I  the Bills narrowly defeated by Cleveland at home, 29-27. I watched the Bills’ fans – heads hung low, flaccid fists beside their body, mouths no longer spewing cheers – as they watched their kicker miss the game-winning field goal. They reminded me of myself. See, I’ve never played a sport, unless you count a three-month stint in football playing a sport.

I’ve thought about trying out in high school, but failure is nowhere to be found in the cushion – or lack thereof – of a bleacher seat. In the safety of the stands,
I cannot lose; watching my peers compete is a win enough for me. Although I’ve never played, I know the athletes’ crafts and I know them well.

I know what they should be doing and what they shouldn’t be doing, the ins and outs, the do’s and don’ts. And just like the hapless Buffalo faithful, I go to every game I can.

I’m a fan.

I never liked playing sports competitively; I liked to have fun at my own pace. And with my feet in the bleachers and my face covered in the colors of a knight, I can witness those who truly care about the game; they play with all the heart and intensity they have to offer. I’m just there to boost whatever they need boosting. I’m the stereotypical fan with a foam finger covering his hand, although I prefer a clinched fist. I’m the guy who starts the cheers, making sure everyone surrounding me is following my lead. I’m the one that claps when we lose, just so
the players know I care.

Teams don’t win games without fans. Who’s ever heard of a team celebration with just a team? That’d be like an army without ammo. Fans show up for every shot fired, whether it’s hit or miss.

Athletes love their sport, and I love to witness it. I love being there for every last-second field goal, every cricket- silent free throw, every Houdini-struc- tured penalty kick. I love to watch.