Monday, February 3, 2014

It's Morning in Seattle.

43-8. Wow, didn't see that coming.

They did it. We did it. 

We are the champions, my friends. The Seattle Seahawks destroyed Peyton and his Broncs as if they were the semi-pro Algona Aardvarks. You know the team, right? The wide receiver works in the paint department at Home Depot and the quarterback played for Algona High back in the day, but now he's thirty pounds heavier and his helmet hurts his hair plugs? Yeah, those guys.

As I've mentioned a few times before, if you're not from Seattle, it might be hard to relate to our historical futility. The last team to win a major title was the 1979 NBA Supersonics, back when a Walkman cost 200 bucks and a gallon of gas was 89 cents. Jimmy Carter was president and I thought seriously about fathering Olivia Newton John's children, sometimes up to three times a day.

Who would have known that three and a half decades would pass before the Jet City would again kiss the cup?

Folks in other towns have toasted their franchises on countless occasions during the Emerald City's three-and-a-half-decade drought. New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Baltimore…hell, even Tampa Bay won a world championship while Seattle warmed herself in a stuffy slicker of Prozac and Pearl Jam. Boston twice vanquished the Bambino's curse, while the Patriots, Celtics and Bruins accumulated hardware like Fred Sanford. Marcia's nose never would've been broken if it had been Tom Brady, rather than Greg, throwing that pass.

Meanwhile, things grew worse in Seattle. Thanks to a Starbucks cracker and an Okie fracker, the Sonics jumped ship in 2008. A perfect storm engulfed the Northwest, a convergence zone of greed and dishonesty rendering our citizens disillusioned and bitter. Fortunately our baseball team, the Mariners, contended for the pennant on a yearly basis, often well into the second week of the season. 

Until last night, Seattle resided with its own bambino, but this baby was 35, still living downstairs and only coming up to pee and stock up on pork rinds and Mountain Dew. 

Prior to Super Bowl XLVIII, the Broncos and Seahawks had squared off 53 times, and never in the history of the rivalry had either team won a game by more than 24 points. Not once in 37 years had one team dominated the other with the prowess of an Appalachian canoe-welcoming committee.

Until last night. At the conclusion of the bloodbath, as Peyton Manning waded through a blizzard of blue and green, congratulating his opponents and consoling himself with the bland promise of Papa John's pie for life, I drank in the dignified gait of a vanquished warrior. How noble he looked, how proud he stood in the Bronco uniform, its orange the color of smoked salmon and Cheeto vomit…and a tear came to my eye.

Damn allergies. 

Here's to Russell and Marshawn,  the Legion of Boom  Michael, Cliff, Percy and every Twelve who's spent the past 21 weeks sweating and bleeding blue, green and occasionally wolf grey. You deserve this.

We deserve this.

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