Fatherhood Football

I'm going to open this blog by saying that I'm all but sure that I have an addiction. Football is something that takes enough priority in my life that I legitimately am at 35% life productivity between the month of August and February. It goes family first as any good red-blooded American should have it. Work is second priority, but I sneak football into that priority often. Football is easily #3. My neighbors know it is half time if I'm mowing the lawn and depending on the matchup that week, if we had a hurricane coming, I may only board up "the important windows" so as not to miss too many snaps.

But priority #1 is always family.

My hard working wife has a full time career AND runs her own photography business, so a lot of weekend mornings are spent balancing QB ratings and snack time. It's a rather interesting transformation from my old watching habits. My old beverage of choice on football mornings consisted of a six pack and a liter of orange juice. Now it's a Starbucks coffee. I used to want to share the day with all my friends as we shit on opposing players all day. Now I just want to chase my daughter around the house and teach her about the benefits of zone vs man defense.

I take a little pride in getting my kid suited for the game; As treasonous as it sounds, we're suited like Oregon, we have hair ties to match every jersey combo that my daughter has. She's more equipped than I am I think. She knows to clap when we make a play and sounds pissed when we blow an assignment. She knows dad is all ears during commercials, but that daddy's not good at eye contact when we have the ball.

One of the hardest aspects of football days with a toddler at home is nap time. Noise in general is a much touchier thing. Startling children is much easier than you think. I learned my lesson on what not to do before I even had a kid. About a year before we had our child, my god daughter was still just a baby and her and the family had come over for a Seahawk Sunday; I had her sitting on my chest as I watched the game, she was giggly and smiley and seemingly enjoying herself. All of the sudden, one of our incompetent QB's threw an interception and my loud and instinctual reaction scared that child senseless. I honestly feel like she made a decision from that point on to hate me. She has looked at me like a leader of the Taliban ever since.

So watch the yelling or a child might put a jihad on you.

I have now mastered the art of silent excitement. My celebrations usually consist of giant jump kicks reminiscent of a Van Halen video, machine gun hands and the double fist shake from the knees... I've even been known to Tebow in close game situations. I now move like a cat. I have even learned to unconsciously avoid the parts in my living room floor that creak. I'm like a wide receiver tip toeing the sideline now.

I have also assaulted every pillow and cushion on my couch.

But I credit my ability to cope with the excitement of the gridiron to a patented move of mine called the "nap clap". It is a clap of your fists as if you are violently giving yourself dap. I feel sorry for the next guy to get my hammer fists. I train bro. But I can tell you that I got my black belt in silent celebrations on September 24th, 2012. I remember it well. It was my mothers birthday and I had just gotten off of the phone with her. The Seahawks were in a tight game on Monday Night Football against the Green Bay Packers. Russel (last name Wilson) launched a hail mary into the air and as quiet as a stinky fart, I rose to my feet as the ball elevated into the air. The scrum of players came down into a pile of blue and gold and the clueless referees looked at each other in confusion. The indecision seemed to have lasted a minute. White knuckles hand in hand with my wife, standing directly in front of our LG TV, we were waiting for a signal. The back judge raised his hands and the world erupted.

I think I did a forward hand spring with back flip onto the coffee table, but not a single audible noise escaped my mouth. Each of my appendages flailing aggressively through the air in celebration. I pray that the ghost of the old lady that lived here before us, that we are convinced still resides here, was not watching the game with us because I likely whooped her ass unintentionally. After I was able to settle down and change my underwear, I looked at the video monitor of our baby and she was laying there like a rock.

I just escaped a hail mary win on national television without waking my child. From that point on, I was a master.

But with all of the changes that have happened with my addiction over the years, I have to admit that my priorities are vastly different and I wouldn't have it any other way. One of my favorite part of football mornings with my kid is when we score a touchdown, she knows Dad will be excited and willing to chase her around the house. We score, I make eye contact with her as she strategically stands ready, knees bent, eager to run either through the kitchen or through the living room. And as soon as I get up and make my way towards her, she erupts in laughter and runs as fast as those chubby little legs will take her until I tackle her. Hand her a mini football while she's wearing her Beast Mode jersey and you will break the 'cute meter'.

If I'm being honest, if all my teams win and my kid is willing to let me chase her around the house... I couldn't ask for much better of a weekend. And as I get older I realize that my relationship with my dad growing up did not include a lot of fishing and camping--- it was spent watching the Huskies and Seahawks. And to this day I share Seahawk season tickets with my dad and brother and hold a special place in my life for this sport, the memories we've made as a family and the excitement I get thinking about enjoying those same things with my daughter and eventual all-state safety of a son.

It's safe to say fatherhood fucks you up just a little if you prefer being sober and silent with an expensive ass roommate rather than care free and hammered on Sundays. I must have a new addiction.

The Payoff of Commitment

Have you ever had an argument hit a chord with you so much that it was a mixture of anger, disgust and nuclear hate? Of course you have… We’ve all been in a relationship at one time that meant the world to us. Some of us were lucky enough to figure out eventually, that this kind of love, although tantalizing, is not usually healthy. But also like a lot of people, a lot of us find it difficult to get away.

I can’t remember the last time there wasn’t at least a little doubt in my heart. Over the years we’ve had ups, we’ve had downs. There were times I was positive we were meant for each other but I’d be lying if I said I never looked at another. It was so much different when I was younger… I was still excited by everything, but it wasn’t all that passionate; Just new. Then as I matured and learned more about life, love and commitment, the relationship naturally evolved. I learned the whole give-and-take routine. I learned that the best kind of love is the kind you work hard for and are patient with. And even when you’re not sure you can trust ‘em, you stand by them because… Because you should… Because you’re invested… Because they will always be around, so it’ll be awkward otherwise… Because you want to.

And that’s about when you realize they will always be there for you.

It’s at that point that you place a little higher value on what you have. All of the sudden, moving on becomes less of an option. It’s a commitment you’ve decided to see through because it’s worth it. It’s not an obligation, it’s still voluntary, but when I see them work hard to better themselves, it’s that much more attractive to a guy like me… Free agent acquisitions, new jersey designs, leaders you can trust in and respect… God damn I love the Seattle Seahawks.

It’s hard work being a fan of a team that’s 37 years old, has only been to the Super Bowl once and shares a division with a tough 49’er team both rich in history and a full community of arrogant dicks that love discussing the years between ’80 and ’94 but not much else. Our coach is charismatic and can chew the shit out of some bubblegum. He ran his previous team like a coke dealer from Tallahassee; flashy and illegal as hell. We have such a young team that the oldest player’s favorite show growing up was Saved by the Bell. Our star corner grew up in Compton, graduated from Harvard West where Jim Harbaugh was the then-coach… But even better, that same star corner hated Harbaugh then too.

Our running back looks like if Eric Dickerson and Bootsie Collins had a kid. Our quarterback is like the athletic version of Jesus. He visits more dying kids than the Grim Reaper and still finds time to work on his footwork in the pocket… And let’s not forget about Golden Tate… A)His name is Golden. B)He went to Notre Dame. C)As soon as he got here, he got drunk and broke into a Top Pot Donuts and started grubbing. Why wouldn’t you let that dude come hang out? Not to mention, Max Unger’s watering hole is where I used to tie up my steed pretty regularly, so I know first hand that he might be the nicest dude ever to play on the offensive line in the NFL. I bet that dude farts rainbows. It almost surprises me that a guy capable of stopping an angry 300lb dude from hurting anybody, has the capacity to be that nice.

So what’s so difficult? I sound pretty enthralled with this relationship, right? Yes, I am. But slow it down with the hype. Expectation poisons the well. We get pissed when Sportscenter ignores us but when they decide to mention our names, it feels like they set such a high bar that if we don’t go 2007 Patriots on the league, we’ve failed. I’m not trying to sound ungrateful, I’m just pointing out another classic example of the tribulations that are worth enduring  for this kind of commitment.

We’ve been on five dates this season and I have to say I’m happy. 4-1, with our only loss being on the road to a good team. We’ve already blown out our rival, we’ve won 2 of 3 on the road, one being a comeback victory that was won in overtime. We’ve done so with a mish mash of offensive lineman lineups, we’ve had injuries and suspensions on both sides of the ball and our other golden child, Percy Harvin, broke his hip like that old lady in the First Alert Commercial, so we haven’t even seen him yet! But it's gettttting cloooossseeerrr.... OOOOOoooohhhhH WWEeeeeee…

But I digress. We have 11 games remaining. Six at home, five on the road. By the numbers our schedule looks pretty easy now, but some of the “easy games” are at Atlanta and at the New York Giants. Screw you if you think those are easy road games. I’m pretty passively superstitious when it comes to sports, so I’m not going to throw out a predicted final record, but I will say I’m confident we’re still on track to make the road to the Super Bowl run through Seattle. Be on the lookout for Monday Night Football on December 2^nd. The New Orleans Saints come back to City of Rain in what could be a pretty pivotal game in the season. Not to mention we follow that up with an away game against the 49’ers… Officially our last game in Candlestick Park. Let’s tear that bitch down, what do you think?

See? Love is looked at as such a kind and gentle thing, but I’ll be damned if I don’t want to rip the head off a fuggin stranger when we lose a close one. That’s love. That’s not hate. You’re hurt and you don’t know how to manage the pain…

Well here’s my plan… I need some romance in this relationship...

I'm going to quote Sir Marshall Mathers the 3rd. [If you don't know him, google him, he's a contemporary writer]
"I've been chewed up and spit out and boo'd off stage."

And I'm sick of it...

This whole blog was to explain that I understand what I’ve gotten myself into. I’m aware that I fell in love, and that things won't always be perfect. But enough is enough. No more talking about how 'we might go on a trip to Miami' or how last year we didn’t go to New Orleans. No more 'maybe we’ll go to Honolulu'… Nobody in Seattle gives a fuck about Honolulu… This year, I want to go to New Jersey. East friggin Rutherford, New Jersey. I want to go see where Snookie used to puke after a solid night of boozing, I want to see where Bon Jovi bought all of his denim from and I want to go to Met Life Stadium. Can we do that, just this once? Who knows, maybe they'll enjoy it.?.?.?

11 games. That means we need to go 13-0 to get us to New Jersey and 14-0 to get us into the history book. If they love me as much as I love them, they’d do this for me…  Go Hawks.