My father, Trump and the Buffalo Bills

My father and I have a lot in common. We are both social and outgoing. We like to meet new people and ask them lots of questions. We like to tell stories and jokes. We love to laugh. We have the same taste in movies (The Last of The MohicansBraveheartGlory). And we love the Buffalo Bills with all our naively optimistic hearts.

Every September, my father makes a trip from Cumming, GA — a small town outside of Atlanta — back to Buffalo, NY to hang out with me and my family and to go to the Bills home opener. It’s tradition.

The energy at New Era Field on opening day is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced — the mood consuming the stadium is one of pure elation. Football is back and the Bills are undefeated. At least for that fleeting moment at the beginning of the season. Taking part in that sports-induced joy with my father is a gift, and one I get to open each and every September. We pull into a tailgating lot within walking distance of the stadium, crack open a few beers and pop up some folding chairs. We sit, we drink and we watch the madness around us unfold.

We talk, too.

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