Authors note: Buffalo air is sharp. Stadium lights are bright. But in the chaos, Jade finds the quiet only Josh can give… or does he? Rings, kitchens, snow, adrenaline — this universe is raw, emotional, and unrelenting. Stand here with them and feel every heartbeat. Sometimes in hoodies, sometimes in headlines…
Photo credits: Pinterest
Divider credits: @enchanthings and @saradika-graphics
Warning: injury, medical talk, inaccurate descriptions (I’m not a health professional),fear, complete fiction
It’s one of those games.
The kind where everything clicks.
Josh is on fire. Everybody is.
The Buffalo Bills are dominating the Baltimore Ravens, 25-12. The Highmark stadium is electric, cold air sharp in lungs, breath visible, crowd roaring like they can feel it in their bones — this is their quarterback. This is Buffalo. Cold, snowing, unforgiving , but theirs.
First quarter? Surgical.
Second quarter? Ruthless.
He’s reading the defense like it’s a children’s book. Stepping up in the pocket, launching perfect spirals, scrambling when he needs to, sliding clean. The scoreboard keeps climbing and climbing.
Jade is laughing in the skybox.
Actually laughing.
Hands wrapped around a paper cup she hasn’t touched because she’s too busy grinning every time the crowd explodes. She’s so proud of him, he looks so good and like he is really having a lot of fun.
“That’s your fiancé, girl” someone teases next to her.
She just shakes her head, smiling. “He’s ridiculous.”
He throws a 40-yard dart down the sideline. Touchdown.
The stadium erupts.
Cameras cut to him pointing to the stands, hyped, chest heaving, grin wide. He looks unstoppable. Confident. Veteran. Another season and playing like he owns the league.
The commentators are already saying it.
“This is MVP-caliber football.”
“He looks completely locked in.”
And he does.
He really does.
And he looks so dreamy doing it.
Halftime comes with the Bills comfortably ahead. Josh jogs into the tunnel, slapping helmets, adrenaline high. He glances up toward the suites — finds her suite.
He always finds her. Even if he can’t see her he knows.
He taps his chest once. Subtle.
She taps back.
Three years. Engaged now. Nothing about that changed how they know each other. He still looks for her the same way he did in year one.
Second half starts.
The Ravens adjust. Defense tightens. The game gets chippier. Hits get harder.
Josh takes one sack — pops back up instantly.
Another hit — shakes it off.
He’s still sharp. Still dominant. Still Josh.
Until.
Third quarter. 8:12 on the clock.
Third and long.
He drops back. Pocket starts to collapse. He steps up — sees an opening — pump fakes left.
And doesn’t see the blindside pressure.
It happens fast.
Too fast.
Helmet to helmet.
The crack is sickening.
Not the normal thud of pads.
A sharp, wrong sound.
The ball flies loose.
Josh’s body goes down hard.
Flat on his back.
The hit is wrong.
Jade knows football. She’s watched enough games, lived enough seasons, saw him took hit so many times. But know the difference between a normal sack and something that makes your stomach drop before your brain can process why.
This one is wrong.
And he doesn’t get up like always.
At first, no one panics. Quarterbacks get hit. He’s taken harder shots. He always pops right back up, shakes it off, adjusts his helmet like it’s nothing.
But this time… he doesn’t.
He’s flat on his back.
The stadium noise shifts — not quiet, but uncertain. Like fifty thousand people inhaled at once and forgot how to exhale. And trainers are running. Some of the Bills players are waving, something is not fine.
Jade’s fingers dig into the railing of the Bills’ WAG skybox. She doesn’t realize she’s standing until someone beside her says her name.
He moves.
But slow.
Too slow.
Careful.
He rolls slightly, hand going to his helmet like he’s trying to remember where he is. He blinks up at the sky. The cameras zoom in — she hates that.
Concussion…… He is having a concussion. Her mind is going.
Jade hates how the whole world gets to see his confusion in high definition.
“C’mon,” she whispers under her breath. “Get up, Josh. Get up. Please baby.”
He tries.
He pushes to his elbow. His legs don’t cooperate.
The trainers are already there, crouching.
The stadium is quieter now. Not silent — but wrong. The kind of noise that’s thinner. Fragile.
Josh finally sits up, but he doesn’t look right. He’s staring ahead, unfocused. Like he’s searching for something just out of reach. Ronald Curry is holding his shoulder.
Sean McDermont kneels in front of him, asking questions. Jade can see their lips moving. Josh nods once. Head coach stands up and waves hand to the medical staff. Tent is being put up.
He tries to stand.
Too slow.
His knees buckle. The quarterback trainer stabilizes him. And Stefon Diggs grabs Josh from the other side.
The entire skybox gasps at the same time.
“Oh my God,” someone whispers.
They catch him under the arms, steadying him. He’s upright now, but swaying slightly. His helmet is taken off. His hair’s damp with sweat. His expression is… distant. Stefon says him something and Josh just shakes head slightly.
Jade’s heart is pounding so loud she can’t hear the crowd anymore.
She’s panicking, she’s scared. He’s not okay.
They start walking him toward the sideline.
He’s not walking alone.
They’re holding him up.
Each step looks deliberate. Careful. Like his brain has to manually instruct his legs how to function. Stefon still talking to him looking at him with worried expression.
The cameras follow.
Fans are standing now, hands on heads, mouths open. The commentators’ voices turn clinical, concerned.
“That didn’t look good.”
“They’ll take him to the medical tent.”
“He looked a little unsteady there.”
A little?
Jade’s nails are digging crescents into her palms. She’s trying to calm herself down.
They disappear into the blue medical tent.
And she loses sight of him.
That’s worse. She doesn’t see. She doesn’t know. He is in.
The skybox is quiet. Too quiet. The other wives and girlfriends don’t know where to look. Some are pretending to watch the game. Some are watching her. Jades best friend Maddie just hugs her.
She’s still standing.
Still staring at the tent. Praying her man is okay.
Her phone buzzes.
She doesn’t look.
It buzzes again.
Still she doesn’t look.
Minutes stretch in a way that feels violent. The backup quarterback is warming up. So Josh is not coming back.. The stadium noise tries to rebuild itself, but it’s fractured. Distracted.
Then she sees movement.
The tent opens. First out is Sean. Then Ronald.
After themJosh steps out. This time two medics steadying him.
He’s not right.
His hand is on the medics’s shoulder. His eyes are squinting against the light. He pauses like the sun is too bright. Like everything is too loud.
Sean and Ronald talk again. Quick. Focused. Sean goes back to team. Ronald gestures to tunnel.
And then start walk with Josh toward the tunnel.
He’s not going back to the sideline.
He’s going inside.
The crowd reacts immediately.
A low groan rolls through the stadium.
“What’s wrong with our QB?” someone shouts from somewhere below. “Where’s Josh going?”
Jade finally exhales — but it’s shaky. Incomplete.
They’re taking him to the locker room.
That means it’s real.
He disappears down the tunnel, trainer at his side.
And that’s when the door to the skybox opens.
No one knocks.
It just opens.
An intern — barely older than college age — steps inside wearing a Bills credential around her neck. Ashlynn. She looks pale. Professional. But pale.
The entire room goes silent.
Because interns don’t come up here during games. That’s the rule.
Not unless something is wrong.
Her eyes scan the room.
Land on Jade.
“Ms. Edwards?” she asks carefully.
The name hits wrong. Too formal. Too sharp.
Jade nods once. She doesn’t trust her voice.
“They’re taking him to the locker room for further evaluation,” the intern says. “The coach, Mr. Curry requested that you come down. He sent me.”
The entire skybox freezes.
Someone actually inhales sharply.
Requested. Ronald Curry.
That word is heavy. And also they are here fast.
Jade doesn’t grab her purse. Doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t look at anyone. Just squeezes Maddie’s hand as Maddie just says “go.. text later..”
She just moves out of the place.
The intern leads her out quickly, through the private hallway, down restricted elevators. The stadium noise grows muffled, distant, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and echoing footsteps.
Her heart is in her throat.
She’s been through injuries. Josh’s. Hers. Her brothers…
Sprained elbows. Shoulder scares. Bruised ribs.
But this feels different.
Helmet to helmet.
The way he couldn’t stand.
The way his eyes looked… blank.
They reach the tunnel.
The noise of the game is far away now, like it’s happening in another world.
A security guard lets them through without a word, just gestures to the medical room.
And that’s when she sees him.
He’s sitting on a bench just inside the medical room.
Helmet gone.
Jersey still on.
Elbows on knees.
Staring at the floor.
Ronald is kneeling in front of him again, shining a light in his eyes.
“Josh,” the trainer says calmly. “Look at me.”
He looks up slowly.
Too slowly.
Jade’s chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.
He blinks at the trainer. He is slow.
Then his eyes drift.
And land on her.
There’s a flicker there.
Recognition.
Relief.
But also confusion.
Like he’s trying to place how she fits into this moment.
The coach just looks behind him and sees Jade too. He stoods up.
Jade steps in slow.
“Hello baby” she says softly.
His brow furrows just slightly.
And that’s when her stomach drops.
Because for half a second —
he looks like he’s trying to remember her name.
Not fully blank.
Not completely lost.
Just… searching.
Like the file is there, but it won’t open.
Jade feels something cold crawl up her spine.
“Hey,” she says again, softer this time. Closer.
Ronald glances at her quickly, reading her face, then turns back to Josh. “Can you tell me who this is Josh?”
Josh blinks.
Once.
Twice.
His eyes stay on her face, scanning. Like he’s trying to focus a camera lens that won’t quite sharpen.
He swallows.
“…my wife,” he says slowly.
It’s there.
But delayed.
Relief crashes into her chest so fast it almost makes her knees weak.
“Oh,” she breathes, stepping to him. “Josh…”
Ronald nods once, calm but serious. “Good. Good. Okay. Josh, what quarter were we in?”
Josh frowns again. His hand moves to his temple.
“Second?” he guesses.
Jade’s heart drops again.
“It was third,” Ronald says gently. “That’s okay. What do you remember last?”
Josh looks annoyed now. Frustrated. Like his brain is betraying him and he hates it.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, voice rough. “Just got my bell rung.”
“What do you remember last.”
“Ravens linebacker telling me off” he says annoyed.
Jade knows that tone.
Defensive.
Minimizing.
He tries to push himself up straighter, but the movement is clumsy. Off balance. Ronald steadies him immediately. Jade from the other side.
“Easy,” the trainer says. “Don’t.”
Josh looks at Jades side and her hand on him, and this time the confusion is less — but the vulnerability is worse. They sit him back down.
“I fumbled,” he says quietly.
That’s what he’s worried about.
Not his head.
Not the fact that he can’t remember the quarter.
The fumble.
Jade kneels in front of him before she even realizes she’s moving. She puts her hand on his thigh.
“You don’t care about that right now,” she says firmly. Softer than anger, but stronger than comfort. “You care about your brain.”
He gives her a faint, crooked smile. “It’s attached to me, so yeah. I care.”
The joke is weak.
Slow.
But it’s him.
She reaches for his hands.
They’re cold. And wet.
“Look at me,” she says gently.
He does.
And this time, there’s no delay in recognizing her. His eyes soften.
“Jadey,” he murmurs.
“Boo,” she whispers back.
Ronald stands, speaking quietly to another medical staff member in the corner. Words like “protocol,” “evaluation,” “no return,” float through the room.
No return.
Josh hears it too.
His jaw tightens.
“I can go back,” he says automatically. “I’m good.”
“You’re not going back,” Ronald says immediately. “You are not good.”Calm. Final.
Josh exhales sharply through his nose, frustrated.
The competitor in him is still alive and screaming.
Jade squeezes his hands. “You scared the hell out of me.”
He blinks at that.
“I did?” he asks.
She swallows.
“Well you couldn’t stand up alone.”
That lands.
He looks down at his own legs like he’s personally offended by them.
“…Oh.”
The room feels too bright. Too clinical. The muffled roar of the stadium seeps through the walls like it’s happening underwater.
Josh rubs his forehead slowly.
“It’s loud,” he mutters.
“I know,” she says instantly.
“No,” he shakes his head slightly. “Like… loud inside. In my brain.”
Her chest tightens.
Ronald steps back in. “Jade?We’re going to take him further inside. Quiet room. Continue testing. You can come with him.”
Josh shifts like he’s about to stand too fast again.
Immediately, Jade rises with him.
He wobbles.
Just barely.
But enough.
She’s at his side before anyone else can be.
His arm comes around her shoulders instinctively.
Not because he’s romantic.
Because he needs balance.
That realization nearly cracks her in half.
They move slowly toward the back hallway.
Every step careful.
Measured.
The competitor is gone now.
This is just Josh.
Disoriented.
Trying to stay upright.
Halfway down the hall he pauses.
“Did we win?” he asks suddenly turning his head to hers.
Jade looks at him.
The question is so simple it hurts.
“It’s still going,” she says softly. “But you were killing it.”
He frowns like he’s trying to grab the memory.
“Oh. I remember…” he trails off. “Touchdown?”
“You threw three.”
That makes a faint spark of pride flicker in his eyes.
“Nice,” he murmurs.
Then he squints again, like the effort of thinking physically hurts.
They reach a smaller medical room.
Quieter.
Dimmer lights.
Ronald guides him onto the table.
“Stay with me, Josh,” he says calmly. “We’re going to run through some things again.”
Jade steps back slightly, giving space — but Josh’s hand tightens around hers.
Reflex.
Don’t leave.
She doesn’t.
She stays right there.
Medic shines the light again.
“Follow my finger.”
Josh tries.
His eyes lag.
Just slightly.
But enough to make every medical professional in the room exchange a look.
Jade sees it. And she knows.
This isn’t minor. This is bad enough.
Josh swallows hard.
“…Head hurts,” he admits quietly.
And that’s when her composure finally fractures a little.
Because he never admits pain like that.
She brushes her thumb over his knuckles.
“I know, baby,” she whispers. “I know. You will be okay.”
He looks at her again. Clearer this time. Scared.
And that terrifies her more than anything.
Because Josh Allen — veteran quarterback, leader, unstoppable in snow and chaos — does not get scared.
But right now? He is.
Andrew, the Bills medic, watches Josh’s pupils again. Longer this time. Then he straightens up.
His voice stays controlled. Professional. But it drops half a tone.
“We’re treating this as a grade three.”
The words hang in the air.
Jade blinks. “Grade three like—”
Andres nods once. No sugarcoating. “Severe concussion. He had a brief loss of consciousness on the field.”
Her stomach drops.
“What? He blacked out?” she asks immediately.
“In the tent,” Ronald says carefully. “For about two minutes. And also amnesia, like not remembering third quarter.”
Two minutes.
Two.
That’s not just dazed.
That’s gone.
Jade’s hand tightens around Josh’s automatically. He frowns slightly. “I did?”
Ronald kneels back down in front of him. “You don’t remember that part?”
Josh shakes his head once — too fast. He winces immediately.
“Don’t do that, please.” Jade whispers, instinctively bringing her free hand to his jaw up his face.
He looks smaller sitting there.
Not physically.
But in presence.
Like the adrenaline drained out of him and left something fragile behind.
“Headache’s bad Josh?” Andrew asks.
Josh swallows. Nods
“…Yeah.”
“Scale of one to ten?”
He hesitates. “…Eight.”
Jade inhales sharply. He doesn’t say eight. He never says eight.
Andrew exchanges a look with the other medic in the room.
“We’re sending you for a MRI,” he says calmly. “Just to rule out bleeding. You’re not returning. Not today. Not this week. You’re done. Jade will control you.”
Josh doesn’t argue this time. That scares her more than if he had.
Instead, he shifts slightly on the table. His breathing changes. Slower. Heavier. The adrenaline is wearing off.
And suddenly he looks… exhausted.
He sits up the table before anyone can stop him — but not in a dramatic way. Just tired. And he reaches for Jade without warning.
His arms go around her hips.
His forehead presses into her stomach.
He folds into her like he’s anchoring himself.
For a second she freezes.
Then her arms wrap around his back instantly. He buries his face even deeper against her.
“I’m tired,” he mumbles against her.
Her heart cracks.
“I know, boo,” she whispers, fingers sliding into his damp hair carefully. “I know. I’m here.”
He doesn’t move. Just face buried to her and holding her like a kid who scraped his knee too hard and doesn’t want anyone to see.
Andrew looks away for a second. Gives them space.
Josh exhales slowly against her.
Then—
“I wanna puke.” The words are quiet. Almost embarrassed.
Ronald moves fast. Trash can again. Andrew at his side.
Josh barely makes it before dry heaving hard, one hand gripping the rim, the other still twisted into Jade’s hoodie like he’s afraid she’ll disappear.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs, one hand on his back, the other steadying his neck. “Just breathe. Just breathe.”
He spits. Wipes his mouth weakly with the back of his hand.
His eyes are glassy now.
“Lights are weird,” he mutters.
Ronald nods. “We’re moving.”
He stands and addresses Jade directly.
“We can transport without ambulance. He’s stable. But we need imaging. Andrew will ride with you.”
“You’re sure?” she asks immediately.
“Yes. We don’t need sirens. But we need a hospital.”
She nods once. Decision mode clicks in.
Okay.
Hospital.
CT.
Clothes.
Car.
She pulls back slightly from Josh.
“I need to grab your stuff,” she tells him gently.
He doesn’t let go immediately. “No..”
“Joshua..”
His grip tightens for half a second.
Then he nods.
“Don’t take long, hun” he murmurs.
That almost undoes her.
“I won’t,” she promises and kisses his head.
Then she presses a quick kiss to his temple — careful, soft — and steps away.
The second she leaves the room her breathing turns sharp.
Locker room hallway feels colder.
Too bright.
She moves fast into his locker.
His bag.
His hoodie. The grey one he always wears postgame.
Sweats.
Sneakers.
Her hands are shaking but efficient. She throws everything else into the duffle bag.
She’s seen him injured.
She’s seen him sore.
She’s seen him stitched.
But she has never seen him not recognize her for half a second.
That moment replays.
My wife.
Delayed.
Searching.
Almost right, fiancée but he calls her his wife for a long time. He is so excited to be her husband. And Jade to be his wife.
She swallows hard.
When she gets back to the medical room he’s sitting again — hunched forward slightly, elbows on knees. Ronald beside him. The medic packing equipment.
Josh looks up when she enters.
There’s immediate relief in his eyes.
“There you are,” he says softly.
“I told you I’d be quick.” He nods slowly.
Then squints.
“Did I play bad?” he asks suddenly.
The question slices through her.
“No,” she says firmly, kneeling in front of him again. “You were insane. You were on fire.”
He frowns. “Then why do I feel like I messed up?”
Because your brain just slammed into someone else’s, she thinks. But she doesn’t say it.
“You didn’t mess up,” she says instead. “Your brain needs a minute.”
Andrew helps him stand again. Ronald retreats from the room.
This time Josh leans heavier into Andrew, while Jade steps closer.
“Hey,” she says softly, hands already moving. “We’re getting you comfy. Are you okay with that?”
Josh nods once, but his eyes squeeze shut like the movement costs him. She reaches for his jersey first, peels the jersey up carefully, lifting it slow over his head.
Her fingers work at the pads, unclipping them slowly so she doesn’t jolt him. The familiar routine feels unreal in this context — she’s helped him undress after games a hundred times. Laughing. Teasing.
Not like this.
The pads unbuckle and Josh exhales like they weighed fifty pounds.
“Better?” she asks.
“A little.” His voice is small.
Jade lifts them off.He winces.
“Sorry, sorry,” she murmurs immediately.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, though it clearly isn’t.
The compression shirt comes next. Damp. Clinging. She rolls it up gently instead of tugging.
Andrew keeps a steadying hand on Josh’s shoulder because he’s swaying slightly just sitting there.
When his chest is bare, Jade presses her palm flat against his sternum for half a second.
Grounding herself.
Grounding him.
“You with me?” she asks quietly.
He nods.”Yeah. Just… spinny.”
They sit him back again. Her throat tightens.
She kneels to unlace his cleats.
His hands drop uselessly between his knees. Normally he’d tease her for this — make some cocky comment about being spoiled, or something horny.
Now he just watches her like she’s the only stable thing in the room.
She pulls one cleat off.
Then the other.
Peels his socks down.
Slides on fresh ones.
Every motion gentle.
Every motion deliberate.
Andrew keeps talking softly in the background, checking his responses. Josh answers slower now. Words lagging. He is crashing down, he is getting sleepy.
She helps him stand just enough to slide the football pants down.
He grips Andrew tighter, breathing uneven.
“I’m gonna puke again,” he mutters suddenly.
Andrew’s already there with the bag.
Josh barely turns before he dry heaves again, body jerking. He throws up violently. Jade’s hand stays on the back of his back.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. Let it out.”
He hates this. She can feel it in the tension of his shoulders.
When it passes, he sags against Andrew.
“I’m being dramatic,” he mumbles weakly.
Her head snaps up.
“You got knocked unconscious for two minutes, Joshua.”
He blinks at that.
“…Yeah.”
That almost breaks her again.
She slides the grey sweats up his legs once he’s steady enough. Adjusts the waistband carefully.
Sneakers next.
Then the hoodie.
She lifts it slowly, guiding it over his head like he’s made of glass.
He smells like sweat and cold air and faint metallic field scent, something so undeniably him.
When she pulls the hood down, his hair sticks up messily.
Normally she’d laugh.
Now she just smooths it gently.
“There,” she whispers.
He looks at her like she just saved his life.
Andrew hands her the folded uniform pieces and she packs them quickly into the duffle.
Car keys.
Medical folder.
Bag.
Andrew shoulders everything.
Jade steps into Josh’s space again. He leans into her without hesitation.
Full weight. Like his body decided she’s the safest wall in the building.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into her shoulder as they start walking.
“For what?”
“For being… like this. And for being heavy.”
Her jaw tightens.
“You got your brain rattled. You’re not ‘like’ anything.And yea, you are piece of man, but I can handle it.”
He huffs faintly.
“Big teddy bear?”
She swallows hard. Little tears in her eyes.
“You are a big teddy bear,” she says softly. “Just one with a concussion.”
They move through the hallway slowly. Security clears paths instantly. No one makes eye contact. Everyone knows.
Josh keeps his arm around her shoulders, head tipped slightly toward her like he’s conserving energy. The world is dimmer for him now.
Outside air hits again.
Cold Buffalo night.
They get him into the backseat of his truck. Andrew takes the driver’s seat. Jade climbs in beside Josh. He immediately shifts toward her. Forehead against her collarbone. Her arm wraps around him instinctively.
Andrew pulls out of the stadium lot carefully.
Buffalo lights blur past.
Josh’s breathing is uneven. They made it out of the stadium parking lot.
Then—
“I’m gonna—”
She grabs the bag just in time. He vomits again. Harder this time.
Her hand never leaves his back.
Andrew stays steady up front. Focused. When it passes, Josh collapses against her.
“I’m gross,” he mumbles weakly.She presses a kiss into his hair.
“You’re concussed.”
“Sexy..”
He squints up at her slightly.
“You’re really pretty.” Her lips tremble in smile despite everything.
“That’s the head injury talking.”
“No,” he murmurs. “Always think that. I’m lucky I pulled you.”
He shifts again, burrowing into her stomach like earlier.
“I don’t like how my brain feels,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“It’s loud.”
“I know.” He grips her hoodie.
“You won’t leave?”
“Never.”
“You sure?”
“I am honey.”
“Okay. That’s all I need.”
The city passes slow outside the windows.
He throws up twice more before they reach the hospital.
Each time she holds him.
Each time he apologizes.
Each time she tells him to shut up and breathe.
By the time Andrew pulls into the emergency entrance, Josh is half-drifting. Not asleep. He really wants to, but they wont let him.
So he’s just fading in and out. She cups his face gently.
“Stay with me,” she whispers. His eyes open slowly.
“Jadey.”
“I’m here.” He gives the faintest smile.
“Still gonna marry me?” Her breath catches.
“Especially now, you idiot.”
That earns the smallest, tired huff of a laugh. “Okay.”
And then Andrew is opening the door.
Hospital lights waiting.
And Jade tightens her grip on him before the chaos begins.
Josh Allen Lifts Bills Past Jaguars on 빠른티비 스포츠중계 🏈⚡
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With the road playoff barrier finally cleared, the Bills move forward carrying momentum and belief. For supporters watching through 빠른티비, the performance signaled a team ready to keep pushing deeper into January 🏈🔥
🔥 Look forward to the next game!
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Reposted from @lefternco “NO ILLUSIONS” by @itinerantprinter Buffalo is a city of contradictions, a place full of untold beauty and impoverished despair; a place full of hope but saddled with regret; a place where escape seems necessary but staying feels inevitable. But it is also a City of No Illusions – we hold all of these feelings inside of us simultaneously, maintaining a precarious balance, doing a delicate dance with all the things that have value in the world, and we face the challenges that accompany them head on. This print is a love letter to living life in that bald-faced, brash, Buffalo way, and takes a small dig at the New England dynasty that they (and many others) believed could last forever. That delusion has been upended, and there’s been a changing of the guard. It’s also a roughshod, nostalgic nod to Zubaz, those mainstays of stadium fashion that Buffalo embraced *a little more* than the rest of the world. Set using antique moveable type, made by hand on an antique printing press, each letterpress poster is slightly different than the rest, meaning each piece in the edition is truly one-of-a-kind. Note: this print borrows a nickname for Buffalo, with permission, coined by local artist Michael Morgulis: “The City of No Illusions.” A limited amount of these stamped & numbered prints are available on our site (link in bio). All season, individual print sales will help support @buffalostringworks . THE RALPH IS GOING TO BE ROCKIN SUNDAY. GO BILLS. #gobills #billsmafia #buffalobillsfootball #buffalony #buffalony #buffalobillsmafia #buffalobills #letsgobuffalo (at Rich Stadium, Orchard Park ,Ny) https://www.instagram.com/p/CnIK50QJB15/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
