(Note: Because the members of the We Want Marangi editorial board would prefer having our fingers forcibly run across a cheese grater, then soaked in lemon juice, to rehashing last week's unsightly win over the Dallas JV or previewing today's Rex Bowl II, we decided it would be better for everyone concerned to go with a re-run. So we offer this one from the WWM archives (originally published on Jan. 3, 2013), commemorating the then-20th anniversary of what remains, in our view, the most gratifying couple of hours in Buffalo Bills history.)
We are at the only bar in Brockport we could find showing the pirated broadcast of the wildcard playoff game between the Bills and the Oilers.
The place is packed, but very quiet as Warren Moon hits every pass he throws, moving Houston to touchdown after touchdown, while Frank Reich scatters passes around like, well, like a backup quarterback.
I'm working as a news reporter after occasionally covering the Bills through the 1990 and '91 seasons, so my rather perverse childhood loyalty to the team has seeped into my staunch objectivity. I stand at the bar, in the midst of a group that included the most intense Steelers fan I've ever known, two Dolphins fundamentalists, a Long Island native who has a contentious relationship with the Jets, and my girlfriend, genetically predisposed to all Boston-area sports teams.
So there are more than a few biting comments about the demise of the Bills, who have been to and lost two straight Super Bowls, as the score hits 28-3 by halftime.
"The problem," I say, to one of the Dolphins fans, "is that we're not drinking enough."
This provided us with common ground, despite our denominational differences.
While ordering a round, I looked about the bar and noticed something interesting.
No one was leaving.
Granted, it's early on a cold day-after-New Year, and most of the mix of townies and college kids who had hung around town through Christmas break don't have anything better to do or anyplace better to do it, but it still makes for a striking contrast to the shots of fans streaming out of Rich Stadium.
Shortly after the bartender brings over another half-dozen drafts, Bubba McDowell grabs a tipped Reich throw and returns it 58 yards for a touchdown.
Thirty-five to three.
Still, the bar door stays closed.
And it starts.
Reich can't miss his suddenly wide-open receivers, and Moon can't keep his feet still, or his passes on target.
Kenneth Davis goes in from a yard out. 35-10.
Some sarcastic rumbling around the bar.
An onside kickoff. What? Beebe sneaking inbounds. 35-17.
Hey, you never know.
Reed, backing in. 35-24.
Are you kidding?
Reed again, diving. 35-31. With a whole quarter left. The cartel of loyalists of Buffalo's arch-rivals are yelling themselves hoarse for the Bills.
Reed, of course, one more time. 38-35, Buffalo.
Holy crap.
By this point, Buffalo winning -- impossible an hour earlier -- is inevitable. No anxiety or drama, just joyful disbelief.
Even when Houston ties it, or wins the overtime coin flip.
And Nate Odomes picks Moon and Steve Christie ends it.
Buffalo 41. Houston 38.
Dolphins hugging Steelers, Jets and Patriots because the Bills won. Despite our disparate belief systems, we had willed it, with a superstitious boost from the stack of empty cups in front of us. Every anguished, delusional hope of every Buffalo loyalist had been validated over a rapidly escalating two hours.
The feeling, 20 years later, was the best I have ever had as a fan. I saw my other inexplicably favorite team, the New York Mets, win a World Championship and pull off the second-greatest comeback I've ever seen on the way. And it wasn't quite the same.
I can't imagine a Super Bowl win being any better.
(Recapture a little of it with ESPN's recap from Jan. 3, 1993.)
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