An American Odyssey

I am a Canadian. Born and bred. Very proud of my nation and heritage. We have our own football league, and I mean nothing offensive when I say that, in my personal opinion, the Canadian Football League is kind of like sucking titties through a straw when compared to the football that is played south of the border. We have three downs and have to line up one yard away on the line of scrimmage. They have four downs and line up close enough to smell what the opposition had for dinner. We award single points for things that should in no way be awarded any points. They do not award single points unless it's after a touchdown. We have moderate tailgating aspirations that are 'fun'. They have 80,000 strong, morning-to-night jam-the-fuck-out parking lot parties that you cannot believe. Last year, my father asked if I wanted to accompany him and his friends on their annual American Pilgrimage. "Fuck yeah!" was my response. I remember first meeting this band of misfits, I was much younger, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, surely incapable of hanging with the big boys. Little did they know that I am a rare breed, not to be threatened with a good time, ready to take it 'up a notch' if provoked. Due to my outstanding stats last year, this year I was allowed to include two of my close friends. I invited Lance the Daywalker and Cliff. I needed two men strong enough for the task at hand.

The Task At Hand: Peacefully invade America for one weekend in September to watch an NFL football game. Man Shit.

My alarm goes off at 6am. Before I can hear the second syllable of the shrieking alarm my finger has already shut it down. I was already ready. I was sleeping with one eye open, eagerly waiting for this day to begin like a boy on Christmas morning wondering if he was going to get that GT Snowracer that he told Santa Claus about. I spring out of bed as if I was lying on molten lava, I kiss my wife and kids goodbye while they are still dreaming about pumpkins, butterflies, and Brad Pitt. I sneak into the garage and give my bags one last check. Golf clubs, check. Clothes, check. Passport, check. Dignity and responsibilities...I throw these two items on the floor. Where we're going, we won't be needing them.

My Father pulls up exactly when he said he would pull up, not a second later. This is, after all, his boys weekend away with his friends. I was just lucky enough to tag along and bring two of my comrades this year. We go and pick up the rest of the band and are moving right on schedule. It is a glorious day. The sky is blue with only a few clouds and no visible signs of rain or pain. The drive to America is long, slow, and boring. You pass multiple highway rest-stops along the way, they can sell you gas or shit in a box, and you can go to the washroom if need be. They are like checkpoints that enable you to either remember how far you are from your destination, or how close to getting home you are, depending on whether you're coming or going. We stop in at one of them to meet up with the rest of my Father's hetero-sexual life-mates. We crush a couple road-rockets in the parking lot and eat some delightful sandwiches that were pre-prepared by one of our tribesmen. This will be the first and only stop on the five hour drive to Buffalo, New York...not including the mandatory Customs and Duty Free stops.

At the Duty Free, they are selling 24 beers for $20 when we would normally pay about $35. 'Merica, Fuck Yeah! We load up the car with as many as we're allowed. These tiny tin soldiers will be lucky if they make it to the back nine. When we pull up to Customs, everyone knows the drill. Have your passports open to the page with your photo. Keep your words and answers short and direct. Show no signs of hesitation. We have nothing to hide, but the prospect of having to go in and get a free rectal exam is always in the back of your mind. We wait in line for ten minutes or so, we get through with no problems, we have now crossed the border. I look back and give my home country the middle finger in my mind. I love you more than anything Canada, but fuck you, for the next three days and two nights, I am American. And so it begins...

Our first destination is the golf course. This is the only part of the entire trip that did not live up to our expectations. A minor blip on the fun radar, but not enough to make my feelings change about this past weekend. The course that we were originally supposed to play was booked solid, so we had to find a last minute replacement. This golf course must've been some type of city-owned course, it was inexpensive and decent, but I have never seen a golf course in my life that did not sell: golf balls, golf tee's, and most importantly, beer. Luckily we had enough beer to last us for the front nine. It was somewhat of a letdown, and Cliff attributed his horrendous back nine score to the fact that he did not have more beer. I attributed my blistering back nine scoring to the fact that we did not have more beer. We finished our round and headed back to the hotel to check in.

When we arrive, the parking lot is already filled with more members of our entourage. As per tradition, on Saturday night we typically consume copious amounts of alcohol and slimy foods in preparation for Sunday, where we will recover from said amounts of greasy food and beverages by piling on even more greasy food and beverages. The weekend is not sponsored by vegetables. The weekend is sponsored by eating meat cooked on a grill, eating more meat, and making sure that all the meat you are going to eat, is accompanied by hops and barley flavoured water. We drink 100,000 beers and then my two friends and I decide to go get some all-you-eat-ribs at a local restaurant. Lance sits down and orders six beers immediately to go with his two racks of ribs, Cliff orders the exact same thing. I order only two beers, and a much smaller meal, not out of fear, simply because I have never had that big of an appetite and I want to make sure that I leave enough room for the next 200,000 beers that are to be consumed.

When we get back to the parking lot, I can already see the signals that Lance is in over his head. Perhaps it was the first 60 beers he drank, perhaps it was the speed with which he devoured his plate (picture a jungle cat that hasn't eaten a proper meal in years, now throw a plate of succulent spare ribs in front of that jungle cat, and just watch what happens, it is truly is a thing of beauty), perhaps he just can't keep up with this kind of unbridled savagery. An hour passes, and I pose a question to Cliff "Where's Lance? Is he still in his room talking to his wife?" He shoots me a look like I have seventeen heads with serpents growing of the hair follicles. "Are you fucking serious, I bet he's fast asleep". There's no way I thought, it was a Saturday night and it was 9:30pm, surely he could not have fallen asleep this early. I saunter down to his room using the guard-rails to keep my balance, when I enter his room, I am partially shocked to find him fast asleep, and partially amused that he has indeed tapped out so early in the first round of the two round fight. I slap his leg with the force of angry caterpillar, he awakens only briefly. "Are you seriously going to bed this early, it's only 9:30 you big drippy vagina, I thought you were in it for the long haul?" I ask. With one eye open he manages only one more comment before returning to his peaceful slumber: "Ha, that's what you fucking think, I have a wife and three kids, I haven't slept in for over seven years and I'm going to bed now!"

The rest of the night was furry. Cliff and I went to for some more drinks with a Russian and another transplanted American. The Russian was not actually Russian in any way, but according to local legends, once he has surpassed the safe limits of sobriety, his language will turn Russian. If you've ever had the chance to spend a large amount of time with someone that is speaking a completely foreign language, I would highly recommend it. You learn a lot about yourself and others. We got home at around a quarter past sometime, because we still hadn't had enough, Cliff and I crushed a few more beer before calling it a night. After all, we had a big day ahead of us, tomorrow we would need to be ready to go by 8:30am. The Buffalo Bills were playing against the Kansas City Chiefs, it was their home-opener, and I didn't want to let the team down.

When the alarm sounded the next morning, I felt as though I had been run over by a Mack Truck, only that Mack Truck didn't kill me. It just wounded me to the point of no return. I wandered down to the breakfast bar to grab myself a coffee and a bagel. I also stopped in to check on Lance and Cliff...apparently the same Mack Truck had also followed them home. We all pulled what little we had left together, we got in the car with my Father and started towards the stadium, jittery with anticipation of what the day would hold. You know you're getting close when it's almost 9:00am, and you hit grid-locked traffic, you can't quite see it yet, but you know its right around the corner. You can hear the sounds. You can smell the smells. You can feel it in your loins. It's Sunday, the day of atonement. You're in 'Merica, and Fuck Yeah, you're going to go see an NFL football game. You finally round the corner, it's now within eye-sight, and it is glorious...

It looks like the Coliseum in Rome, only this Coliseum wasn't in shambles, and rather than hosting gladiator styled events, it holds sporting events with a new generation of completely different gladiators. They're scary all the same. There's people playing music and spinning records at such a loud decibel level, that I wondered if they had stopped partying from the night before, or was this just a continuation of their weekend. The police officer directing traffic gets annoyed at the car in front of us because he doesn't heed the officers warning, the officer looks at our car with a huge smile and says "What a fucking idiot!". 'Merica, Fuck Yeah! We enter into a parking lot as big as any parking lot we've ever seen. Its is packed to the gills. The amount of Bills jerseys and animals being grilled over open flames is enough to make you put your grandmother in The Camel Clutch. Beer and good times are flowing as freely as a snot-rag in a wind-storm. The replacement refs are in on it to, they're doing keg-stands and bong rips, and they look like they're enjoying themselves.

You couldn't have asked for a better day to play or watch football. It was sunny and warm, not scorching hot by any means, but t-shirt weather nonetheless. We drink like the cooler is limitless (which it is), we have chicken wings for breakfast, chips for lunch, sausages for dinner, pulled pork sandwiches for second breakfast, hamburgers for second lunch, shrimp and deep-fried mozzarella balls for second dinner, and we fucking love it. By the time we're heading into the stadium, our livers let out a collective sigh, chipper with the prospect of a five minute break. I quickly shake off the meat-sweats before getting lost on the wrong end of the stadium, Lance and I are on our own now, but we're grown men and should be able to find our respective seats. After letting him direct us for three unsuccessful turns, I decided to take the reigns over for myself, I having been somewhat familiar with the surroundings, and him having already blown right past stadium security and into the commentators booth.

We finally make our way to our seats, how good the seats are is not important, partially because we're barely alive at this point, but mostly because every seat is an awesome seat. Long story long, the Bills absolutely crushed the hapless Kansas City Chiefs, for the entire three hours of the game, we were all from Buffalo, and we were all Buffaloians. We sang their songs, we crip-walked after every touchdown, we took pictures of ourselves with other people's camera's when they would ask us to take pictures of them, we hugged people that we didn't know, we high-fived people like we were kin-folk, we got rowdy when it was third and long, we waved towels, and most importantly we were American. When the dust settled, we had impregnated no less than 80,000 people, there were arrest warrants out for us in every state, our pictures are now on milk cartons, and we were mere shadows of our former selves.

As I sit here and write this useless story, every burp a constant reminder of what I have just endured, I set my personal alarm clock to next September. There will be another season, another game, and another chance to catch lightening in a bottle. I have taken a vow to never miss out on the annual trip, not ever. I'll be back, and rest assured, I'm bringing hell with me.

In closing, I would like to dedicate this past weekend to the following things, without your support, none of this would even be possible: Funny money, cheap beer, the greatest league and sport on God's green earth, throwing pebbles on the ground, Upstate New York, the people of Buffalo, CJ Spiller, scotch, overdosing on red meat, under-dosing on taking it easy, Camel's, Marlies, the land of the free and the home of the brave, heart palpitations, replacement ref's, an insatiable thirst that cannot be quenched, sands through the hourglass of time, long road trips, The National Football League, man shit, and Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Let's Go Buff-alo!

'Merica...Fuck Yeah.