A Father and Daughter Hold Special Bond Over Their Beloved Buffalo Bills

Midway through the first quarter of Sunday’s Buffalo Bills home opener against the New York Jets, my 72-year-old father turned around to face the guy sitting directly behind us at New Era Field.

“Hey bud,” he said politely, but also very fatherly with his arms folded across his chest, “I don’t mind if you cheer. But will you watch the f-bombs? I’m here with my daughter.”

The guy nodded and looked at me, slightly confused. I’m 39 years old, but my father is still as protective of me at Bills games as when I was a kid. Granted, I don’t mind an f-bomb or two. I drop a few myself now and again after a few beers. But this moment is a snapshot of what encapsulates my relationship with my father because no matter how old I get I’ll always be his daughter.

When I was twelve years old, I thought going to a Bills game with my father was the greatest privilege ever, especially in the winter time. We’d tailgate with his friends in the cold, and I’d get to feast on everything from taco dip and wings to chips and chocolate candies. No restrictions. In the stadium during the game, he’d buy me hot chocolate and a hot pretzel. We’d watch and cheer together, high-fiving everyone around us after the Bills made a great play. This was back in the nineties, when the Bills were good—damn good—and there was a lot to cheer about.

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