The Blue Jerseys are coming to New Jersey—a fortnight for Richard Sherman to gnaw the Big Apple to a mealy sauce.
Or as Ted Suess Geisel might say, "The room is abloom with the Legion of Boom."
The NFC champion Seattle Seahawks will play the Denver Broncos in Super Bowl XLVII.
Holy bastard of Roosevelt! The Super Bowl? Are you kidding me?
If you don't live in Seattle, trust me on this: championships here are as rare as a Michael Crabtree reception. In the past forty-five years of my Seattle sports fandom, only three teams have held the grail. The '79 Sonics won it all, as did the WNBA Storm, twice. Hell yes, I count the Storm, especially after ten years of watching the greatness of Sue Bird to Lauren Jackson.
We've come close on occasion. The Sonics reached the Finals two other times, including 1996, when they faced a couple of guys named Michael and Scottie—and lost. The NASL Sounders squared off in Soccerbowl 77 against the Pélé-led New York Cosmos—and lost.
But the Hawks' 2006 appearance in Super Bowl XL proved itself to be the greasy-haired step nephew of all Seattle's championship quests. Dropped passes and criminal officiating decided the outcome, delving my City of Moist into a dark, foggy hangover that no amount of breakfast burritos and tater tots could soothe.
Oh, sorry, forgot to mention the Mariners. Wait, no I didn't.
Anyway, so now we're back. By "we," I mean yeah, I'm every bit a part of the squad as Pete Carroll's chinos. I'm convinced that watching movies on Friday nights and wearing the same clothes for the games have contributed to and quite possibly assured victory the past two weekends. Perhaps my daughter's Russell Wilson t-shirt is the difference, who knows? Maybe the mojo comes when my wife puts her hair up like she did yesterday for the game.
If you have superstitious ritual, an outfit or any other weird thing you do to propel the team to our first Super Bowl victory, you bear the same responsibility as the rest of us. Please give, early and often.
You could be the difference.