Saturday night I went shopping with </a></b></a>geolinguist and then to a lovely little dinner party at Dave's house. Two kinds of paella and much wine was had. Mark met up with us after the show and then we went to meet the cast and </a></b></a>kahteeyah at the Peanut Farm where Veronica was performing.
Sunday morning Mark and I got up not so bright and early to spend a day watching football with </a></b></a>kahteeyah and </a></b></a>scooterpbakes.
Yes, you read that correctly. </a></b></a>ghost_light was watching football.
</a></b></a>ghost_light actually enjoys football now and then. How is the possible?
First, a bit of background.
My dad was a sportswriter. I grew up in a house where Monday Night Football was the weekly church service. I have a picture of my grandfather and I, him looking ready to burst with pride, me, all of a year old, with both arms high in the air signaling "TOUCHDOWN!"
It was probably about this time, give or take 4 years, a family joke originated, one that haunts me to this very day.
I clearly recall my dad leaning down to talk to me, blue eyes twinkling like a suburban Father Christmas and asking The Question. The Question that still rings in my ears on snowy January Sundays....
Dad: So, Jan, who's going to win the Superbowl this year?
Me, bursting with home team pride: THEAHAWTHS!!!
Dad: *pisses himself laughing.*
With the sound of that laughter burning my tender little ears I made a solemn vow. I swore that someday, SOMEday, I would be right. I swore to the Football Gods that one day I would see the Seahawks go to the Superbowl no matter what I took. It would happen and I would be there....
Interviewer: Hi Bob, we're here at the bedside of little Janny Ingraham who is celebrating her 114th birthday today. Jan, to what do you attribute your astounding longevity?
Me, pulling the oxygen mask from my lips with one withered claw" fucking.....Sea.....hawks.....
All of that said, I am a Lapsed Fan. Some of it is due to a lingering teenage rebellion. Some of it is being a theatre geek with perennial Sunday matinees. Some of it is simply the disillusionment of so many years of denied dreams. My Seahawks fandom has been limited to once or twice a season asking someone vainly, hopelessly, "So, how are the Seapussies doing this year?" So deep is my pain that I've even taken to calling them by my father's nickname for them - the Seapussies.
So, imagine 3 weeks ago. I made the mistake of calling one of my football-fan friends during the game. Luckily it was a commercial, so he took my call and stayed on the line for me to go through the ritual.
Me, quiet but resigned: So, how did the Seapussies do this season?
Randy: Oh, they're 2 games away from winning the Superbowl.
So there I was yesterday morning, with a pounder of Black Butte, cheering on the Steelers along side </a></b></a>scooterpbakes, Mark and </a></b></a>kahteeyah, writing parts of this entry in my palm and joining them in cheering on the Steelers before My Seahawks took the field.
We left before the end of the game to go to dinner with Mark's family, but I saw enough to know that the Seahawks are finally going to do me proud.
And I will be there for the Superbowl, not just for the commercials, with my pounder of Black Butte, just waiting to throw both arms high in the air and show off my tummy button yelling "Touchdown Seahawks!"
Then I'm calling my dad.