believe that Barry Bonds cheated, Pete Rose should be in Cooperstown, and so should Jim Rice.

I believe the University of Miami won the national title in the 2002 Fiesta Bowl against Ohio State. You'll never be able to convince me otherwise, just like you'll never be able to convince me that the ensuing Maurice Clarett saga, from his one-and-done attempt, to being the one back that couldn't make it work with the Broncos, to getting arrested while looking like he was about to re-enact the final scene of Scarface, wasn't his karmic punishment for being a part of that larceny.

I believe that the supreme irony of the last 5 drafts occured in 2005 when the Titans passed on Antrel Rolle because they didn't want to deal with the "character issues" that came with Miami players. Instead, they chose one Adam "Pacman" Jones.

It is my firmly held conviction that Duke is an earthly embodiment of evil. The same could be said of Florida State, but they're in different categories. Florida State is like the evil hillbillies of Deliverance, whereas Duke is a little more like Hannibal Lector in Silence of the Lambs. Bobby Bowden has probably owned slaves at some point, but Koach K most certainly has bodies in his basement. Or maybe he learned from Dahmer, and uses a tub of hydrochloric acid to get rid of them.

I hate the Patriots, Jets, Maple Leafs, Spurs, and the state of New Jersey. That being said, I have a grudging respect for all of them. Except for New Jersey. The only things I have ever liked about that particular place are the perfect field-storming executed by Rutgers last year after the Louisville game, Greg Schiano in general, and my friend Tim who lived down the hall freshman year.

And then of course, there is the Buffalo Sports Fan Creed. I believe that Frank Wycheck thew a forward pass, that Brett Hull didn't score, and that Scott Norwood shouldn't get killed as much as he does. A 40-yard plus kick on grass is not a gimme.

I believe in my teams, whether or not I am given any reason to. I still haven't gotten rid of the beard I sported during the Sabres' postseason run, and I'm trying to decide whether I want to replace my McGahee jersey with Lee Evans or Marshawn Lynch. I'm convinced that Randy Shannon is going to turn it around this season in Coral Gables.

Beyond that...I believe in the power of a crowd to influence games, the existance of clutch hitting (stats be damned), and the healing power of having a drink with your friends while hoping for next year. And personally, that's about all I need.

Welcome

Welcome to the blog. Pull up a chair, or grab a seat on the couch if you'd prefer. There's beer in the fridge and food in the kitchen, so make yourself at home. Comfortable? Good. Let's get started.

A little housekeeping first; If you don't know me, then you probably have no idea what this blog is about or why I'm writing it. The who is pretty simple. I'm an undergrad student at the University of Miami who grew up in the Buffalo area (and still lives here between semesters). So there's your explanation of the blog's name.

What I talk about is pretty much anything, in fairness. The general topic as a rule will be sports, (I know, I know...please hush your shocked gasps) although everything is fair game. That being said, I try to stay away from matters of religion, politics and national policy. Nothing turns a friendly conversation into a bloody throwdown more quickly or more definitively than that trifecta, and to be honest, that's not what I'm here for.

Why did I suddenly think it'd be a good idea to start writing a blog? I really have no idea. Part of it is the fact that I haven't written anything since high school, with the exception of one entirely forgettable semester of English Lit where the only deep, abiding truth I discovered was that I'd rather play Russian Roulette with a shotgun than spend another minute analyzing Shakespearean love sonnets. It could also have something to do with the instant-gratification nature of a blog. If I have a thought or a take on something, it's easy to fire off a quick entry here. And let's face it, I'm not always the most motivated guy in the world. This is probably the only way I'm going to get anything written in the near future.


So there you have it. I won't ever promise to be correct, justified, or unbiased. I'm certainly do not swear to take the high road, be a peacemaker, or write in a consistent tense. The only thing I do promise is that I will lay my opinions and thoughts out there. You won't ever read a post and be left wondering where I stand.


Until next time...