Sports Grief: Because There's Always Next Year...Probably
Yes, I'm mostly talking about the Buffalo Bills
Jim was crying1.
Mark Lemke, Atlanta’s light-hitting second baseman from Utica, N.Y., had just popped a ball into foul territory during the sixth game of the 1996 World Series. The Yankees’ third baseman, a rotund rent-a-player named Charlie Hayes, caught the ball for the game’s final out and sealed the World Series victory for New York, its first since 1978.
We were at another friend’s apartment watching the game and he asked to use the phone. Jim drunkenly called home to talk to his father, sobbing, to celebrate the win.
Like Jim, I inherited my Yankees fandom from my father. We watched Yankees games together and listened to them on the radio throughout the ‘80s and ‘90s, imbuing me with my pinstriped heritage.
After hanging up with his dad, Jim splashed some water on his face and grabbed another beer. Unlike my friend, I didn’t feel the need to call home and celebrate the victory. Watching Wade Boggs ride on the back of a police horse that night validated my years of fandom — through Steinbrenner-induced fever dreams of Pascual Perez and Steve Howe, the trade of Rickey Henderson2 for a bucket of sunflower seeds3, and the scandal that saw the team’s owner exiled and ironically allowed team management to build a successful pipeline of talent for a near-decade run of dominance — and his passing down of Yankees baseball to me. I knew he was watching three hours away at home. That was enough4.
Kids typically inherit sports fandom from their parents. During the fall and winter, my Facebook feed regularly shows friends of mine and their children at Syracuse University football and basketball games. Those aren’t just family outings, but ways to building interest and create connection through through a shared fandom generationally.
How you grow with that fandom is up to you.
The Buffalo Bills were my favorite football team as a kid. I adopted them all on my own, thanks to their relative proximity to Syracuse and abandoned them after their fourth Super Bowl loss in four years. Frankly, I was exhausted from getting my hopes up only to have them stomped on. We weren’t a Bills household, so dropping out was easy. Besides, I was experiencing enough heartbreak from the Yankees.
But, I know plenty of others who grew up with the same affinity for the Bills and would now consider themselves part of the Bills Mafia, taking their football and their tailgating with equal seriousness. Their Bills fandom is as much a part of their identity as their names and jobs.
And every winter, when the Bills inevitably stumble and fall out of the playoffs, these fans feel that loss inside and show very public signs of grief. Denial because the Kansas City Chiefs got/get all the calls and favorable spots from the refs. Anger at the officials for holding their team — and them by extension — back. Bargaining as fans cursed head coach Sean McDermott for lousy play calling at the end of the game. Depression because their hated rival was heading to the Super Bowl while they were going to eat Buffalo wing dip on their couch. And acceptance when the Chiefs got slapped by the Philadelphia Eagles in the Super Bowl, resetting the table for another season.
Sports fandom can lift you to your highest high and take you to your lowest low. Why do we let it have that much power over us?
Laughing at Other People’s Pain
Look, there’s so much schadenfreude in sports. Alabama football fans who revel in watching Auburn get mangled. Michigan fans that cheer the loss of anything related to Ohio State. The entire United States of America cheering against Duke University’s basketball team. Me? I loved to talk crap about the Red Sox when they lost; it was my right and duty as a Yankees fan. Eventually, I stopped caring that deeply.
These days, I just like to poke at some friends who are Buffalo Bills fans. More on them in a bit.
Still, it warms my heart a touch when Duke experiences an unexpected defeat or Notre Dame falters. The equal and opposite reaction to another teams success is the contempt bred by the opposition. But, why do we have such a visceral reaction to the favorite teams of other people? And why do we feel sports loss so deeply? It comes back to your personal identity.
“I think life can be painfully dull and disappointing,” said New York Times bestselling author and former Sports Illustrated writer
. “It's a lot of day-to-day monotony and shades of bleakness. But being a sports fan—I mean, it gives you a sense of community. It gives you something happy. It gives you something colorful, dynamic. And, most important, it offers a real connection to others. of the Shutdown Fullcast — the internet’s only college football podcast — and Substack projects like and , adds that sense of identity is burnished in the college sports realm. “College amplifies it by throwing in all the pieces of identity schools themselves have attached to them. The shorthand isn't always accurate, but if you see yourself in the religious or political or social or financial status associated with a school, that identity becomes even more useful to you as a way of explaining yourself to other people.”Not in the DSM Yet
Anxiety is a set of symptoms; the most common anxiety diagnosis is generalized anxiety disease. There is no defined depressive disorder5 for sports fandom, but emotional reaction and grief are very much present for fans that feel despair.
In the short term, we can talk about how Kansas City Chiefs fans were bummed that their team lost this year’s Super Bowl to the Philadelphia Eagles. More locally to me, Syracuse University men’s basketball fans might look back to the successes of the 1990s and 2000s to make up for the fact that their beloved Orange have not succeeded at much of anything over the past five or six years. It’s the ebb and flow of fandom. You’re happy when they’re good and sad when they’re not. You might grieve a loss in the big game or a down year, but look to the next cycle for a rebound.
Then there are the prolonged streaks of disappointment. Think the Chicago Cubs until their 2016 World Series win, a drought of 109 years. Maybe the Washington Commanders or New York Jets, who have found a lack of success due to the incompetent management. These teams retain broad fanbases that have become conditioned to disappointment. In any other setting, this negative reinforcement might be reported as abuse and the resulting behaviors treated as disorders. But, fandom is a choice.
“A bad loss doesn't really exist in a vacuum,” Nanni said. “They're either tethered to other brutal moments your team has suffered (and sometimes added to the imagined cosmic tally against your team) or it is the reverberation of defeats narrowly avoided in the past.
“That's why the emotion most sports fans share is dread. We cope with it in different ways, from superstition to analytics, but the thrilling edge of a game is also the terrifying one: no result is guaranteed for either side.”
So, what if you are a tortured Los Angeles Clippers fan? How do you overcome the self-imposed grief cycle of getting your hopes dashed and knowing that there is very little hope for happiness in your future?
First, don’t lose perspective. This is a game, played by other people, that doesn’t affect anything in your daily life6. Stepping back from the moment is important too. Social media is a vapid wasteland of bile7, so why go there any torture yourself? I have neighbors who are so emotionally invested in the success of Syracuse University sports that they DVR the games and watch them over and over again, as if the coaches were paying them to breakdown film. In reality, they are living the heartbreak and defeat all over again. It has the same impact on your brain as having your pet putdown, filming it and replaying it.
“It’s just a game,” Pearlman said. “I have a good friend who's a Bills fan. They can't get past (Patrick) Mahomes, and the Chiefs playoff losses eat her up — in the moment.
“But the next day she laughs it off, shrugs, and moves forward. As do most sports fans. Even if it goes unstated, there’s an awareness that no nuclear weapons are being fired.”
Experts suggest sports fans follow the same advice they would prescribe to the grieving. Find a hobby that gets you away from the source of your grief and pain. Socialize with others. Get away from your TV and exercise, or just be present in the world around you. In short, take a deep breath, and come back to reality.
It reminds me of this scene from the film, A Bronx Tale:
Or, as Nanni puts it, “Nobody gets to tell you what matters in your sports experience. You can love the opportunity to watch incredibly talented athletes fighting on behalf of your team even if they don't win a championship. You can cherish the personal bonds caring about that team creates between you and your friends. You can enjoy the moments of triumph and fondly recall all the times your team stomped on their rivals, even if those moments weren't in a game with a trophy on the line. The standings reflect how your team's doing in competition, but they do not have to be the definition of your experience.”
Sports does fill a psychological need, according to Dr. Dan Wann, a Murray State University professor who studies the behavior of fans. It gives them identity and allows them to break the molds of uniformity.
Wann also says that fandom is belongingness. And in Upstate New York, there’s not a better example of belongingness, and the disappointment of sports fandom, than those who cheer for the Buffalo Bills.
Nanni agrees. “It is, weirdly, more revealing to tell someone ‘I've been a Mets fan for 25 years,’ than to tell them you've been a parent for the same amount of time. Parents don't all have the same triumphs and failures, but Mets fans largely do.”
Or, as Pearlman puts it, “I grew up a die-hard New York Jets fan. Which, on the surface, sucks. But it also doesn't suck, because Jet fans love complaining to other Jet fans, and bemoaning this awful draft pick, that damned injury. And, really, that's a beautiful thing. You're not alone. You're not down. You're talking about something you love with others who also love it.”
Being a Bills Fan: Or The Grief Cycle on Repeat
Brian Moritz ought to get on the masthead here as I go to him enough. A son of Western New York, he’s a Bills fan by birthright, which means he has been wallowing in pain since Joe Ferguson was slinging it at the old War Memorial stadium.
I asked him if he would write 500 or so words about his repetitive cycle of grief as a Bills fan and he said he could give me that much about the last play of the last game of the season. See what I mean? These people have problems.
The feelings came fast on the night of January 26, 2025.
They started on that fourth-down play, when Josh Allen’s desperation pass just slipped through Dalton Kincaid’s hands. They continued a few minutes later, when Patrick Mahomes completed a first-down pass that sealed the Kansas City Chiefs’ victory in the AFC Championship.
The Chiefs were bound for the Super Bowl. And once again, the Buffalo Bills — my team — suffered another heartbreaking playoff loss.
The feelings were fast. There was anger at the refs for that terrible fourth-down spot that cost the Bills dearly. There was frustration that the loss came at the hands of the Chiefs, always the Chiefs. Honestly, there was a bit of relief at not having to deal with a potential Super Bowl loss or questions about whether they’d say yes to a White House visit with that guy if they won.
More than anything, there was disappointment. It had been the best kind of sports season, an unexpected success, a group of players who had fun and seemed to like each other and were led by the league MVP, our delightful Golden Retriever/bison with a rocket arm and movie-star fiancee8.
It was sadness for what we had lost.
It was grief.
—
Wide Right. Home-Run Throwback. 13 Seconds.9
When the team you root for has three heartbreaking losses that are memorable enough to have names, you know you’ve experienced your share of sports grief. Bills fans aren’t alone in this — Cleveland Browns and New York Mets fans would like to have a word — but we’re up there.
I grew up in Lockport in the late 1980s and early 1990s. You might think my original heartbreak was Wide Right, when Scott Norward just missed a 47-yard field goal that would have won Super Bowl XXV. In reality, the first sports grief came a year before, when Ronnie Harmon dropped what would have been a game-winning touchdown against Cleveland in the divisional playoffs.
The Bills’ run of four Super Bowls and four losses brought heartbreak, but there was a defiant pride to those teams. They were emblematic of a region less than a decade removed from the closure of the steel and auto factories that fueled the economy for much of the 20th century. Marv Levy, the erudite white-hard Yale-educated coach of those teams, quoted English poet Thomas Moore:
"Fight on, my men,” Sir Andrew said. “A little I’m hurt but not yet slain. I’ll just lie down and bleed a while, and then I’ll rise and fight again."
Then came the 17-year playoff drought, a time in which the Bills played home games before apathetic crowds in Toronto and there was a real fear that the team might move out of Buffalo. Being a Bills fan stopped being fun and started to feel like an obligation, in a way.
But then came a new owner, a new coach and GM, the quarterback who became a star. And the team has brought the fans this close to the mountain top, only to consistently run into the sport’s version of Michael Jordan.
Sports grief is an odd thing to write about. Because it’s just sports, right? It’s a game. Josh Allen’s getting paid a quarter of a billion dollars to play football. There are real horrors and issues happening hourly in the news. Is it really worth getting that worked up over a game? Is grief too strong a word to describe a loss?
Not really.
Sports is about more than just the game. It’s about family, and it’s about home. My Bills fandom grew when I moved to Binghamton, the farthest I had ever lived from home. Being a Bills fan is remembering watching games with my grandpa in his living room in Cheektowaga, getting post-game calls from my mom, who would start with a world-weary, sarcasm-filled “How ’bout them Bills?” It’s reconnecting with old friends and connecting with new ones. It’s shouting “Go Bills!” to 28 people at Disney World over three days who happened to be wearing team gear, and having every one of them shout the phrase back.
So when that team loses, you lose something yourself. There’s grief in that.
Here’s the secret: sports grief is great. It’s what keeps us coming back. If a director keeps making bad movies, you stop watching. If a restaurant you once loved goes downhill, you stop going. But sports gives you eternal hope. There’s always next year. Next year, we’ll get them.
In an era where cynicism is a defense mechanism and disassociation is a way to just get through the day, we need something that makes us feel something so strong, so deeply. The paradoxical magic of sports is that it is something meaningless that we can care about so deeply, it hurts.
After the Chiefs loss, author and Bills fan Victoria Zeller skeeted:
If grief is love persevering, then sports grief is the epitome of this. Sports grief is, if anything, the eternal presence of hope.
Trying Something New
Dirt Nap is free and will remain free, but I want to try something out in the name of community. The big thing on Substack right now is to add a link to Buy Me A Coffee, the micropayment system where you can tip a creator if you think their work is worth it. The button below, which you will see on future posts, takes you there. I’m not going to keep any of the money. Every four to six weeks, I’m going to take whatever is collected, match it out of pocket and donate it to an organization adjacent to the topics we cover here. I’ll announce the results when I do it. If you feel so moved, click the button and toss in a couple of shekels.
Final Thoughts on Finality
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two!"
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.
— Casey at the Bat, Ernest Lawrence Thayer (1863)
It didn’t help that Jim was drunk.
May he rest in power.
My apologies to Greg Cadaret and Eric Plunk, but not accused rapist Luis Polonia.
For the record, I’m a casual Yankees fan these days, namely because I can’t get any of their games on YouTubeTV and I don’t care enough to change TV providers. My sports fandom is dictated largely by fantasy sports and my alma mater, St. Bonaventure University.
The DSM is the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Illnesses, a definitive guide to diagnosing and identifying mental health concerns.
We’re ignoring sports gambling for a moment. I would argue that you should never bet on your favorite team.
I know from experience as I enjoy taunting Bills fans after they blow a game.
Footnote from Brian: “Jared always refers to Josh Allen as Cosplay Brett Favre. And I mean, he’s not wrong. Thankfully, as of this writing, Josh Allen has committed 100% less welfare fraud than Favre.”
Jared here. I would add Brett Hull’s bullshit goal against the Sabres in the 1999 Stanley Cup to enhance the overall misery.
A marvelous piece (despite the inclusion of Moritz). Back in the post-Russell days, whenever my Celtics lost, I'd mourn watching the Red Sox dive deeper into futility.