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Dear Ralph:
Kindly forgive the familiar salutation, but you and I go way back. As with many Buffalo Bills fans, my attachment to your team began when I was young.
I recall vividly an autumn afternoon in 1962 when I was 7 years old, walking out of War Memorial Stadium after quarterback Al Dorrow’s play was so poor that backup Warren Raab was called in. Neither of them could produce victory that day. But the team’s performance didn’t affect my youthful spirit, and as I left the stadium with my parents, I waved high my blue Bills pennant with its bucking buffalo.
“I wouldn’t be so proud of them today,” a man said brusquely as our paths crossed and my gyrating pennant caught his dark overcoat. After he quickly passed, another fan leaned over me and whispered, “Don’t mind his mood — that’s Ralph Wilson and he owns this sorry bunch.”
I was at the stadium the night of the infamous “beer can incident” against the New York Titans, when sheets of liquid rained down on both teams as they left the field. Along with my mother and brother, I attended every home game from 1963 through 1965. Our section fiercely debated the relative abilities of quarterbacks Daryle Lamonica and Jack Kemp. I can still picture the Bell Aerospace man with his futuristic jetpack soaring from end zone to end zone. And I can still hear the violent sound of Mike Stratton colliding with Keith Lincoln in the 1964 AFL championship game.
In the early 1960s I rode my bike to training camp in Hamburg, and was thrilled when Cookie Gilchrist — his enormous hands larger than my head — graciously autographed my notepad without my even asking. On summer days, I’d pester my mother to drive me to players’ homes, where I’d knock on their front doors, and when their bemused young wives peered out and saw me standing there with pen and paper, they’d shout back inside, “Honey, it’s for you.”
This is all by way of saying that on the matter of being a Bills fan, my papers are in order. While my emotional relationship with the team can’t match your economic ties to them, the Buffalo Bills helped shape my youth. Following the team back then remains a powerful memory.
In this way, I’m like tens of thousands of boys who pledged allegiance to the Bills in the past, as well as untold numbers of young people who shall do so in the future.
Kindly forgive the familiar salutation, but you and I go way back. As with many Buffalo Bills fans, my attachment to your team began when I was young.
I recall vividly an autumn afternoon in 1962 when I was 7 years old, walking out of War Memorial Stadium after quarterback Al Dorrow’s play was so poor that backup Warren Raab was called in. Neither of them could produce victory that day. But the team’s performance didn’t affect my youthful spirit, and as I left the stadium with my parents, I waved high my blue Bills pennant with its bucking buffalo.
“I wouldn’t be so proud of them today,” a man said brusquely as our paths crossed and my gyrating pennant caught his dark overcoat. After he quickly passed, another fan leaned over me and whispered, “Don’t mind his mood — that’s Ralph Wilson and he owns this sorry bunch.”
I was at the stadium the night of the infamous “beer can incident” against the New York Titans, when sheets of liquid rained down on both teams as they left the field. Along with my mother and brother, I attended every home game from 1963 through 1965. Our section fiercely debated the relative abilities of quarterbacks Daryle Lamonica and Jack Kemp. I can still picture the Bell Aerospace man with his futuristic jetpack soaring from end zone to end zone. And I can still hear the violent sound of Mike Stratton colliding with Keith Lincoln in the 1964 AFL championship game.
In the early 1960s I rode my bike to training camp in Hamburg, and was thrilled when Cookie Gilchrist — his enormous hands larger than my head — graciously autographed my notepad without my even asking. On summer days, I’d pester my mother to drive me to players’ homes, where I’d knock on their front doors, and when their bemused young wives peered out and saw me standing there with pen and paper, they’d shout back inside, “Honey, it’s for you.”
This is all by way of saying that on the matter of being a Bills fan, my papers are in order. While my emotional relationship with the team can’t match your economic ties to them, the Buffalo Bills helped shape my youth. Following the team back then remains a powerful memory.
In this way, I’m like tens of thousands of boys who pledged allegiance to the Bills in the past, as well as untold numbers of young people who shall do so in the future.
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