More Than A Game

We have already collectively finished our first round and just returned from the bar with fresh drinks in hand. There isn’t any seating, so we congregate together against one of the walls, where we’ve laid claim to a small pocket of space in order to be as much to ourselves as possible. It’s difficult, given the crowd surrounding us, but we make do. 

Among the seven of us, a few small conversations break out. Joshua and Vinny lean into an argument over the status of our alma mater’s basketball team this season. Next to them, Sofie and Abby continue comparisons of unfair work assignments their bosses had given this past week, with Cris trying to chime in the mix. Meanwhile I stand there, holding my drink in my left hand and my right comfortably fitted into my pocket, just taking in the scene. Sophie turns and asks me something, but the music is loud enough that I can’t make out exactly what she says. I can, however, guess by her tone that a simple nod of my head might suffice and satisfy whatever question she’s trying to ask. Hoping she doesn’t see through my act, I do my best to give the impression of intense listening, expressing a deep interest in her words that I can’t hear. It works, because she is reassured that I agree with her and turns back to Jessy. Something catches my eye. Like a hunter who has caught sight of unsuspecting prey, I watch as Vinny exchanges his glass from his left to his right hand. I instinctively check my phone quickly to confirm the time. And yes! 10:57pm. My moment to strike has come. 

The game is on. 

I have to act fast if I want to capture this opportunity. Stealthily, or at least as sneakily as possible, I slide up to his side. Remaining unnoticed, I reach over and tap his shoulder lightly. He isn’t startled when he shifts his feet to face me and I’m wearing the biggest grin on my face. I know I am, because I almost feel spiteful with glee. 

“BUFFALO!” I shout, making sure it was loud enough for him to hear me. He instantly registers the significance of my outburst, and a brief expression of ‘oh shit’ flashes over his eyes. He didn’t need to say it, I could read it on his face. He confirms what I already know by checking his own phone. “Dammit,” he says through a smile of his own. He gives out a deep-chested laugh because, despite the implications, he knows our game is out of a good-hearted nature. “You got me.” 

The name of the game is Buffalo. It was explained to me very early on in my college career, during my first semester as a freshmen. Back then I was so young, so wide eyed, and ready to swim in the promised glory that college was meant to be. There isn’t much of who I was then that I have kept with me all this time. This game is one of the few exceptions.

Buffalo is a simple game. It is relatively pointless, except for the point of getting your friends drunk while simultaneously trying to avoid the penalty of, you guessed it, drinking yourself. First, the preliminary rule to this game is that you are bound indefinitely to it. You have to agree to play the game before the rules can be explained and, once you’re involved, you preemptively agree to be playing at all times, for life. Now, in most all scenarios, I would never agree to a situation where that was the primary binding condition. It isn’t often sound advice to unconditionally oblige yourself to something without knowing what exactly it is. However, at the time we began this charade it was college, and often not much thought went into the drinking games we chose to play. 

Once you’re in, the game itself revolves around two factors: what time it currently is and which hand you are holding your drink in. The guidelines to Buffalo dictate that prior to midnight you must hold your drink in your left hand. Post-midnight you are to switch, and then continue holding your drink only in your right hand. Simple enough. The penalty, wherein lies the drinking aspect, comes into play if you catch a fellow participant holding their drink in the wrong hand at the wrong time. If this happens, one must simply say ‘Buffalo’, and the individual at fault would be compelled by the rules of the game to drink, both immediately and entirely, the full contents of whatever drink they are holding. No matter what said contents of the cup are or how much. Again, simple enough.

The effectiveness of this game depends entirely on the willingness of its participants. Back in college, we didn’t need much convincing. And many years later, apparently, we still don’t.

Lifting his glass up, Vinny clinks it against my own. “Cheers,” he says, then more sarcastically he adds, “to this never ending game.” Unfortunately for Vinny, his beer was fresh and full to the brim, but nonetheless he raises it up and down the hatch it goes. We’re all watching him now, Joshua taking queue to alter his own glass to the correct hand, wanting to avoid becoming the next victim tonight. I catch his smirk, his seal of approval that I was able to catch Vinny. Smiling back at him, I’m struck suddenly with the thought of something my father always used to say. My father has said a lot of nonsense in his life; but if there is one single shred of good advice he has parted to me, it is this: “If you can count your true friends on a single hand, then you should consider yourself a lucky man.” I can hear his voice echo in my mind, while I stand shoulder-to-shoulder with a friend who I just coerced to chug his own beer. Well, I guess I didn’t force him, but I knew before I approached him that he would be compelled to go through with it by the game, the same game we were both bound to.

Since we’ve all lost pace compared to our younger days, Vinny has to take his time to polish off the drink. But as he finishes the final gulp, he releases a deep “ahhhhhh” of satisfaction. Still smiling, he pats me on the shoulder and says, “Alright. Now I gotta make sure I get you back.” 

I respond sarcastically, “Good luck.” To this, he just keeps on smiling and embraces me before walking back to the bar to get a refill. I may not have forced him to go through with it, but I had no doubt all along that he would, just like he knows I would too had the tables been turned. After all these years we are both still compelled to play the game. It has become our pledge to each other and to the memories we’ve kept. It’s our tradition. And for this, to us, it’s more than a game.