Amherst, NY—For the last thirteen years, John Jackinjoff has gifted his nephews Jimmy( 21) and Joey (23) Jackinjoff Sabres tickets at Christmas. This year, however, when the nephews found tickets to the December 27th game versus the Blackhawks in their stockings, they confronted Uncle John and demanded to know why he fucking hated them.
Uncle John initially pretended to be offended, noting the two hundred level tickets set him back some three hundred bucks, and, despite the recent thirteen-game winless streak, last weekend they buried the Islanders, 7-1, and were poised to go on a run.
The nephews burst out laughing and joked with each other about team-owner, Terry Pegula’s recent statement to the team that “the answers are in this locker room” or the soon-to-be post-Christmas “players only meeting” that will produce a shootout loss and another five-game skid. Or the pathetic statements of Lindy Ruff who sounded like Phil Housley, Ralph Krueger, and Don Granato all rolled into one talking about how: “we can’t take penalties and expect to win,” or “we weren’t ready to go,” or how “we started slow and never got going.”
And then there’s GM, Kevyn Adams’s stupid statements about palm trees and New York taxes.
After being pummeled by his nephews, Uncle John came clean—”Okay, okay, “I don’t fucking hate you—it’s just the Sabres are the perfect vechicle to teach you about the futility of life. About how we’re fed endless lies that dreams come true, and life has meaning. But the grasshopper never snatches the pebble from the master’s hand. P.A.Kane will never have a best-selling novel, even if he gets up to write in the middle of the night till the end of time. Ahab can command twenty ships, but he’ll never catch the whale. Gatsby can throw a party that never ends, but he’ll never win Daisy’s love. And the Roadrunner will always best Wile E. Coyote, no matter how much dynamite he buys from ACME. That’s who you fucking guys are—Wile E. Coyote. That’s who all of us are in Buffalo—Wile E. Fucking Coyote”
Uncle John went on to explain that despite the futility of life, it was still necessary to show up. Again, he turned to the Sabres and their in-game announcer, Courtney Corbetta, who has the impossible task of creating a positive atmosphere for this miserable fucking team night after night in a building on its best day is two-thirds full. “The self-hatred of that woman is just incredible. She could be living the carefree life of a Tim Horton’s barista or a school photographer, yet she shows up night after night and works her ass off, putting a happy face on this pile of shit.”
The nephews looked quizzically at each other and asked Uncle John, “Then why not gift us Bills tickets instead?” He explained that the Bills futility is even worse because they create a false sense of hope only to rip your heart out in the end. It’s better to have the slow-burn of Sabres hopelessness than have the Bills stomp the shit out of you all at once the Sunday of the divisional round. Then he rhetorically asked, “Did you see how the Cheifs destroyed the Steelers and how the Ravens manhandled the Texans—do you think the Bills, who muddled by a 3-11 Patriots team, can compete with them?”
As the conversation ended, Uncle John gave his nephews crisp hundred-dollar bill and told them to enjoy two short beers and a box of popcorn at the game.
