Yeah … Roland Hooks ; thanks for that reminiscence, RJ. Indeed, Van was agonizingly slow in making winning calls. You’d hear the home crowd go nuts for a second or two before he would confirm. My brothers and I would always crack up over that (after we recovered).
So many other favorites …
Last game of the year in ‘73 vs. Jets; watching the game with my brothers in the basement on an ancient B&W TV that I think my dad had garbage-picked. The vertical refresh would go haywire every few minutes and we’d have to turn our heads sideways to see what was going on. Our favorite moment was not in fact OJ topping the rushing record, but rather Bill Cahill busting back a punt for a TD, effectively putting the game out of reach. Truth is, we cared more about winning the game than about that damn rushing record.
Home game against the powerful Raiders in ‘80. Fergie deftly feints left, then swings it out right to wide open rookie Joe Cribbs, who waltzes untouched into the end zone, both arms extended horizontally. To our astonishment, the Bills are 4-0, and after a decade of youthful futility as Bills fans, we sense we could actually win it all.
Crushing the Fish 27-0 in ’87, with Jimbo revealing after the game that the Bills were especially fired up after Fish Linebacker Jackie Shipp commented before the game that he had been “embarrassed” to lose to the Bills earlier in the season. You could just feel the power in that Bills squad about to burst forth …
… and burst it does: Bills at Browns as Municipal Stadium in 1990 (42-0 payback only 10 months after the Ronnie Harmon playoff drop). Jamie Mueller leads Thurmon left on a toss sweep. Some hapless Browns safety flashes into the backfield, and Mueller … lays … him … out. I mean thundering, limbs-splayed, flat-on-his-back OUT; hitting the ground so ferociously you could barely follow it live. The slow-mo in my mind still shows Mueller’s lips curling into a vicious snarl an instant before he lays the wood .…
Watching the game alone in my crappy apartment in Houston in ’93. Trying in a frenzy to call home after Steve Christie kicked the comeback winner – and all the lines to Buffalo were jammed. The freaking lines were JAMMED. God, how I loved my tough little hometown at that moment. I went out on my balcony with my Bills sweatshirt and hat on and screamed every abuse I could think of at Houston for about 15 minutes (until I thought the better of it; lots of guns in Houston).
Last Sunday night. Sitting on the edge of our living room couch here in Italy, clinging to hope, headphones connected to my laptop, following John Murphy’s call on GR online; trying desperately not to wake up my wife and kids. Punching the wall when EJ throws the pick-that-came-back (goddamn hand is still sore as I type this a week later). Doing the silent scream when Stevie hauls in the winner. My teenage daughter staggers blinkingly into the living room: “Papi, what was that weird squealing sound?” I swear I don’t know. The kid of course informs on me in the AM, and my wife calls me a “deficiente” (exactly as it sounds).
Honestly, I don’t blame her. But you guys all understand.