It’s 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning in early February at my parents’ house on Grand Island in western New York. I wake up bright-eyed, bush-tailed and bound down the stairs with the eagerness of a 13 year-old closeted gay teen who misinterprets the TV Guide listing for Regional Cockfighting on ESPN Desportes.

I turn on Meet the Press, hosted by Buffalo native Tim Russert. The hour focuses on the usual blather – George Bush is evil because there is a small crucifix on his tie. Hillary Clinton is an evil succubus out to steal men’s souls. Of particular concern is the content of a “Stress Release Program” for troops in the field that consists of donated Playboy and Penthouse magazine. Not surprisingly, the program is popular with troops in the field.

Coming back from commercial for the final segment, Russert has changed out of his usual shirt and tie ensemble. As a replacement, he wears a blue ball cap with a hard charging buffalo logo and a long-sleeved T-shirt that says “I Billieve.”

“It’s been 12 years since I last dressed like this on this show but we’re back,” says the guy who reminds me of my Dad. “It’s our time, America. The number one ranked defense in the league. A 2,000-yard rusher. A quarterback who finally figured out how to show more emotion than Sound Wave the Decepticon. To our friends in Carolina, sorry, this is our year. Go Bills!”

The program ends and so begins the Sunday morning ritual of cleaning dishes and gathering The Buffalo News, scattered around the kitchen table on the off chance intelligent beings from outer space stopped by and wondered what we use to capture our pet bird droppings.

Suddenly, the latest anal-suppository-that’s-also-a-fish-gutter infomercial is interrupted by NBC News. Russert is suddenly back on the air and back in a suit and tie, hair slightly disheveled from the quick change.

“We’re going live to press conference at the Pentagon with Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld,” says Russert, a little flustered.

With photographers’ shutters furiously snapping, Rumsfeld, fresh from a bath in Ra’s Al Ghul’s Lazarus Pit, steps to the podium.

Without delay, he announces the news of the year. “At approximately 3:51 a.m., local time, allied forces captured Osama bin Laden in the mountainous regions of eastern Afghanistan. The butcher of Manhattan is in an American jail cell at this hour.”

The lack of atmosphere on the Moon preserves the topographical features of that satellite. The footprints of Neil Armstrong and fellow astronauts will erode at such a slow rate as to be almost permanent.

On this day, however, the force of the collective cheer emanating from the United States travels across the dark void of space, sweeping across the lunar surface shaking pebbles loose. Eons worth of erosion occurs in moments as a result.

I literally jump up off the couch and continue to bounce around like Tiger on crack. I stop when, at 6’5”, I hit my head on the ceiling fan, thankfully not rotating at the moment.

Playing over Rumsfeld’s words are grainy, videophone images of bin Laden. Blindfolded, gagged, handcuffed and disheveled, the avatar of Islamic fundamentalism humbled before the ignorant, Jew-loving Americans.

The next few hours blur together like a herd of zebra huddled in protection from a predator. Every channel – from the networks to ESPN to VH1 to SCI FI – interrupts programming for this. Even the Fetish Channel interrupts Anal Insertion Hour so viewers can call in with their bin Laden/BDSM/pissing fantasies. Yikes.

It’s all a dizzying blur of reaction – massive crowds in Times Square watching the giant screens and celebrating. The White House releases photographs of the president “in the Oval” (to use pretentious, asshole D.C. insider-speak) on the phone hearing the news with that shit eating grin on his face. Democrats interrupt their usually moping/whining/kibitzing about the environment, the homeless, poor people, Republicans, the president, themselves, Americans and florescent lighting long enough to smile and give a thumbs up.

Much of the afternoon is spent soaking up the emotions, the images, the dizzying notion of justice finally served, of accomplishment. It’s a fist-clenching, arm-pumping, wide-eyed, spine-stiffing shot of pure adrenaline to the resolve center of the American spirit. It’s proof of movement and progress. Yes, the tiny voice in the back of my head says, we got the biggest fish, the biggest bastard. It’s just a matter of time before the remaining ones fall into our grasp.

Moments flow into minutes. Minutes transform into hours. Suddenly, gravity stops and I’m floating in my living room like Tom Hanks on Apollo 13. But then I realize that’s stupid and not funny, so gravity comes back and I land back on the couch.

But then suddenly, while changing channels, John Madden’s gravy I.V. drip-engorged face appears on the screen. With a laugh, I just remember what I’ve amazingly forgotten for the past six hours due to the euphoria – the Buffalo Bills are playing the Carolina Panthers in Super Bowl XL (that’s “40”) at Ford Field in Detroit.

Another unintended (and pleasant) result of bin Laden’s capture – the usual pre-game show jack-assery is toned down dramatically. Witty, insightful and intelligent football analysis is the norm. It is a Sunday for miracles.

The game begins on a decidedly sour note for Buffalo. After Carolina goes three and out on their first possession, Buffalo has a third down and six on their 32. Dropping back to pass, quarterback Drew Bledsoe suddenly remembers his last Super Bowl performance against Green Bay in 1997. The flashback freezes him, allowing defensive end Julius Peppers to strip the ball. The fumble is recovered by linebacker Mark Fields and returned for a touchdown.

Carolina 7, Buffalo 0.

“I bet Bledsoe wishes he’d done something different on that play,” says Al Michaels.

“Boy, now Bledsoe knows how Osama bin Laden felt this morning, I’ll tell you what,” John Madden adds with a chuckle.

Michaels pauses. “Lose some weight, John. I can smell your diabetes from here.”

Meanwhile, in the heart of every Bills fan, the icy grip of terror takes hold. Visions of past debacles rush forward.

Those fears appear unfounded. Buffalo calms down on the next possession, driving 57 yards in six minutes to the Carolina 18. Kicker Rian Lindell boots a 35-yard field goal inside the right upright.

Carolina 7, Buffalo 3.

The Panthers get the ball back on their own 15-yard line after a tremendous hit by Jason Peters on the kickoff.

Buffalo and Carolina met at Wilson Stadium in Week Seven, a 24-21 Carolina victory. A screen pass from quarterback Jake Delhomme to running back Stephen Davis in the fourth quarter led to the winning touchdown.

Linebacker Takeo Spikes remembers that play as Carolina tries it a second time. He recognizes the formation and steps in front of the pass for a 15-yard interception return for a touchdown.

Buffalo 10, Carolina 7.

The remainder of the first half is an exercise in defense. But Carolina sustains a drive that culminates in a 22-yard touchdown pass from Delhomme to wide receiver Muhsin Muhammad with 10 seconds left in the half.

Carolina 14, Buffalo 10.

The Bills bounce back after Terrence McGee returns a kickoff to mid-field to start the third quarter. Running back Willis McGahee rips off a run to the outside, down to the Carolina 19. But the drive stalls, and the Bills settle for another Lindell field goal.

Carolina 14, Buffalo 13.

The Panthers efficiently move the ball down the field on their next possession, pushing deep into Buffalo territory. On third and seven at the Buffalo 27, lineman Sam Adams flushes Delhomme from the pocket, who throws an ill-advised pass right into the arms of cornerback Nate Clemens.

The Bills drive down the field on the strength of McGahee’s legs. The drive culminates in a five-yard touchdown pass from Bledsoe to tight end Mark Campbell.

Buffalo 20, Carolina 14.

As the fourth quarter begins, fans across Western New York begin to allow themselves to believe. The Buffalo Bills might actually win the Super Bowl.

That feeling doesn’t last long. Carolina gets the ball deep in their own territory. They proceed on a 15-play drive that consumes ten minutes resulting in a one yard Davis touchdown run.

Carolina 21, Buffalo 20.

The ghosts of Super Bowls past plant themselves on the couch like unwanted drunk relatives during the holidays. Heads hang low and hope ebbs.

After a holding penalty on the kickoff, the Bills get the ball back on their nine-yard line with four minutes left in the game. A first down pass to Eric Moulds goes for 11 yards, but the next two plays combine for just three more. A delayed draw to McGahee looks to be foiled, but he busts through for a 12-yard gain and another first down.

Two minutes, forty-five seconds left. On the Buffalo 35. One time out.

On second down, Bledsoe hits wide receiver Lee Evans for a 15 gain, but he fails to get out of bounds. First down, two minute warning.

Disaster strikes. On first down, Bledsoe fumbles the snap, falling on the ball. They scramble to get off another play, a quick throw for five yards out of bounds. On third down, Bledsoe is sacked. A quick time out, their final, and the Bills face fourth and twelve from their 48.

The season comes down to one play. Bledsoe, in shotgun formation, takes the snap, tap dances in the pocket and throws …

…. to Moulds, who catches it and goes out of bounds at the Carolina 32. First down.

They run up the middle for two yards to center the ball for Lindell. As the field goal unit sets up, the clock ticks. Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen …

The next ten seconds are the longest in Western New York since 1991. Prayers – sectarian, agnostic, secular – are fervently muttered through terse lips. No one moves for fear of somehow tripping some mystic chord of memory between Buffalo and Ford Field, distracting the team.

The ball is snapped. The hold is good. Lindell’s foot connects with the ball and sends it sailing through the air.

There is so many sharp intakes of oxygen in Western New York, so many breaths held, that the orbiting space shuttle Endeavor records a brief vacuum in the area.

The ball sails as the inexorable tick of the clock reaches :00. No time left in the game. No time left for a second chance. The die is cast.

The ball sails end over end. The distance is 47 yards, just like last time. And just like in 1991, the result leaves no doubt about the outcome.

It splits the uprights straight down the middle.

Buffalo 23, Carolina 21.

The Buffalo Bills win Super Bowl XL.

The Buffalo Bills win the Super Bowl.

And Osama bin Laden is caught.

And after hours of driving around town honking my horn like a drunken bastard, celebrating with everybody else, I find Beyonce, Jenny McCarthy (circa 1995) and that chick from the Overstock.com commercial waiting in my bedroom.

Except for bathroom breaks and getting another bottle of baby oil, no one emerges from the room for the next 12 hours.

And that, dear friends, is my greatest day possible. But maybe I’m being a little too specific.

Questions? Comments? Beyonce’s phone number? E-mail me at mlucinski@yahoo.com

Michael Lucinski works for a non-profit organization in Washington, D.C. He received a B.A. in Political Science from the University at Buffalo, where he was also an editor and columnist for the student newspaper, The Spectrum. He also writes reviews for Silver Bullet Comic Books. He cuts President Bush some slack for trading Sammy Sosa.