The Buffalo Bills and the Right to Belong

For decades, the Buffalo Bills have served as a national shorthand for heartbreak. From the four consecutive Super Bowl losses in the 1990s to the modern era of postseason collapses, the narrative is often framed as a cosmic joke. A recent report from The Atlantic dives deep into this mythology, exploring why fans remain convinced that 2026 is finally the year that quarterback Josh Allen breaks the so-called “curse.”

But there is something deeper at play than missed field goals or overtime rules. The obsession with the Bills’ “curse” reflects a profound American truth: in an era of hyper-individualism and digital isolation, sports remains one of the few places where working-class people can experience a genuine, unyielding sense of collective identity. If we want to understand the health of our democracy, we should look less at the scoreboards and more at the bleachers.

The Commodity of Community

Buffalo is a city that has been systematically hollowed out by decades of neoliberal trade policies and corporate disinvestment. In these environments, a sports team isn't just entertainment; it is an anchor. When The Atlantic reports on the spiritual fervor of the Bills Mafia, they are documenting a community that has chosen to stick together through economic downturns and blizzards alike.

However, the NFL and its billionaire owners often treat this loyalty as an extractable resource. While fans invest their hearts and limited discretionary income into the team, the league continues to push for public subsidies for stadiums and higher ticket prices that threaten to price out the very people who created the culture. The "curse" isn't just about what happens on the field; it's about the precariousness of belonging in a society where everything is for sale.

Labor and the Field

We often forget that the athletes themselves are labor. While Josh Allen is a multimillionaire, he and his teammates are workers within a high-risk industry that relies on their physical destruction for profit. The progressive case for sports is not about idolizing celebrities, but about recognizing the dignity of collective effort. When the Bills win, the city feels a sense of shared ownership. That feeling is the exact opposite of the alienation most Americans feel at their 9-to-5 jobs.

If we value the social cohesion that teams like the Bills provide, we must protect it from the predatory aspects of modern sports management. This means opposing the use of public funds for private stadiums unless there is a significant, legally binding community benefit agreement. It means ensuring that the workers who staff these venues—from the janitors to the concessions workers—are unionized and paid a living wage.

The Power of the Collective

The "curse" is a convenient myth because it suggests that Buffalo's fortunes are tied to fate. They aren't. They are tied to the strength of the community. The Bills Mafia has become famous for raising millions of dollars for local charities and children's hospitals, turning their collective energy into a force for public good. This is what democracy looks like in its rawest, most organic form: people coming together for a common cause, regardless of political affiliation, to care for one another.

Progressives should not look down on sports culture as a distraction. Instead, we should see it as a template for the kind of solidarity we need in our politics. The resilience of Buffalo fans is a reminder that people are hungry for something to believe in together. The tragedy isn't that the Bills haven't won a ring; the tragedy would be if we allowed the corporate machinery of the NFL to erode the community that makes the team worth cheering for in the first place.

The bottom line

We should stop subsidizing billionaire owners with tax dollars and instead pass legislation that gives fans and municipalities a path toward partial community ownership of professional sports teams, ensuring these cultural anchors can never be moved or exploited at the expense of the working class.