DETROIT: There was a primordial howl. It was visceral. It was cross-generational. It seemed as though it could not grow louder, but it did. It never seemed to go away, even though it seemed like it might. It shook Ford Field’s beams and gushed out of TVs around the nation.

It was obviously loud. The Detroit Lions have about 66,000 yelling supporters within a covered stadium in the downtown area. The millions more in packed bars, at watch parties in living rooms, or even by themselves, pacing in frantic fear, are not included in that figure. At least not until head coach Dan Campbell signaled for victory formation with the score secure at Lions 24, Rams 23.

But because this was more than just an NFL wild-card game, there was more at stake than the typical crowd noise, whether intended to be distracting or celebratory. It was the roar for which some had waited thirty-two seasons and for which many more had probably given up on ever seeing it.

It was born out of the depths of countless wasted seasons and opportunities—missed opportunities at what they were finally getting to experience. It didn’t even feel like Detroit had an NFL team for the most part over the years, at least not in anything other than a supporting capacity.

They hadn’t hosted since 1993 and hadn’t won a postseason game since the 1991 campaign. There has not been a postseason win since 1957. Rather, they had losing seasons, Millennia Marches, and absurd incidents, such as when a player got cut and stole his replacement’s luggage or when an assistant coach was taken into custody for being intoxicated and nude in Wendy’s drive-through.

That was the Lions, an unflappable, recurrent punch line that served as a continual reminder of defeat in a city that so desperately wanted to be recognized for who it was becoming rather than who it had been.

While this was going on, Lions followers were forced to watch fans from other communities—including fans of expansion teams and bandwagon supporters—enjoy the excitement of playing professional football.

These playoff runs, these beautiful January nights, have a way of igniting towns. They go beyond town and suburb, employer and worker. They cross religious, racial, and political divides.