If you were to ask my grandmother, she’d tell you I am a Buffalo Sabres fan before I am a fan of anything else. I wore out this tape my stepdad got from his old boss for the 10-year anniversary of the Sabres or something to that effect. It covered their inception through the ‘79-’80 season. If there is learning about the French Connection, the Fog Game, Jim Schonfeld, the Zamboni brawl, and ‘Batman’ Jim Lorentz, a personal favorite of my stepdad—Jerry Korab. Beating the Soviets, the Aud.
Through other VHS compilations I was able to glean what I could about the 1980’s era. The French Connection became just Gilbert; my stepdad had the front page of the Buffalo News from when Gilbert scored his 500th goal—maybe it was just the sports section. - But either way it was the first newspaper I saw framed. I learned about the connection between the Miracle on Ice team, Mike Ramsey, Rob McClanahan, Mr. Sabre himself Lindy Ruff, Tom Barasso, Phil Housley, and those tapes, which would then move to Clint Malarchuck, Rob Ray, Grant Fuhr, and Mogilny's 76 goals—which my stepdad argued should have been half of Pat LaFontaine’s. May Day, Jimmy Hoffa is buried at the Meadowlands, Dominik Hasek, Legion of Doom, and the shot heard round the world.
I watched numerous games within the latter half of the list. I remember Miroslav Satan being an alleged empty-net merchant—at least according to my stepdad.
I was 4 when the 1999 Sabres team, led by the greatest goalie of all time (coming in 17th out of 27 teams in goals for), went to the finals. Too young to really remember that run, but I carry the shattered dreams of that team, and the chip on my shoulder was born then. The playoff runs in 2000 and 2001. The down years leading into the lockout, the bankruptcy, and federal charges against the ownership. The league owning the team.
Don’t even get me started on the ‘05-’06 and ‘06-’07 Sabres teams.
I was 11 years old in middle school when, out of the lockout, the upstart Buffalo Sabres roared into the playoffs. I was probably one of the most well-versed 11-year-olds on staph infections. Crying late on the floor of my family’s living room, wishing and praying—the way kids tend to—that the league would overturn the results. What I remember most from ‘06-’07 was going to open skate at the ice rink in Indiana on a warm spring afternoon. I wore my ‘Slug’ Chris Drury jersey—a Christmas gift that year—out on the ice. I didn’t quite want to let go of the magic of that season. Though it was warm, I could still feel the coolness of the air as it blew my tears back off my face while circling the ice.
This season has drawn the obvious—sometimes correct—comparisons to the ‘05-’06 team. A team without much offseason buzz, a team with their fans languishingly behind management decisions. The most consistent hockey market across every Stanley Cup Playoff for at least the first 25 years of the 21st century.
I have dreamed over and over again of the day the Sabres’ drought would end. The red-headed stepchild city and their beacon of pride in the red-headed stepchild sport. A team that for its entire existence until the last 14 years had never gone more than a few seasons without the playoffs. Riding the Hall of Fame careers of Hasek and Miller be damned. What a winning season means after 14 years is borderline indescribable. I have sat here for a day typing a sentence at a time. Each time, I mull the question over in my head. What it means to me is joy. It is fun to watch the Sabres again. More memories to be created. During the 2001 playoffs, my mom won two tickets to the conference semifinal from 97 Rock. I have hazy memories of a fan song with a lyric about stitches being in Steve Heinze’s face. Having moved away when I was young, my memories are mostly filled with celebration and woe in the various living rooms as I grew up. There was the way as a child hearing RJ made the hair on the back of your neck stand up when he called a Hasek save. The feeling of elation when Brian Campbell crushed R.J. Umburger at the Philadelphia blue line. The highs of J.P. Dumont and Jason Pominville The unadulterated joy of Captain America The
Before there was YouTube, there were bootlegs from the Walden Flea Market. Road trips to Buffalo from Illinois using a portable DVD player to allow the soothing tones of RJ to allow me to have a chance to live the moments I wasn’t yet born for. I celebrated with my girlfriend when the last Buffalo team snapped their drought—that woman is now my wife. I would text my grandmother during Sabres games when I was in law school… the messages were always filled with hope—only for that hope to be dashed by yet another soul-flattening loss. To still tune into meaningless games in March and April to see what the young call-ups might have for us next year.
This year, though, as fans, we get wins. True, honest-to-goodness, wins. I still text my grandmother during games—but because of how long it’s been, I have been able to move back to Buffalo. I get to go over to her house and watch the games. When she asks me when they play next, I don’t have to look it up; I already know not only the next game but also the next three. My wife no longer has to hear me wax poetically about what hockey—and more specifically the Sabres—means to the city of Buffalo and the wider western New York and southern Ontario region. There’s a reason why every year when the new season rolls around, there is an influx of ‘Better Days’ highlight videos of the current roster. Winning feels good. There’s a sense of pride in the team again, and that translates to all aspects of the city. Yes, the Bills have restored Buffalo as a topic of national conversation, but the Sabres have always been a point of local pride. Springtime in Buffalo meant parties in the plaza. Hopes of meaningful sports stretching to May and June as the city fully thaws from the winter. My grandmother will tell me, "You liked the Bills, but he was always more of a Sabres fan” every time we sit down to watch a game together now. I have longed for being in my hometown, with my family and my people.
As I relived these moments each year—whether at the beginning of the season as the leaves are starting to reach their gradient. Or in the spring during the tail end of another lost season. When I—or any number of Sabres fans, I am sure—click into our browser and watch Better Days' playoff intro from '06-'07. The overwhelming joy floods and surges over me. Nostalgia is a dangerous drug; too much and you’ll be lost in the rose-colored fog of what used to be. In small doses, it can remind you of what is possible. In the depths of the playoff drought, the way to renew your spirit was to pull up clips of playoff runs from before high definition existed on our television screens. The cracking and static of the broadcast can be seen in the individual grains, and rainbow streaks are a reminder of the distance between playoff berths.
Add in a part about good memories created—butt goal, Sabres bobsled, the tank, Kyle Okposo's recovery sex schedule, hat man Lindy Ruff—RJ Night—Jeff Skinner’s goal song. There are probably dozens of other little moments or Sabreshood/Sabres fandom inside jokes I’m not thinking of.
I have resisted the urge to call ending the Playoff Drought™ the most important thing in my life at this moment. I have a wife, dogs, and sobriety—those things are the literal most important things to me in my life. It’s absurd to assert anything to the contrary, and yet I find myself looking through my fingers to watch the end of close games. The semi-visible images of blue and gold or red and black zig-zagging against the reds and white or yellow and black, or whatever color combo the Sabres are playing that night. The images flash across the screen and, like target-locked missiles, graze my saucer-sized pupils through gaps in my fingers. I feel my standing heart rate climb as the periods pass by and the Sabres have not found a way to lead by 3. For years I watched games in March with no real stakes. By this time each year, the numbness of the season from hell
After years—I feel like I have the empathy here that there have been 3 years where the Sabres missed the playoffs that they were within 5 points of a playoff spot, one of which was the COVID year—where my heart last raced like this as the hopes of an entire fanbase rode on the shoulders of a 21-year-old goaltender who gave it his all and came up just short. I am haunted by Hudson Fasching’s kick motion. Carter Hutton’s LASIK surgery, Jack Eichel’s high ankle sprain—days before opening night. Scarred by faux winning streaks that led to disappointing ends to seasons. By Dan Bylsma not sending Eichel out for the opening draw against McDavid, palm trees, drilling another well, and losing out on Stamkos
I have been writing for 2 weeks about the Sabres and what this season has meant to me. What breaking the 14 years of playoff drought means to me: I’ve been struggling through it because I can’t find the right words. I don’t know if it’ll be tears. I don’t know if it’ll be running to Abbott and letting out a primal scream. The near foregone conclusion of them making the playoffs has given us all more time to sit with it, but until the X is actually there, I still find myself watching games through split fingers. Screaming in my living room: Get the puck out! Or SHOOT! Each win is an unparalleled high. The losses somehow feel like death blows. This team and breaking the drought are part of my identity because they’re part of the identity of the city. That city gave me the blood that runs through my veins. I think I found my answer Thursday night. The Sabres have played at an insanely high level since December. They’ve played pretty damn well since the Olympic break. It’s hard to be ~ mad ~ when games don’t go their way. Yet, I found myself frustrated in the 3rd period as the minutes wound down Thursday night. I slide to the fanatic side of the word “fan” with this team. The effort displayed in the closing period of a clinching game. Not any clinching game, but the first clinching scenario since E.T. was the number 1 song on the Hot 100. The first time this team has controlled their own destiny since just after my 16th birthday.
I know it to be irrational after game 1 when they got shut out by the Rangers. It feels borderline asinine to say that the psychological damage The Drought™ is severe. At least in sports terms, it is true. Enjoying the Sabres the last 14 years has felt like a Sisyphian task. As fans, we would continue to roll our boulder of fandom up the hill of another dismal season. We felt doomed to losing. Cursed to roam the depths of the standings. As a fan of the team, that wears on the sports soul. It feels personal. It can feel as though players, the front office, and the owner don’t care. It wears on the childlike passion you carry as a fan. During a typical normal season, what makes it better is the possibility of next year. The allure of what dreams may come between the end of a dismal season.
Yet, as I have been writing for the last two weeks, the miraculous has happened. The drought has ended. The moment came on the afternoon of my 31st birthday. A beautiful spring day. As Brittany and I sat with our dogs on the couch that the dogs had broken down to their preferred comfort, the first miracle occurred as we watched the seconds tick off the clock in a game where the New York Rangers were ahead 3-0 with 10 minutes to play. Even when the Red Wings managed to score a goal with over 5 minutes to go. There was no panic, no nerves. The moment was inevitable. Like the spring storm on the horizon. There was nothing to be done but wait and embrace the rain. Not a matter of if anymore, only a matter of when. If it had not been done on that Saturday afternoon, maybe it would have happened that night instead of the somewhat deflating 6-2 loss that will be remembered as a footnote in a remarkable season. The sun felt warmer. I hugged my grandmother extra hard when I saw her that night at dinner. The joy of the city was palpable. The noticeable blues, golds, reds, and blacks that had slowly been beginning to bloom during the mild winter we all experienced in Western New York. They have blossomed in the week following the clinch. Anecdotes have begun trickling in online and in the media about the uptick in Sabres apparel being donned in public. The flags that dot the front of houses all year long with a Bills flag, and then either Irish, Polish, or Puerto Rican flags now also fly a Sabres flag. The City that
has cried out for meaningful hockey—has finally been given their reprieve. Not only have they been given meaningful games. They were given wins in those meaningful games that have translated to the best stretch of hockey played over 50 games since around the time I was born. A definitive stamp placed on the year. A little more than a week later a second miracle was witnessed. As the Sabres were in the middle of the back-and-forth portion of their game against the Blackhawks. The social media and the water coolers alike had shown the sly smiles of hope on the faces of fans. The Division. Could it really be? Was it really going to come to pass going from the worst team in the conference to the winners of the division? A conference and division that had been a gauntlet, each team beating up on each other over the course of the season. Arguably the best division championship win in the team's history given the comeback and the talent of the teams they played. The team was in Chicago, so the delayed start gave us ample notice of the events in Tampa Bay. By the time the second period came to a close with the Sabres ahead 2-1, we knew the Red Wings had lost to the Lightning, but it didn’t matter. The Red Wings had forced overtime—and in doing so—made the clinching scenario simple. Win the game and win the Division. In the postgame media scrum the Sabres players had said they had known about the result in Tampa Bay. If there were nerves, they didn’t let them show. What they ended up doing in the third period to the overwhelmed Blackhawks team was nothing short of globetrotting. An offensive spark was ignited, allowing the Sabres to explode for 3 goals. Each prettier than the last. The final seconds ticked down. There were no nerves. There was no call for a "garage." No stress. This was a team that, a season ago, had lost multiple games after leading by 3+ goals. Now, this team feels inevitable when they run downhill. For instance, when they make give-and-go touch passes for their 5th goal of the game. I sat there on the couch sort of dumbfounded. The same team that had caused fans to hurl expletives in a tirade after game 1, or throw a jersey on the ice after a loss to Colorado in November, was now going to hang a banner. After years of sarcastic banners—a whole Twitter account dedicated to them even—this team will get to hang a real one again. Sure, they have hung several banners for jersey retirements and for RJ. Those were glimmers of hope in the dark times. The team managed to rise to the occasion in those one-off moments. Now though, they’re able to fill the gap between banners that has existed for over a decade.
I get to create whole new sets of memories in a completely different time in my life. 15 years is a fifth of the average life span. It’s a little less than half of my life. As fans, we have lived mini-life times between playoff appearances. I will be in the arena on Sunday night. I am going to the game with my wife. Whom I did not even have a twinkle in my eye about in 2011. There have been 4 Winter Olympiads and 4 presidential administrations; I have lost my hair and gained my beard. I still scare dogs when games get too close or don’t go the Sabres’ way. Except now, the dogs are our dogs and not my childhood dogs.
Eventually we will make our way to our seats—in the last row of the 300s—Sunday night, we will be in that gap of banners, looking down upon the single most (personally) important sporting event of my lifetime. The probability I will spend the anthems in full on waterworks is high. I do not have any real idea how the moment will hit me, but I know it will hit me hard, with an internal HOLY MACKERAL. Sitting at the top of the arena with 19,000 friends we haven’t met yet will probably be the closest thing to heaven on earth this man will probably get. The city feels like it lives and dies by the record of the sports teams. I am not a fan of the underdog narrative that seems to be naturally fermented by the socio-economic conditions of the last 70 years in the region. We’re a hardworking town. The blood, sweat, and tears that went into building this city over the last century are the same blood, sweat, and tears in all of us. We are not an underdog. We are hard workers. We are fighters. We are the muckers and grinders who call this city home because we fear no Legion of Doom. We don’t care about the traditions and the history of your city and team. We are part of the next history written here. Characters in the saga have not yet been written. It is not a city of yesteryear. We shouldn’t be content with good enough or with having a seat at the table. What we want to see is people who already know this place is a winner and only care about making this place a winner for those who refuse to see it. We are Buffalo Sabres fans, and we are damn proud of this place we call home. We only want to see that pride reflected back to us in our sports teams. If you can do that, this city will love you forever. The 2025-2026 Buffalo Sabres prove that.
Go win the whole damn thing.