What Happened?
On Sunday morning it occurred to me that the lead story in the Buffalo News, for the past ten days, had been the Buffalo Bills or Terry Pegula, or Kim Pegula, or thoughts of the new stadium.
Ten straight days!
In a world where Ebola is torturing people.
In a country that is in how many wars?
In a city where we are third-poorest in the nation.
On the streets where there are murders each and every day.
We are celebrating a couple of billionaires who bought a team that makes millionaires of men who may or may not be suffering permanent head injuries from smashing their noggin into other over-sized chemically enhanced men.
It's crazy to me.
And on Sunday morning I took the dogs for their ride around the neighborhood and watched as a group of 20-something men and women gathered their food and beer, all decked out in their Bills garb, preparing to head for the stadium that sits less than 2 miles from where I'm writing this blog.
They were all laughing and chatting it up and I thought of all the games I went to back when I was their age. I recalled standing at the tunnel that takes you out of the stadium, high-fiving total strangers because the Bills were going to their first Super Bowl, and then their second, and then their third, and then their fourth.
So happy.
I headed into the house.
Matt was at the kitchen table.
It was way too early for him to be up and out of bed on a Sunday morning. He was wearing a Bills shirt. He was arranging his two-mile ride to the big stadium.
"What's your prediction?" I asked.
"Bills are gonna' crush 'em," he said.
Exactly what I thought he'd say.
"You home for dinner?"
"We'll play that by ear."
We didn't get much into the recent NFL difficulties. I didn't bring up my feelings about Ray Rice, or Roger Goodell, or Adrian Beatyourkids.
I did, however, mention what the investigation into the death of Belcher from the Kansas City Chiefs had determined.
Belcher had died from a self-afflicted shotgun wound, just moments after he had murdered his wife. It turned out that his brain had been badly damaged by repeated hits. There was a better than average chance that what had happened was a result of something else.
"Doesn't that bug you about the game?" I asked.
"Not on game day!" He said.
"Have a good time," I said.
"You gonna' watch?"
"Most likely," I answered.
I'm not sure what has happened, but I'm sort of ashamed of being drawn to it.
I really am.
Ten straight days!
In a world where Ebola is torturing people.
In a country that is in how many wars?
In a city where we are third-poorest in the nation.
On the streets where there are murders each and every day.
We are celebrating a couple of billionaires who bought a team that makes millionaires of men who may or may not be suffering permanent head injuries from smashing their noggin into other over-sized chemically enhanced men.
It's crazy to me.
And on Sunday morning I took the dogs for their ride around the neighborhood and watched as a group of 20-something men and women gathered their food and beer, all decked out in their Bills garb, preparing to head for the stadium that sits less than 2 miles from where I'm writing this blog.
They were all laughing and chatting it up and I thought of all the games I went to back when I was their age. I recalled standing at the tunnel that takes you out of the stadium, high-fiving total strangers because the Bills were going to their first Super Bowl, and then their second, and then their third, and then their fourth.
So happy.
I headed into the house.
Matt was at the kitchen table.
It was way too early for him to be up and out of bed on a Sunday morning. He was wearing a Bills shirt. He was arranging his two-mile ride to the big stadium.
"What's your prediction?" I asked.
"Bills are gonna' crush 'em," he said.
Exactly what I thought he'd say.
"You home for dinner?"
"We'll play that by ear."
We didn't get much into the recent NFL difficulties. I didn't bring up my feelings about Ray Rice, or Roger Goodell, or Adrian Beatyourkids.
I did, however, mention what the investigation into the death of Belcher from the Kansas City Chiefs had determined.
Belcher had died from a self-afflicted shotgun wound, just moments after he had murdered his wife. It turned out that his brain had been badly damaged by repeated hits. There was a better than average chance that what had happened was a result of something else.
"Doesn't that bug you about the game?" I asked.
"Not on game day!" He said.
"Have a good time," I said.
"You gonna' watch?"
"Most likely," I answered.
I'm not sure what has happened, but I'm sort of ashamed of being drawn to it.
I really am.
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