From November 2012 (close enough), Ben Austen immerses himself among the lost souls of the Bills Mafia and affiliated communities. A great look at what a team -- even a losing one -- means to a town -- also a losing one. It was about 24 hours till kickoff, and the Bills Mafia had taken over the Hotel Lafayette's bar in downtown Buffalo. They numbered in the 50s, though possibly there were many more. Other hotel patrons and passersby also wore Ryan Fitzpatrick jerseys and T-shirts with proclamations that said BE LOUD, BE PROUD, BELIEVE! Buffalo the team and the town, so long locked in a spiral of mutual hardship, seemed more culturally entwined than any other city and its professional sports franchise. I headed there during the run-up to the Bills' September game against New England, a festive time known locally as "Patriots Week." The Bills Mafia was observing the occasion by replaying the entire telecast of last year's Bills win over the Pats, watching the game with a holiday's gaiety, reflection, and thanks. Their celebration of the Bills was the third I had stumbled upon in two days. As early as Thursday, the game-day blimp already appeared to be pacing the skies overhead, as if personifying the teeming anticipation in the tiny-seeming people down below. The Bills Mafia called its gathering a pre-tailgate party, since members also planned to convene outside Ralph Wilson Stadium early the next morning. The Mafia was a Twitter group whose 9,000 followers include Fred Jackson, Aaron Williams, and several other current Bills players. Linebacker Nick Barnett sent a gift basket and signed gear to the bar for a Bills Mafia raffle. LaMark Brown, a 23-year-old tight end on the practice squad, joined the meet-up, talking to fans for three hours. (At the time I thought this noble and possibly expedient, a way to build a grassroots following that would lobby for his signing and extended playing time, but come Monday he was cut.) Del Reid, the group's co-founder, showed me a fist-size tattoo above his heart, the colors still moist, of the Bills Mafia logo � the Twitter bird in navy blue with a Bills red streak running along its side. Del explained that the group formed by accident, not long after Stevie � that's Bills wide receiver Stevie Johnson � dropped that pass against the Steelers; you know, the one that would have won the game back in 2010. "I PRAISE YOU 24/7!!!!!! AND THIS HOW YOU DO ME!!!!!" Stevie had tweeted. To God. The true Buffalo fans reacted by sending Johnson tweets of support. They were intimate with anguish and loss. Forget the disappearance from the city of factories and jobs and more than half the population, the Bills hadn't won a title since 1965, back when they still played in the American Football League. And over the past 12 seasons, the team hadn't even managed a wild-card berth in the playoffs, finishing above .500 just once in that stretch. Real Bills fans implicitly understood that a period of amnesty existed for no less than a day after any game, a window in which you were forgiven for whatever batshit form the enduring despair took until by, say, Tuesday, an unrequited hopefulness again took flight. But ESPN's Adam Schefter was no true fan. He retweeted Johnson's words a whole day later, which in Twitter time, Del said, might as well be 100 years. And so the social media mob dealt with it, bombarding Schefter's account with barbs for piling on so late. Someone referred to these stalwarts as the Bills Mafia, and the group was born. They became made men. Thomas DeLaus, a 24-year-old front-end supervisor at Walmart, and Nick Primerano, 31, who sells communications systems to the federal government, broke down the ethos of the group, and really of the Bills faithful more generally. "It's been a rough decade," Thomas said. "But we're a positive push for growth," Nick chimed in. "The hashtag can't be used for negativity." "No matter what, we're about team." "Whether wide right � " "And no matter what happens at 'The Ralph' tomorrow � " "It doesn't matter if it's zero degrees at the game � " "We back the players." "Community," said Thomas. "Once Bills Mafia, always Bills Mafia." The two of them seemed perfectly in sync, like a quarterback and receiver who after many seasons learn to anticipate each other's moves. Despite some differences in appearance � Nick's black goatee to Thomas's wispy blond one, Nick's bench-press bulldog build and Thomas's willowy frame � they were even dressed alike. Both wore Bills Mafia caps backward and cocked at the same leftward slant, rubber Bills Mafia bracelets, and Bills jerseys hanging loosely over jeans. So I was surprised to learn that they had met in real life only a few moments before. Up until today, they had known one another only through the tweets of @RandomlyRufus and @RealNickPrim. "I saw Fred Jackson at the mall," Nick said of the Bills running back. "I said 'Bills Mafia' to him. He said it back and gave me a pound. Now it's part of Bills nomenclature." Another fan there worried aloud that I might think them pitiful for rewatching last season's game. On the television, the year-old contest had reached the fourth quarter, and most everyone had thronged in front of the set. "I don't care if you do," the fan decided, clearly relieved. That 2011 game against the Patriots had been particularly special. Buffalo had lost 15 in a row to New England until then, dating back to the season opener in 2003, and 20 of the last 21. Tom Brady ruled them. An old-timer at the bar compared the victory last year to one in 1980 that snapped a 20-game losing streak against Don Shula's Dolphins. After last year's win, the fans remained in the stadium for 40 minutes; security ringed the field while groundskeepers preemptively took down the goalposts. Fred Jackson lofted a Bills flag and raced across the turf. The Bills were 3-0 at that point and had vanquished their nemesis. Buffalonians started debating who among them were the diehards and who were the Johnny-come-lately bandwaggoners. Bills management quickly worked out a six-year, $59 million contract extension for their quarterback, Ryan Fitzpatrick, who was with his third team and had tossed almost as many career interceptions as touchdowns. The Bills ended up losing 10 of their next 13 games. "It says a lot," a 25-year-old fan reflected, "that the greatest moment in my life is a Week 3 win over New England." The bar fell silent in the waning seconds of the year-old telecast. Bartenders stopped serving, craning their necks screenward. Older folk dining in booths laid down their utensils. "I have butterflies," Del said. When they again watched Rian Lindell kick the winning field goal as time expired, the bar shook with exultation. Fans started a chorus of the team's anthem, a version of the "Shout" song that is chanted heartily at many a Western New York wedding. "Hey-ay-ay-ay! Let's go, Buff-uh-low! The Bills make me want to SHOUT!" Someone yelled, "Fandemonium!" Jacob Gauda, a hulking 30-year-old prep cook who dressed up for games in a kind of carnival-cum-Hun regalia of zebra-print Zubaz pants, beads, helmet, and tie-dyed leg compressors, was recalling with astonishment his reaction from a year before. "I was hugging people," he announced. "I was just hugging everyone." Then last year's broadcast showed the instant replay of the very same kick. And the scene inside the bar became its own instant replay: All eyes locked on the screen, sound stopped, the patrons enrapt.