I still remember the night like it was yesterday, even though thirty years have passed. The single-bar helmet revealing the face and fear of 32-year-old Scott Norwood. In Super Bowl XXV.
with time expiring, he attempted a game-winning, life-changing field goal that appeared good, but would suddenly veer and miss by a few feet.
The term "wide right" would define not just the life and legend of Scott Norwood, but the entire City of Buffalo and its Bills community.
I remember that day as if it was yesterday. After the game, I was inconsolable. The Bills had been the better team; even a non-fan could see that. We'd out-gained the Giants, out-converted them, out-played them, but we'd lost anyway in dramatic, dream-shattering fashion. It was too much for my 22-year-old emotions to process.
So, I sat there in utter disbelief.
My friends knew how much that game meant to me. After forty years of futility, we had arrived. It was our time. We were a team of destiny. It seemed that nothing could stop us.
I was wrong.
"It's just a game," my buddy would say as he removed his Bills' inflatable helmet. "You'll be back next year." And he was right.
We would be back the following year, and the two years after that - only to experience the same crushing defeat. The Bills would go on to be the only team in history to make four consecutive Super Bowls - where they would lose and break my heart each and every time.
For the following two decades, futility, humiliation, and frustration would continue, including the "Music City Miracle," and the unforgettable collapse of safety Damar Hamlin in last year's nationally televised season finally.
My sons and I make an annual pilgrimage to Buffalo to see the Bills - along the way, meeting the likes of Brian Urlacher, Marcus Allen, Dave Wannestadt, and team owner Terry Pegula. We've endured canceled flights, torrential rain, and last year's "snow-mageddon," forcing the game to relocate to Detroit, where Stefon Diggs handed my son his game gloves.
Our shared love of the Bills is sometimes challenging, but our loyalty is tried and true.
Would I like them to win it all? Of course! I also know that it would change things in a very real and meaningful way.
Part of the reason the Bills are the favorite sons of Buffalo is because they are a reflection of their city. In a city that can't catch a break, people rally around the team that best reflects their own story - one of hard work, small-town values, and willingness to persevere. It is a part of their identity and reflects their community. Winning a Super Bowl would change that.
There is solidarity and honor in the struggle.
It's as true in music as it is in football.
Doing what you do, the easy days are few and far between. A seemingly good day is unexpectedly turned upside down by an angry parent, an unpredictable student, or an unexpected problem—beyond the unknown are the constant struggles for funding, staffing, facilities, support, and resources.
These victories and defeats are played out on the stage and in public, where the critics, pundits, and skeptics are plentiful. Good is never good enough, and the list of things to fix or do better is never-ending.
But, there is solidarity and honor in the struggle.
For most of us, being a music teacher is more than a job; it is a part of our identity. For better or worse, we are deeply invested in what we do and are committed to our programs and community.
The very nature of our profession means we celebrate the victories and mourn the losses in public, where we are exposed and vulnerable. This is part of what makes the job so hard and what bonds us and our students together.
In my experience, the community of music education is unlike other curricula. Our shared experiences and struggles bond us in unique and powerful ways. We take pride in doing difficult and meaningful work. It's hard. The defeats are more frequent than victories, and the pain of losing exceeds the glory of winning.
Would I like to win a championship or experience the thrill of performing on a grand stage? Of course! But, I also know it would change things.
The struggle is a vital part of what we do. It teaches us all (adults and kids) lessons and forges bonds that would not and could not be created in an idyllic vacuum.
I like the fight. I embrace the struggle. And I appreciate the opportunity to be in this game working with kids. Win or lose, good day or bad, being a music teacher is more than what I do; it's a significant part of who I am.
I wouldn't want it any other way, and I wouldn't want to experience it with anyone else.
As the Jets returned the punt for their overtime victory this past Monday night, my son and I watched in disbelief and yet were unsurprised. Yet again, our beloved Bills broke our hearts.
"They're killing me, but they're still our team, Dad!"
The struggle continues as the bond grows stronger.
"It's just one game," I said, feigning a smile. His response?
Have a great week everyone.
Scott