I guess I should acknowledge the obvious: there’s a football game today that involves the Seahawks. Here’s my Seahawks story.
In 1976 the Seahawks arrived in Seattle. I was 11. It was a big deal for me. I guess Dad must have sensed that, because in 1978 (I think) he announced he’d bought season tickets for the both of us.
That was also a big deal, because the two of us never went to sporting events. We didn’t even watch sports on TV together or talk about it that much. Neither of us are particularly opinionated about them. He tended to spend more time listening to them on the radio while working in the garage. I had a much harder time listening to sports on the radio; I definitely preferred watching them on TV.
In those early Seahawk days they played in downtown Seattle at the Kingdome. On game day we’d jump into his baby blue Ford Pinto and drive down to the dome, find a cheap parking spot, and hoof it for several blocks, joining the crowds arriving for the 1pm games.
Our Kingdome seats to watch the Seahawks in 1978 were farther up, and more to the right. But, the view was about the same.
The seats Dad purchased were on the first level, about halfway up the section at one of the corners of the field. The ‘seats’ were metal bleachers with numbers under them. They weren’t particularly comfortable. A few numbers down from us was another father and son. They were noisy, always complaining about the players or the refs. The kid was a couple years younger than me and seemed more interested in spewing nonsense and vile than studying the actual game.
Half the games were fun, because they’d happen in our part of the field. The other half were way down at the other side of the dome. I might as well have watched it on TV. Speaking of TV, the commercial breaks were a little bewildering, meaning there were no commercials to watch. All I could do was watch the players or cheerleaders as the the endless TV-timeouts broke up the action. One study suggests there is only 11 minutes of actual game time action and 75 minutes of commercials in the average football game. That was never more apparent to me then when I was sitting next to Dad waiting for the action to commence. Since we really didn’t talk a whole lot, we’d look around or read the game brochure.
The most memorable part of the games for me were the endings, especially the close ones. They were memorable not so much because they were exciting, but because we watched them on the TVs as we descended the Kingdome’s ramps. You see, Dad liked to leave early to beat the crowds and the traffic. So, while I watched the game, Dad watched the game and the crowd to gauge when the best time to leave would be. As soon as Dad gave the word, we were gone, leaving the cheering (or booing) crowds behind as the last minute events unfolded.
But, at least we avoided traffic home.
When the next season rolled around, Dad asked if I wanted him to get season tickets again. I thought about it. I felt that he only went to the games as a favor to me; similarly, I would only be attending the games as a favor to him. So, I told him that I’d just rather watch it on TV. He seemed perfectly happy with that answer. To Dad’s credit he tried, but it just wasn’t our thing. I guess we never were rabid fans.
Still, I have to say, Go Hawks!
