Seahawks Loss

Watched the Seattle-Chicago playoff game with my old friend Chad Worcester, in the downstairs TV room of his home in Eden Prairie, Minnesota.

Thanks to a couple of Rolling Rocks, the big screen, and theater sound speakers, I got pretty excited by what turned out to be a really good game, but even so, my engagement in the outcome paled in comparison to what I would have felt were the Steelers playing.

I suppose this is a matter of childhood training, but it’s curious that even if I try, I can’t conjure up the emotional connection to my current home’s home team that I can’t help but feel towards my childhood’s.

In fact, I take this as a positive sign of character; it’s silly enough to care about the outcome of any professional sporting contest; by rooting for the Steelers, at least I have the excuse of being trained since youth to feel this way. Additionally, I can appeal to links with my dearly departed mom and dad with whom I can imagine unseen connections through the medium of professional football.

In any case, it was an excellent game, with a number of lead changes, eventually going into overtime with the Bears winning on a sudden-death field goal.

As the ball passed through the uprights, I merely shrugged, accepting the defeat with hardly a sigh. Were it the Steelers who had been beaten, I would have been on my knees, banging my head on the coffee table, pounding my fists on the floor.

Of course, I probably would have gone through more than merely a several beers; in this game, for instance, I didn’t even pop the traditional twist-off at kick-off. Rather, I waited until well after the second quarter had begun to begin wetting my whistle.

And maybe I should have been drinking Red Hook or Hales instead of Rolling Rock.

But then, I didn’t really care all that much if the Seahawks won or not.