I'm one of those people who likes to feel all the feelings. If I'm sad or heart broken I will put on the saddest song that ever existed and let myself live in a space of tormented misery as I pour salt into my own open sores. If I'm happy I will put on the sunshiniest song and let all the happys fill me and pour out of me and command dance parties in the living room. It's this world of extremes I live in.
Because of this obsession with feelings, my memories are usually accompanied by the sights, smells, sounds, and the breed of butterflies that swarmed my stomach during different seasons of life.
Like when the Seahawks won Super Bowl 48. I will always remember that year when the 12th man was a movement that literally caused plates in the earth to shift. The way our friends and family would pile on each other after touchdowns. How Monday mornings meant you had no voice left. How strangers hi-fived and the state of Washington had a blue and green dress code. I'll remember listening to "I'm the Man" on heavy rotation on game days. That first year when the sweet, Super Bowl victory was ours. How the sun shone mightily on Seattle the week after and hundreds of thousands gathered for the parade of the century as the Lombardi Trophy commanded its presence in OUR town. Despite the fact that the temperature was at arctic levels, kids were pulled from school and adults took the day off work because, well, it was worth it. After all, we were the champions.
Because of this obsession with feelings, my memories are usually accompanied by the sights, smells, sounds, and the breed of butterflies that swarmed my stomach during different seasons of life.
Like when the Seahawks won Super Bowl 48. I will always remember that year when the 12th man was a movement that literally caused plates in the earth to shift. The way our friends and family would pile on each other after touchdowns. How Monday mornings meant you had no voice left. How strangers hi-fived and the state of Washington had a blue and green dress code. I'll remember listening to "I'm the Man" on heavy rotation on game days. That first year when the sweet, Super Bowl victory was ours. How the sun shone mightily on Seattle the week after and hundreds of thousands gathered for the parade of the century as the Lombardi Trophy commanded its presence in OUR town. Despite the fact that the temperature was at arctic levels, kids were pulled from school and adults took the day off work because, well, it was worth it. After all, we were the champions.
I'll also remember the year we beat Greenbay to win the NFC championship for the second year in a row sending us to the Super Bowl for the second year in a row. There will be the sharp recollection of the way my heart pounded in my chest when we faked that field goal and scored a touchdown. I'll remember we scored 15 points in 44 seconds. Unimaginable. Unexplainable. Our eyes were witnessing impossible things. The game where everyone realized that angels were in the endzone. That God was surely a Hawks fan.
And then that crappy time we lost the Super Bowl by 1 yard and the punch to the gut that felt like it might never stop stinging. The way the rain brought its dreary self to Seattle the following week as if to match the feelings we all felt. The smell of victory so close only to be stolen inches away from the endzone. How I wanted to sulk in the feeling of defeat so I read every article and listened to every sports radio station trash talk our players and us fans and the infamous 'worst call in Super Bowl history.'
Dr. Gary Smalley says, "men share facts--women share feelings." The guys I talk to are giving me the breakdown of all the things that went wrong. Where someone should've been positioned, how all the logistics should have worked out, all the stats and numbers and plays and where we went right and where we went left and where we went wrong. I hear you guys. But, I don't think I'll remember it like that.
Yes, I know Beast Mode should've gone Beast Mode and run that ball in. And Malcolm Butler came out of nowhere. And we shouldn't have blown our lead. You can talk to me about the facts guys, but let me just FEEL all of your FACTS because that is what I'm going to remember. Right now, for the love, I JUST WANT TO HUG ALL OF THE PLAYERS! No, really. Someone give me Russell's number so I can tell him how this one mistake cannot rob him of his worth and identity and we are proud! Let me sit these guys down and tell them all we still love them and support them and are so proud of how far they made it and that they got this next year and to not listen to all the sports announcing bullies.
And I love that Doug Baldwins's mom is texting him words of inspiration in the mornings and that Richard Sherman is about to be a daddy and that Russell Wilson is already back at Children's Hospital cheering up families. Yes, I love the game but I cannot separate out life. Leave it to me to turn this macho sport of tackling and testosterone into an episode of Full House.
So, that's where I'm at. The price of becoming a 12 has left me in a pit of sadness and devastation. Not in a sore loser sort of way, but out of empathy for these players I've come to love.
Don't worry, this too shall pass.
It's just a game, we made it so far, there's much to be proud of, there's hope to hold on to and there's always next year.
But, for now,
my heart is sitting on the one yard line,
feeling all the feelings.
And then that crappy time we lost the Super Bowl by 1 yard and the punch to the gut that felt like it might never stop stinging. The way the rain brought its dreary self to Seattle the following week as if to match the feelings we all felt. The smell of victory so close only to be stolen inches away from the endzone. How I wanted to sulk in the feeling of defeat so I read every article and listened to every sports radio station trash talk our players and us fans and the infamous 'worst call in Super Bowl history.'
Dr. Gary Smalley says, "men share facts--women share feelings." The guys I talk to are giving me the breakdown of all the things that went wrong. Where someone should've been positioned, how all the logistics should have worked out, all the stats and numbers and plays and where we went right and where we went left and where we went wrong. I hear you guys. But, I don't think I'll remember it like that.
Yes, I know Beast Mode should've gone Beast Mode and run that ball in. And Malcolm Butler came out of nowhere. And we shouldn't have blown our lead. You can talk to me about the facts guys, but let me just FEEL all of your FACTS because that is what I'm going to remember. Right now, for the love, I JUST WANT TO HUG ALL OF THE PLAYERS! No, really. Someone give me Russell's number so I can tell him how this one mistake cannot rob him of his worth and identity and we are proud! Let me sit these guys down and tell them all we still love them and support them and are so proud of how far they made it and that they got this next year and to not listen to all the sports announcing bullies.
And I love that Doug Baldwins's mom is texting him words of inspiration in the mornings and that Richard Sherman is about to be a daddy and that Russell Wilson is already back at Children's Hospital cheering up families. Yes, I love the game but I cannot separate out life. Leave it to me to turn this macho sport of tackling and testosterone into an episode of Full House.
So, that's where I'm at. The price of becoming a 12 has left me in a pit of sadness and devastation. Not in a sore loser sort of way, but out of empathy for these players I've come to love.
Don't worry, this too shall pass.
It's just a game, we made it so far, there's much to be proud of, there's hope to hold on to and there's always next year.
But, for now,
my heart is sitting on the one yard line,
feeling all the feelings.
