Buffalo’s Frustration Levels with the Bills and Sabres
Letdowns hurt more the closer one gets. That seems cruel because it is. The fun part of life is presumably forthcoming. Feeling crushed could be negated by ultimately succeeding, so forget it. The Sabres and Bills disappoint on different levels. Respective prototypical examples of shortcomings offer a chance to discover which version of failing spurs more torment. Spare a thought for fans whose teams win championships, as jubilation doesn’t offer valuable life lessons.
Both teams exist to compete for championships. Don’t laugh. Okay: laugh a little. It’s unfathomable to have one between the two even though they each get an annual chance. Leagues award championships every season. I just checked.
One is closer in the same sense Wegmans is classier than Tops. The Bills offer a more dignified experience while the Sabres employ service desk representatives who’ll throw a bag of chips at you. Like the difference between Cup contenders and Buffalo’s pro hockey team, it’s a gap so vast that it’s difficult to perceive from one vantage point. The status of each might surprise Buck Rogers if he had been frozen from 2006 until now. The Saints and Seahawks have each won one just like Vegas has at hockey. Okay: let’s start at the beginning.
The runner-up could still drop. Take how Dr Pepper just overtook Pepsi as America’s second-most popular sodie pop brand. As with the unpalatable option that’s never okay, the Sabres are as arrogant as they are inept. Asking the Bandits how to achieve must feel undignified. It’s not to discount the successful lacrosse division. But the two older pro teams are either holding a parade or not. They can’t sort-of have one.
Similarly, you have a supreme banner or you don’t. Results are binary. The net result is that neither has done it all even if one has better betting odds to the degree they sound like mathematical errors. One couldn’t rightfully say the Sabres are as successful as the Bills because neither has brought athletic fulfillment to fans. The light switch is off either way.
The fact followers rely upon their teams to feel happy is sad to ponder, so we better just avoid such thoughts. The absurdity of cheering for other to be better at moving the object makes the inability to succeed feel even more frustrating. Trying to see that things can work out at least once just for the precedent is a sign of accepting what’s out of our control.
Following sports can make sense in a silly sense. Liking the competitions themselves is valid in a vicarious way. The games also seem to summarize life, which is not precisely a compliment about our stupid world. We just want bounces our way.
The chance to engineer probabilities means results are not simply fate, which team employees hope nobody notices. Decisions made during games and about who’s available affect what’s next. We’re relying upon other humans to bring us athletic happiness. If one of them is Kevyn Adams, we’re screwed.
Keep your story straight. Announcing trophies are out for cleaning conflicts with claiming they were wiped out in the big trophy fire. Many other clubs don’t need to fib. The shortcomings of these two examples are throughly documented to the point we don’t need another review, which sadly reflects a semipermanently unchanging position.
Buffalo fans turn philosophical by necessity. It’s psychologically obvious to cope by feeling we’re being taught about life’s inherent aching. It’s not a particularly pleasant situation. But it is useful.
People who waste their lives on different pastimes than sports bitch that chasing an object is pointless. Of course they’re right. But they miss the broader point that so is everything else. Buffalo’s teams often seems to uncannily reflect how our hours here go. The toughest time for the Bills came as the area’s two steel mills shuttered. Now, potential gets wasted in an unnerving reflection of an area that took money from taxpayers to fund a multibillionaire’s business expenses. It’s a real mystery why this market stays small.
The real ice and fake grass athletes share common ground. They’re both based in or near Buffalo, have the same miserly owner, and chase titles that may as well be imaginary. The thought that neither will ever be able to do so informs our understanding of this universe in a way philosophers dream of communicating.
It’s better to get closer aside from how thinking your dream will finally come into being is what destroys you. The football side is more heartbreaking by being less disappointing. Hope sustains as it crushes. Sabres fans who’ve checked out by Thanksgiving can enjoy phone time while occasionally glancing at games. Meanwhile, Bills fans into it past the new year only to be crushed close to Valentine’s know what love really does to those infected.
Victims of Buffalo sports find that we must be patient, and not just in the four-car Mighty Taco drive-thru sense. The source is irrelevant whether we’re on the schedule of an omniscient power or if we inhabit a plane consisting of a random series of events that only seems designed to harm. This world indifferently disregards human timing, which is why we’re presently not watching sports.
Letdowns are not assigned by fate. I regret to inform people equipped with free will that we’re destined by our actions, or at least those of executives in teams to which we’re bound to follow. The three alleged cursed baseball franchises throughout much of last century uncannily each had a combination of awful ownership and charming old-timey ballparks which hinder consistent play. Neither the Sabres nor Bills can blame quirky playing surface angles, which means they must be inflicting semipermanent agony upon themselves. Varying levels of downfall add variety without surprise.
