Now that New York state and Erie County have spent $850 million in taxpayer dollars, the largest public contribution for any NFL facility in history, it's time for the next important step in the process of opening the Buffalo Bills' new stadium: kissing owner Terry Pegula's ass. While Pegula, for once in his life, did not say something incredibly fucking stupid at this week's ribbon-cutting ceremony, every other person in attendance seemed to bend over backward to make sure that no one watching realized how much he sucks. With the plastered-on smiles and manufactured passion of a Hallmark movie or a Viagra commercial, every speaker used their allotted time to tell the people that the fracking billionaire who owns the football team is deeply committed to the community of Buffalo and Western New York.
Kathy Hochul, "the biggest Bills fan in politics" according to her introduction at the ceremony, marched up to the podium to announce Pegula's undying generosity and love for Buffalo. But I heard her awkward gasp masquerading as a "Let's go Buffalo!" chant, and I felt a part of my soul die in the process.
A chant that painful should get her banned from any part of the state west of Canandaigua Lake. It was so bad it even had me agreeing with the New York Post, which described the response to Hochul's chants as "what could charitably be called a trickle of applause." It might even be worse than that time Chuck Schumer said "Go Bills" before commenting on a mass shooting.
Unless I see Hochul jumping on a folding table to christen the stadium with a wing in one hand and a Labatt Blue in the other, I'm going to need her to mute some of that enthusiasm. Perhaps she was inspired by Zohran Mamdani's speech at the Knicks' championship parade last week and thought a few jazzy finger-points would get the crowd going in the same way. But unlike Mamdani, Hochul has the charisma of a dentist and the political backbone of a jellyfish.
Shortly after she took office in 2021 following Andrew Cuomo's resignation, Kathy Hochul had a problem. She had many problems, actually, but this problem was unique in that it was entirely made up. Terry Pegula, a man reportedly worth $5.8 billion at that point, stressed the need for public funds to support a new stadium for the Bills, a team whose value had almost tripled since he bought them for $1.4 billion in 2014. Without hundreds of millions of tax dollars, he might have to move the Bills—a choice that would be devastating for Western New York and Hochul's political career. So Hochul put on her cape and came to the rescue. In a triumph for the Bills Mafia, she stole their money and gave it to the richest man in New York state outside of Manhattan. Heartwarming. Everyone applaud. Let's all do a "Let’s go Buffalo!" in the most unrhythmic cadence that we can manage in her honor.
During the ribbon cutting, Hochul claimed that the deal was about "protecting a team that truly personifies the gritty blue-collar spirit of Buffalo," a claim that's hard to make considering how many more barriers to entry there are for the new stadium. Buffalo is already one of the smallest and least wealthy markets of any NFL team. But it's also incredibly loyal, and Bills tickets are now some of the most expensive. The new stadium will be one of the NFL's smallest, with 13,000 fewer seats than the Ralph but much more luxury seating. True Bills fans don't care about amenities, and even if they did, I doubt the laborers who worked on the stadium will be able to afford the cushioned seats. The closest many fans will be able to get are the Tron rejects masquerading as bison in the Family Circle outside. (I assume Mafia Plaza wasn't too appealing to the sponsors.)
Hochul wasn't the only culprit who framed a backroom deal as a win for the common fan. Erie County Executive Mark Poloncarz expressed his appreciation for Hochul for understanding "the importance of [the Bills] to our community and that this investment was a worthy one. I want to thank her for standing up, truthfully, to downstate interests who did not appreciate the importance of the Bills to our community and fighting to guarantee that they remain here."
He's probably right about the downstaters not understanding the importance of the Bills to Western New York, and he's certainly right that someone needs to stand up for Western New York in state government. But the guy he needed to stand against was the oil man right by his side.
For most of my life, Western New York has been in a slow decline. I grew up on stories of what the region used to be. The stable middle-class ushered in by the steel industry in Buffalo collapsed in the 1980s, and in Rochester, the bankruptcy of companies like Eastman Kodak in my childhood did the same. Everything was a reminder of a long lost heyday. Grand buildings from the Erie Canal boom in Buffalo and Rochester tower over sidewalks that were bustling a century before. Neighbors talked about blizzards of the 1990s with the same nostalgic fondness. Yes, in Western New York, even the snow just isn't what it used to be.
The same went for our teams. My formative years of sports fandom were spent in the playoff droughts of the Bills and the Sabres, and the stories of legends like Jim Kelly and Dominik Hašek painted my picture of everything the region could be. But then Josh Allen came to Buffalo, and all of a sudden a renaissance seemed possible. Part of the reason we hold on so dearly to the Bills is because it gives us a rare opportunity to take pride in our region. The tactic of threatening to move a team in order to get public funds for a stadium is an old one. But in Western New York, those threats are more dangerous than most. Without them, what do we have but terrible weather and seasonal depression? William Fichtner, I guess.
The neglect that Western New York deals with in state politics is also real. But too often this concern is used as a dog whistle by people who really mean that the state should stop helping Black and Hispanic populations, instead focusing on the amorphous "upstate" that is always white in their eyes. Or they are the types of politicians who will focus on projects that only serve to make the rich richer and do little to promote stable job growth in a region that desperately needs it. Hochul and Poloncarz can wave the Buffalo flag and say that they stood up for Western New York all they want, but the myth that a shiny stadium will bring all sorts of new economic development has been thoroughly debunked. Besides, the stadium is out in Orchard Park, which means that Buffalo's struggling urban center will not be benefiting at all.
The child poverty rates in Syracuse, Rochester, and Buffalo are all in the top 10 among U.S. cities, and all of them are nearly double the rate of New York City. The city school districts are significantly underfunded and lack the resources to adequately support and educate these kids. Meanwhile, state and local governments cut deals with tech companies to build data centers on Cayuga Lake, and another proposed between Buffalo and Rochester, that will quite literally suck valuable resources from already struggling communities—a process familiar to Pegula, whose net worth has grown from $5.8 billion to $9.3 billion since the deal for the stadium. I swear, if I have to hear how committed Terry Pegula is to Western New York one more time, I'm throwing one of those bionic antelopes over the Falls.
I already miss the old stadium. When I saw the videos of fans singing along to "Iris" by the Goo Goo Dolls at the final game at the Ralph, I fought the urge to cry. And then, because I suddenly felt more homesick than ever before, I drove to the nearest Wegmans and ended up crying in the parking lot. Despite never having the opportunity to go to a game at the old stadium, I had grown up watching all of those moments on television, even when there was nothing to hope for. I felt a connection, not because I had memories there, but because of the memories I made with my family and friends watching from afar. I missed home, and nothing embodied it more than that video. No backroom deal can take that away.
