Cold is relative. Cold to me, an effete resident of Northern California, is anything within spitting range of freezing. Cold to my friend in Nevada, anything in single digits. Cold to my friend in Winnipeg? God knows, but I believe it approaches absolute zero.


Which brings me to the weather in Buffalo. Now, I have never been to Buffalo. In fact, the last time I was anywhere near there was changing planes in the Minneapolis airport. However, I did once spend three months in Cape May, New Jersey, in the middle of winter. I had so many pairs of long-johns under my uniform, I looked like the Pillsbury dough boy and wobbled about like a weeble. The Coast Guard had thoughtfully placed thermometers on every vertical surface so we always knew just exactly how cold it was.


Which brings me back to the weather in Buffalo. If weather can be a point of pride, I believe that Buffaloans have earned bragging rights. There is something about snowfall measured in yards. And the residents seem to accept this weather with remarkable aplomb. I see them on the Weather Channel, going cheerfully about their business as if they weren’t surrounded by mountains of frozen water. Bizarre . . .


And yet . . .


Which brings me back to the weather in Buffalo. My point, and I do have one, is the Winter Classic. I am a proximity-challenged Sabres fan and will be watching from the temperate climate of my sofa. And yet . . . I find myself wishing I could be there . . . outside . . . in Buffalo . . . in January. I must need my head examined.


Oh, well . . . WTH . . . Let’s Go, Buffalo!!!!