Though Dave was good to their sister, he somewhat resembled the human form of a Twizzler—thin and twisty with blotchy red skin from long-term psoriasis. Originally from Queens, Dave was the Northeast regional manager for Famous Footwear and made a decent living. The brothers accepted Dave into the family, conditioned on the premise that any progeny, without exception, would be raised as a Bills fan. Offspring could be a Mets, Knicks, and given the continuing futility of the Sabres, even a Rangers fan, but never, ever a goddamn Jets fan.

After a six-hour drive from Western New York along the 390S and 17E, the brothers rumbled into their sister’s living room, where wiffley Dave, Phoebe, and their three-year-old nephew Parker sat in front of the TV being further corrupted by Bluey. After grimicing a hello to Dave and Phoebe, the uncles picked Parker up and tossed him in the air between them like a water balloon at a family picnic while repeating the closing hymn to Josh Allen’s MVP speech, much to his delight:

When that ran its course, Phoebe removed Parker from the room and the brothers closed ranks on Dave. They reminded him of the agreement he had made before marrying their sister. While Dave acknowledged the agreement, he argued it would be better for Parker’s socialization if he were a Jets fan—he would make more friends and fit in better with his peers.

Flanked by his brothers, Uncle Paul stood before Dave,  “That’s what you want for your son—to be a follower? You want him to sit through that ridiculous third-down call by the Jets announcer, only to have Josh Allen rip his heart out over and over? You want his superfan experience provided by that sad sack, Fireman Ed—thank you for your service—or do you want him to feel the hope and joy of Elvis, The Chefs, and Captain Dave’s, Hit The Showers? Do you want him to have the fun of breaking tables, throwing dildos on the field, drinking shots from a bowling ball? Or do you want him to look back sixty years to your one shining moment—that lucky Super Bowl win with George Sauer, Emerson Boozer and Joe Namath? And, if you didn’t know, Namath was a career fifty percent passer with 220 interceptions and only 173 touchdowns. You’ve had six coaches in the last ten years and the most memorable play in that time is a butt fumble.
Dave, the Jets suck. It’s the worst organizations in the NFL. If you love your son, you won’t do this to him.”

Dave stood there weighing his options and, after a moment, started to cry, “I do love my son. I just…I just wanted someone to share my pain.”

Uncle Peter ran out to the Silverado, and a minute later was back with two #17 jerseys—one for Parker, and one for Dave (a boys’ medium). Once Dave had the jersey on, the brothers embraced him and said, “Welcome to the Mafia.”  

Uncle Patrick then went to the nearest Home Depot and bought out all the folding tables they had in stock, and the family spent the rest of the night doing shots, breaking tables, and teaching Parker sacred Mafia words:

Hey-ayyyyyyy-ayyyyyyyy-ayy! (Hey-ayyyyyyy-ayyyyyyyy-ayy!)  Let’s Go Buffalo!!!

Driving home the next day, Uncle Paul gazed out at the horizon and peacefully crooned, “We saved two lost souls last night,” and just as peacefully, the brothers nodded in agreement.

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