From his perch in the nosebleeds at the Stadium Formerly Known as Rich, Dave Staba writes:

When Roscoe Parrish fielded a Seattle punt at his own 37-yard line a little more than midway through the second quarter of the Buffalo Bills’ home opener on Sunday, I felt oddly compelled to stand up.

Not simply because, like the rest of my being, my backside was soaked, thanks to the relentless shower that drenched the otherwise jubilant crowd for much of the afternoon. Nor did I experience a sudden urge to use the men’s room conveniently located near my vantage point for the home portion of the Bills’ 2008 schedule, three rows from the upper limits of Ralph Wilson Stadium.

No, I stood up because that’s what you do when Parrish touches the ball, since you don’t want to risk missing what might happen next.

After securing the ball, Parrish made a subtle juke to the left, leaving Seattle’s Logan Payne skidding along the wet turf. He shot through a narrow tunnel comprised of blockers and would-be tacklers, past five more onrushing Seahawks defenders. His speed stunned them into near-paralysis, leaving the highly paid professionals whose job description hinges on wrestling guys like Parrish to the ground unable to do much more than lethargically swipe at the blue, red and white blur.

By this point, most of my fellow residents of the upper deck, along with the rest of the nearly 72,000 people gathered in Orchard Park had risen, as well.

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