The Seahawkalypse


Hi there – been a long time, I know. God Bless Lisa, she asked me when we put this site up if I was going to participate or if I was going to leave her hanging. Well, I told her “A” and have been doing “B” for months and apparently she still loves me. Part of my particular brain damage is I feel like I owe a post on X subject and since I haven’t written it I get that guilty, late-for-work feeling and then it snowballs and blah blah blah . . . anyway, here are a few posts I’m just going to wave bye-bye to:

* Terry and I had a racquetball rematch. He won again, and I pulled a hammy, but I just can’t find the energy to make it funny this time.

* We went to Sumter for Christmas. We had a really great time, but it’s not like we took safari photos. It was a pretty quiet week chatting with my folks and soaking in small-ish town life (although Sumter isn’t that small anymore).

* Anybody who’s seen me in the last, oh, decade, knows I could stand to lose… ah, let’s call it a metric fuck-ton and leave it at that. I will not discuss diet or exercise again, but early signs are that I am, in fact, actually taking it seriously this time. Check back in October.

So what am I going to talk about? Well, after the Seahawks beat the heavily-favored New Orleans Saints a couple weeks ago, my mom thought “I should call John and see if got to watch the game.” Unfortunately I couldn’t take the call, because I did watch the game. I was there. It was just as amazing as you could possibly imagine – the fans at Qwest Field are really good for any game, and for this one (especially after the 1st quarter, when it became clear that we were actually in the game) they were transcendent. We cheered, we yelled, we shrieked, we high-fived the drunks in the row ahead of us, we high-fived the immigrants making cricket comparisons in the row behind us… really, it was just great.

I couldn’t talk for about four days, at least not without sounding like I had strep throat. It was completely worth it, though. There are a hundred thousand old-timers in New York who will tell you about their dads taking them to see Bobby Thompson hit his home run in ’51, but I’m staking my claim now  – I was actually there.

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