Little Happy Clouds

Another dazed patron forces the bar door open and slogs out into the blustery and unforgiving Buffalo freeze, a gust of air rushes in. Nobody blinks. The remaining crew at Upstate Jack's Tavern holds their heads in their beers, and their hearts in their fists.

Its another January evening, and another Super Bowl loss. That makes four in a row, but who's counting.

These men have gathered here for four season's running to rejoice and share in one of sport's great gifts. That rare championship bond that generations pass down, where tall tales become stories, and stories become legends. They have talked excitedly about what it will be like when it finally happens, because surely God has no sense of humor this cruel. This is their year, they say, this is the one.

Wide right, was a fluke, they claim, Norwood a martyr. The Redskins got lucky, the Cowboys the same. And yet again all the talk of overcoming this curse and healing this town has come crumbling down, now rusting away at what little hope remains for that triumphant moment.

Buffalo is a tough town, everyone knows that. But even tough guys have their limit. The remaining few at Upstate Jack's are reconciling their emotions over stunned silence, the alcohol only making it worse. Finally, another rises and puts on his coat to leave. He breaks the silence, his words a jarring interruption.

"Well," he says as he opens the door, "At least Thurman didn't lose his fucking helmet this time."