Ich Bin Ein Seahawks Fan
The streets were eerily deserted when I drove home this afternoon after my tax prep workshop. Clearly, most of the citizens of Our Fair Burg were either ensconsed on the edges of their hard plastic stadium seats in Mr. Allen's House Of Corporate Tax-Subsidy And Sports Emporium, or crowded around the bazillion large and small screen TV's that, even as we speak are sucking kilowatts by the second from the regional power grid.
Although I'm not big on sports (the closest I get is my annual spring flirtation with fair-weather baseball appreciation), I can nevertheless understand the impulse to jump on the bandwagon, as it were. With the exception of a late '70's NBA championship, and last year's Seattle Storm crown in the WNBA, Seattle has otherwise never experienced the spectacle of tens of thousands of jersey clad fans trashing the downtown core in a frenzy of beer-fueled civic self-adulation (well, there was that Stanley Cup victory in aught whenever back in the last century, but there are probably only a handful of aged denizens or sports historians who even remember we once had a professional hockey franchise. And also, the WTO riots weren't sports related, so they don't count either).
In fact, Seattle sports teams have developed something of a reputation over the years for their tendency to choke under the pressure of post-season performance. The aforementioned Sonics have suffered more playoff collapses than even the most loyal fan cares to recall, while the hapless Mariners have squandered their two or three chances at World Domination, most recently in 2001 after a record-setting 116 win season, only to crumble like fresh Feta 4-1 in the ALCS at the hands of their dreaded rivals the New York Yankees.
So, given the fact that for once a local team is making a better-than-predicted showing (the current 27 - 7 - er, make that 34 - 7 score is commanding, and apparently unassailable), and barring some unforeseen disaster late in the 4th quarter, at this point I suppose it's both forgiveable, and perhaps even expected if one is swept away on the cresting tide of the mass culture zeitgeist.
But doing so turned out to be more of a challenge than I expected. The local station airing the game isn't one of the three I can pick up on my non-cable connected TV, and my stereo seems completely unable to pull in anything on the AM band. And of course, the NFL has blocked all online streaming, so it was only by luck that I remembered the boom-box in my kitchen could tune into the correct station. But now, here I am listening to the local play-by-play with one ear, while I write this.
However, I have to draw a line somewhere, so I won't be among the post-game celebrants who will no doubt be swarming out of the various stadia, watering holes, and domiciles to dance in drunken revelry through our streets in a Bacchanalian orgy of Super Bowl Fever. Besides, I've got a meet-n'-greet for the next theatre project I'll be working on starting at 7:00 p.m., right about the time the game lets out.
Still, I wish 'em all the best.
Rah, and all that.
on 6:16 PM