Fuck this Pussy Shit!
Every once in a while, you got to dispense with all the pussy shit and just man up. And THAT'S why I love playoff time. You've got football, you've got your Chilly Willy pajama bottoms, you've got a Miller High Life in one hand, your throbbing cock in the other, sitting in your reclining rocking chair waiting for your FUCKING DiGiorno to come out of the oven!!! GOD I LOVE THE PLAYOFFS!
Not normally, though. For . . . well, all of my coherent life, the playoffs have been the bane of my existence. Of course, I came out of the womb a Seahawks fan (my mom likened me to 4-year Seahawks place kicker Effren Herrera with my proficiency at kicking her womb's ASS . . . and tell me you even THINK you know who Effren Herrera is, I'll give you a big-ass fucking cookie). But, I didn't really start realizing they truly existed until about 1985 when I'm about 4 years old. I didn't actually become a fan until that game in Kansas City, I don't remember the year, maybe 1987 or 1988, when Derrick Thomas had 7 sacks on Dave Krieg, but the Seahawks still managed to keep it close. Then, on the final play of the game, Derrick Thomas had Krieg in his sights for a game-clinching 8th sack when Krieg scrambled out of it and hit one time floor-sweeper at my dad's work Paul Skansi for a leaping touchdown grab in the back of the end zone. Oh, and the crowd goes SILENT BITCHES!!!
See, you know a true football fan when they can actually recount the first game they ever saw which determined their fan-ness.
But, again, that year wasn't a success. We've had no success since 1984 when we beat the Raiders in the playoffs. We've had no REAL success since 1983 when we lost to Tom Flores and the L.A. Raiders in the AFC Championship game.
And, I'll tell you what, the Seattle Seahawks are also the reason I wanted to become a writer. That's another tell-tale sign of a true football fan, when they determine which profession you want to go into and you're NOT a cock-sure stud athlete.
Back in 1995, I remember this well. Should have been my Freshman year of High School. I was in Honors English and for the first time in my life my teacher made us keep a journal.
And for an entire semester, I was writing these four-line, one-paragraph essays of complete worthless bullshit, complete with spelling errors and the strong odor of Don't-Give-Shit-One. Then, after Christmas break, the regular football season was over, and Ken Behring was about to move the team to Los Angeles, the fucking prick. He had the moving vans and everything. So, when we got back to school, the teacher said we could write about anything we wanted in our journal that day. I tore off like five pages worth of ranting about how much of a bitch Ken Behring is. Oh, it was glorious. And, after that, all my journal entries were considerably longer and better written.
Inspiration. The Seahawks are my inspiration. So inspired (well, inspired with ill-confidence) was I that I made "The Bet." The Monday Night Steve bet (on a Monday night . . . so it's not just a clever name). The "Seahawks will never make the Super Bowl while they're called the 'Seattle Seahawks' bet in my lifetime" bet, or your $5,000 back.
What do you think the odds are of the Seahawks changing their name to the Kirkland Buzzcocks before next week? The Bellevue Hyenas? The Redmond Dirty-Dogs? No? Not looking like a happening?
The payment plan shall be SPARSE, but the debt shall be paid.
You know what, this is all I've got to say, once and for all. The Seahawks may have let me down in years past. The Seahawks may have choked when it mattered and stunk when it REALLY mattered. There may have been questionable officiating and even more questionable play calling. There may have been play-clock snaffoos and Vinnie Testaverde motherFUCKED up touchdowns at the 1 yard line. There may have been the Rick Mirer years, the Kelly Stoffer years, the Stan Gelbaugh years, the Dan McGuire years, the John Frieze years, the 87-year-old Warren Moon years, the Trent Dilfer years, the Jon Kitna years, the Brock Huard years, the Jeff Kemp years, the Gino Torretta years, the Franco Harris years, the Tom "Air" Flores years, the Dennis "College Only" Erickson years, the Mike Holmgren GM years, the Ken Behring "I'm a fucking douchebag who deserves to rot in hell" years, the Willie Williams years, the Terreal Bierra years, the Brian Bosworth vs. Bo Jackson years, the Jerramy Stevens picked in the first ROUND? years, the trade Ahman Green for a book of stamps years, the let Joey Galloway sit for eight games and watch him pull a groin years, the non-existent special teams years preventing us from the playoffs in the late 90s, the getting beat by a 95 year old Dan Marino and a 57 year old Trace Armstrong on three-straight-sacks in the fourth quarter at home in the last game of the Kingdome years, and of course, who can forget the "We're taking the ball and we're going to score" years.
But, after all that, doesn't it make the success of this year all the more sweet?
I'll tell you after next week. As a Seahawks fan, you KNOW not to count your chickens. In fact, just forget you even HAVE any chickens! That game is not over until every last second is off that clock. That game is not over until everyone's fucking left the stadium and you KNOW the doors have been locked and the hot dogs have been put away for next week. That game is not over until the whistle blows in the next week's game. As a Seahawks fan, you take NOTHING for granted.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to see what our competition is going to look like next week, as I sit here in all my manly glory, listening to Master of Puppets by Metallica, with my tall Seahawks souvenier cup of Iced Tea (soon to be a Miller High Life, as men like beer on gameday).
And the streets will flow. The streets will flow.
FOOTBALL!!!!!!!