Super Bowl Postmortem

This isn't an adventure in the conventional sense, but I thought I'd take a moment to wrap up the Seahawks' Super Bowl ride, which, for me, definitely qualifies as an adventure.

What happened to the Seahawks on Sunday didn't begin Sunday. It began years ago, thus, requires some back-story. Bear with me. We'll spare ourselves some heartbreak and start at the Mike Holmgren era, which has enough heartbreak of its own.

For most of the '90s, the Seahawks were stuck in an infinite loop of mediocrity. They routinely finished somewhere between 6-10 and 9-7, never good enough to compete for the Super Bowl, never bad enough to qualify for a high draft pick that might bring a destiny changing player. This was the franchise's darkest period. In the early years, though the team was uncompetitive, hope still existed. Now, however, hope was scarce. And when the limited supply of hope did bear some fruit, that fruit invariably had a worm in it.

Such as in 1998, under coach Dennis Erickson, when the playoffs actually were within reach (though they weren't going anywhere even if they made the playoffs). In early December, the Seahawks lost to the Jets on what was quite possibly the worst call in the history of sport. (This is not hyperbole, not much anyway.) With 27 seconds remaining and trailing, 31-26, New York quarterback Vinny Testaverde ran toward the goaline on fourth down, diving for a touchdown, only to come up about a yard short. While his helmet broke the plain, the ball never came close. The call was so obvious Ray Charles could have called it in his sleep. Blindfolded. Yet, inexplicably, a touchdown was signaled. It was little consolation when the NFL acknowledged the next day the call indeed had been botched. The Seahawks missed the playoffs by one game.

So that brings us to Mike Holmgren, who was hired after Erickson was fired following the '98 season. Although they made the playoffs in '99, the Seahawks still were mediocre for several years. Then in the last month of 2002, the Seahawks foreshadowed their future offensive success. In 2003, it was becoming clear that the only thing that could really stop the Seahawks offense were self-inflicted wounds (like Alex Bannister shorting his route in Seattle's playoff game at Green Bay, which led to Green Bay's Al Harris' game-winning interception return for a touchdown in overtime).

That, and bad calls. At Baltimore that year, officials failed to start the game clock properly, with less than a minute remaining, leading to a Seahawks loss. Again the NFL apologized the next day. The following year, in a Monday night game, Dallas' Keyshawn Johnson came down out of bounds with a pass in endzone with less than two minutes to play, but it was, of course, ruled a touchdown. The real stink, though, was the absence of a replay review, which, because less than two minutes remained, had to be initiated by replay officials, but wasn't. The Seahawks got their standard apology.

Unforced errors were a bigger problem in 2004, though. The Seahawks entered the year a trendy Super Bowl pick, which, of course, is the kiss of death. The Seahawks then proceeded to underachieve like no other, dropping passes (a league-high 44), committing inopportune penalties and generally lacking the play-to-play focus winning demands.

But things changed in 2005. Everyone said this year was different. The breaks finally came. Against the Giants in November, the Seahawks won in overtime after New York kicker Jay Feely missed three game-winning field goals. Against the Cowboys, the Seahawks scored three points in the first 59 minutes, but then scored 10 points in the final minute, the game-winning field goal set up by an interception on an errant throw by Drew Bledsoe.

These kinds of breaks didn't usually benefit the Seahawks. They don't win those types of games. Finally, the Seahawks seemed to have exorcized the demons of self-inflicted wounds and unlucky breaks.

Then came the Super Bowl.

Super Bowl XL goes right alongside Vinny, Baltimore and Keyshawn. And as far as self-inflicted wounds, well, there were plenty of those. It was so bad I thought I was watching the 2004 team. Dropped bases, penalties, missed field goal, bad time management, bad special teams.

And that's why the Super Bowl was so painful. Losing sucks, and I am a bad loser, but I could handle it (or handle it better, perhaps) had the Seahawks played to their potential. Losing I could handle if every big play by the Seahawks had not been overruled by the officials. Losing I could handle if the Seahawks had not been the best team on the field.

But that's not how it happened. Just when I think the franchise turned a corner, I realize, same old Seahawks.

Seahawks-Steelers Redux

The Seahawks are in the Super Bowl. Talk about the days of miracle and wonder. I guess it kinda figures, for me anyway, that it's the Steelers the Seahawks will play in Super Bowl XL. You see, the first NFL game I saw in person was a Seahawks-Steelers game in 1981 at the Kingdome. I didn't just attend the game, though, I, with my Pop Warner football team, suited up that day, before the Seahawks and Steelers took the field. It is one of my earliest adventures.

Each week during the NFL regular season two of the area's youth football teams are invited to play a game before the Seahawks play, a community tradition that still continues (I think). And one week, my team, the Cougars, from the beautiful Seattle suburb of Renton, was invited to play in the Kingdome against the Woodinville Seahawks (they were too uncreative to find their own name, so they had to copy the NFL team in town. Boo.).

Before the game, as we lined up perpendicular to the field entry door, a few Seattle Seahawks walked past us on their way to the lockeroom. Because we were lined up alphabetically, I was near the end of the line, second to last as I recall. (It went me, then Glenn Walker, the coach's son.) That meant I (and Glenn and coach Gary) was standing in the middle of the concourse, right in the players' path. Fun times. Kenny Easley, just a rookie then, walked past and yelled some words of encourgament, like "Go Get 'Em!" or something like that.

I honestly don't remember much from the game itself ... exept that we frickin' dominated! (That and the turf burns we all proudly wore as battle scars.) We scored 26 points in the 25-minute game, shutting out Woodinville, 26-0. We were so dominant, we never allowed Woodinville to cross midfield. I wore No. 73 and played right end. My friend Jeff, whom I am still pals with to this day, wore No. 72 and played left end. We never passed much, though, only a couple times all season, primarily because when you are eight years old it's hard to actually complete a pass.

That we killed Woodinville wasn't a surprise. We were the best team in the league. We finished the year 7-0, league champs. Our two running backs, Ricardo Aguirre and Robert Portello (who in high school earned the nickname "Lefty" because of an unfortunate accident involving his family jewels and an awkward slide into second base), were unstoppable. They always broke long runs, one lead blocking for the other. At the season-ending banquet, we received big, cool trophies, too.

Anyway, playing in the Kingdome was pretty exciting, especially for a kid like me who was undoubtedly the biggest sport fan on the team. I knew all the players' names, all their stats. When my Uncle Kenny told me that summer the Seahawks could be contenders, I said, not so fast Kenny. And sure enough, the Seahawks were an uncompetitive 6-10 in 1981. The following year, they fired their coach, Jack Patera, after two games and replaced him with general manager Mike McCormack, who then hired franchise-savior Chuck Knox in 1983.

That's when the Seahawks grew up into actual contenders and the Kingdome became so loud that you couldn't hear the guy next to you even though he was yelling. The Seahawks advanced to the conference championship that year, losing to the despised Los Angeles Raiders. Unfortunately, it took 22 seasons, four coaches, three stadiums and two uniforms for the Seahawks to get back to that point. But it was in those early years when Seattle fell in love with the Seahawks. Jim Zorn scrambling for his life, Efren Herrera faking field goals, Steve Largent birthing a Hall of Fame career. Seattle folk will always have a soft spot for the Mariners, whose Lazarus-like rise from the dead in '95 still marvels, and the Sonics, the city's first big-league team, but the Seahawks are undisputedly the favorite child.

That child, like children throughout the Puget Sound region, was reared in the din of the Kingdome. So there was a certain tinge of sadness when the Kingdome was imploded in 2000. Yes, a beautiful modern palace was on the way, but the Kingdome, its gray, concrete-ribbed roof mushrooming into the Seattle skyline, held special memories. Fortunately, after the blast I retrieved a couple of chunks of Kingdome concrete, which will always count among my favorite pieces of sports memorabilia and will always remind me of my favorite Kingdome moment -- the game I played in on the unforgiving Kingdome turf.

Not only did my team win that November day, but the Seahawks won, too, 24-21. They upset the mighty Steelers, who were looking for their fifth Super Bowl ring in eight years (One for the Thumb in '81!). My strongest memory from that game is legendary Pittsburgh coach Chuck Knoll, arms folded in disgust, being flashed on the Kingdome Jumbotron for all the Seattle faithful to mock with defeat imminent. It was great. When you're not a Super Bowl contender, upset victories like that are basically all you have.

Now the Seahawks are actually in the Super Bowl (OUCH!...had to pinch myself to make sure it's not a dream). An upset of the Steelers this time around (knock on wood), will indeed make these the days of miracle and wonder.

El Duque and Me

I had the good fortune of going to the World Series this past October, and while it wasn't the greatest World Series (the White Sox swept the Astros), it was a pretty good time, which I shared with my pal Mark (see previous post). I won't say exactly how I came to have basically an all-access pass to the Series, just in case THE MAN might be reading -- I don't want THE MAN slapping me down. But suffice to say, I had unfettered access to just about every part of the Series -- the field, the pressbox, the clubhouse, the bowels of the stadiums (which I actually always find intriguing), batting practice, whatever. For a guy like myself, whose only legit goal in life was to go to sporting events for free (dunking a basketball never really counted), this was a pretty good deal. I had work to do and the days were long, but the perks, though small and insignificant to most, made it worth it.

One of the better perks, at least for me, is witnessing the trophy presentation in the winning clubhouse. Champagne is spraying, players are screaming, stogies are stinking. It's frenzied mayhem. I wasn't necessarily a White Sox fan (nor a fan of the Red Sox the year before, whose celebration I also witnessed), but as a baseball fan, it's fun to watch the celebration first hand.

So anyway, amidst all the hoopla in the White Sox clubhouse, the party moves to the field. The players were taking pictures and passing the trophy around, each giving it a kiss or posing with it for a photograph. I was just kind of standing there watching it all, taking it all in. I scooped some dirt from the batter's box to save. (This year I was prepared. I brought a plastic baggy with me.) I stood on the pitcher's mound and surveyed the delirious scene. Game 4 being in Houston, most of the crowd was long gone. Faithful Chicago fans remained, however, partying in the stands above the White Sox dugout. The field was littered with an assortment of merry folk.

At one point, near third base, I look up and el Duque, Orlando Hernandez, is standing there lighting a stogie. El Duque, as he is known, escaped Fidel Castro's commie island to play ball in the Land of Freedom, but I don't think he left all of Cuba behind. His cigar -- a long, fat Chuchillian variety -- had a rich, aromatic scent that left me thinking he must still have the stogie hook-ups back home. So, knowing this was a pretty unique moment, and having never smoked a Cuban cigar, I asked him for a puff. He looked at me like he didn't hear me, so I repeated, "Can I have a smoke?" and pointed to the stogie in his hand. He still wasn't comprehending -- or more likely, ignoring me -- so I figured I'd give it a go in Espanol. "Hola el Duque, por favor, fumo tu cigar?" (Sorry, Senora Morton, mi Espanol es no muy bien, solamente asi asi, but don't judge your Spanish teaching skills by me.)

He now apparently got the gist of what I was asking, and promptly preceded to wave me off. He mumbled something at me, but Senora Morton never taught us those kinds of words. So, I went away without a puff, which was OK anyway. Instead, I went back into the clubhouse and picked up some champagne corks as souvenirs. And that was about it. Another World Series was in the books, though I have plenty more stories about Nolan Ryan, Papa Bush and Podsednik's home run.

In the Beginning ...

So, I was telling my pal Mark about my various experiences at this year's World Series and he suggested I share the (somewhat) amusing anecdotes with all of humanity on a blog. I laughed off the suggestion, but the next day Mark emailed with a link to this blog he created for me. I figure the least I can do is populate it with the some arguably humorous tales. (However, I reserve the right to change the name of this blog.)

It kind of figures it would be Mark, a former Yahoo! King (Mark, for those who don't know, single-handedly built the empire that Yahoo! enjoys today), who inspired this blog. A few years ago, I was flipping through one of those sorta-lame airline magazines on a plane ride and I came across a full-page ad that made such an impression on me I ripped out the page. The ad showed a sweating, 20-something chap, with a look on his face that was a cross between panic and exhilaration, running from a rampaging herd of frothing, enraged bulls pictured in the background -- clearly a scene out of the annual Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain. The ad copy asked, "Will you have enough stories to tell you grandchildren?" It was an ad for Yahoo! Travel, and since then it's always been in the back of my mind, prodding me when necessary to add to my collections of adventures (thought I've never used Yahoo! Travel for that. Sorry Mark.).

And now thanks to this guy whose veins will always course with Yahoo! blood, I am documenting these adventures in the form of ones and zeros, to live for posterity, or at least until the United Nations confiscates the Internet and, in the name of diversity, bans all blogs by white men.

In any event, now you know how this came to be. And if you don't like it, blame Mark.