Vandemonium

It was January 3, 1993. The  Buffalo Bills were at the height of their popularity, yet having lost consecutive Super Bowls, the team Bill Polian and Marv Levy had built from the wreckage of the Kay Stephenson-Hank Bullough years found itself in an unfamiliar position.

The previous Sunday night on ESPN, Buffalo had lost not only its shot at hosting a third straight Tour de Super Bowl in Orchard Park, but also lost quarterback Jim Kelly, linebacker Cornelius Bennett, and several others due to injury.

Rich Stadium was accustomed to hosting 80,200 fans ready for another January of football. However, fans had grown accustomed to the Bills hosting a divisional playoff game, two weekends after the final regular season game. A Wild Card game? You kidding? And nine days after Christmas? Against the same Houston Oilers who whooped them, 27-3 the week before?

Needless to say, after losing a Sunday nighter, the Bills only had three-and-half days to meet the NFL's strict blackout rule to have the game televised locally.

It was surely not going to happen. If you wanted to see the game, you'd need a buddy with a black box, or head to some  obscure bar with a satellite dish crazy enough to spread the word that they'd have the game.

Those who watched the game that day heard Charlie Jones and Todd Christensen. Two solid broadcasters, but neither having their fingers on the pulse of the WNY football fan. There was only one man whom had that responsibility and honor; and one whom more Bills fans in history needed to be their eyes and ears more than any other time--before, or since.

Van Miller called The Comeback. And it was his finest three-plus hours.

Despite the two other schmucks in the booth alongside him, who'd talk over him, who'd interrupt him, it was Van who kept Bills fans believing that this third Super Bowl run wasn't about to end prematurely.

It was the Dunkirk kid who sounded as like he had spent every minute of Malcolm Gladwell's documented ten-thousand hours rehearsing for the moments Western New Yorkers needed Van to be Van Gogh as much as they needed Frank Reich to be Jim Kelly; as much as they'd needed Kenny Davis to be Thurman Thomas.

Talk about pandemonium or "Fandemonium?" How about Van-demonium?

No, Van Miller never got to call a Bills Super Bowl victory. But that's up to football players to deliver.

Steve Christie punched Van's Super Bowl championship. Like perfect games in baseball, they come from nowhere and end in magical fashion where we look back at every nuance where it could have ended, but didn't.

It could have ended the week before, had the Bills won that Sunday night.

It could have ended if Kevin Gilbride, the beleaguered Oilers offensive coordinator, had decided to run instead of shoot with a four-touchdown-plus lead.

It could have ended if the officials had noticed Don Beebe stepping out-of-bounds on his famous touchdown catch.

It could have ended if enough fans had decided to buy tickets, lifting the blackout.

In the end, a Sunday night loss, a short sellout window, and a 32-point deficit were all just the esil, the canvas, the brushes, and the paint for Van to go to work that otherwise crappy Sunday afternoon.

And who says it has to be baseball to be a perfect game? It can come from nowhere, when you don't even realize everything is right where you want it.

All the circumstances were wrong, but the Buffalo Bills made it right that day. Yet, was Van Miller who directed the near four-hour drama, bringing it to our minds' eyes the one day television couldn't come through.

Thank you, Van. We never turned the dial and we never stopped believing that day.

Many broadcasters will tell you the hardest part of the job is when the game is lopsided and you need to keep people tuned-in.

It was the Van-demonium pumping through the speakers as our hearts pumped through our chests that wouldn't let us turn the game off.

Not bad for a guy who started practicing in Dunkirk, N.Y. talking into a garden hose.

Frank Reich worked a miracle. Andre Reed was resurrected. Kenneth Davis and Don Beebe found the end zone and Nate Odomes and Steve Christie each found the ball.

And it was Van Miller who captured it all.

Thank you, Van. For that one game, let alone the many others, this fan is eternally grateful his father didn't take him to bars, nor believed in black boxes.