The Times - Serving Waitsburg, Dayton and the Touchet Valley

I confess, I would rather have seen the Seattle Seahawks lose the Super Bowl last week by one point, than to have won it the way they did. From the begin­ning, I heard nothing except how strong Seattle was de­fensively, and how strong Denver was offensively. I heard great things about the great Peyton Manning. The teams were both 15-3 going into the Super Bowl. We were all expecting an excit­ing and dramatic game.

It was anything but. I don't know what happened to the Broncos. I'm sure the analysts will be talking about that for a long time. It was almost a let-down every time Seattle scored. It didn't seem like they beat all odds, or overcame by dent of ef­fort and great skill. We were stunned. It was so easy. It was like God had handed Se­attle the game ahead of time, and no one knew it until it actually happened. Peyton Manning and his team must have felt as Robert E. Lee felt at Gettysburg. So sure, so confident, and thenhellip; disaster.

I don't pay attention to professional sports. Last fall I watched the World Series for the first time in almost twenty years, and witnessed the Boston Red Sox win a historic victory. It was fun. I even downloaded the official team app onto my phone. I had just watched the Ken Burns documentary on base­ball and was inspired. For a time, I managed to convince myself that I would be a Bos­ton fan the rest of my life. I fell in love with those dudes with the beards.

It felt as if the Super Bowl might be the same trip. The excitement was in the air. It was palpable as you were out and about in town. Se­ahawks merchandise was ev­erywhere, and people were buying it. My wife bought us each a shirt. In fact, she bought me two. I heard that the plane that carried the Hawks to New Jersey flew a number twelve pattern over Washington State before heading east-we were all the "twelfth man." Seattle had only made it to the Super Bowl once before in fran­chise history, and they hadn't won then. We were all at the altar of professional football.

I actually wore my shirt to church. I preached in it. At the end of the service I yelled "Go, Hawks!" But I had no illusions that it was a sincere prayer, or that God would even honor such a prayer by granting victory to the Seahawks. It would be an epic battle.

And so, when Seattle scored right out of the gate, I was ecstatic. We all were. Then they scored again. And again. It was suddenly half-time and, as I said, we were stunned. So were the Broncos. But not as stunned as we were from then on for the rest of the game. When the Broncos finally scored a touchdown, and made the extra two-point attempt, I ac­tually felt relieved. Because by then there was hope that it would actually be a football game instead of a rout. Our hopes were dashed. It was a rout. It was not a football game. From then on, every Seattle advance down the field, every completed pass, every recovered fum­ble, drew only half-hearted cheers. It wasn't even fun anymore. Our bubbles had burst. There weren't even any good brawls during the entire game. No hair-raising controversies over referee calls. Never so much as a hint of threat about overtime. The players on both sides were polite sportsmen.

And, despite the hor­rendous weather that had plagued the eastern half of the country a week before, the Seahawks enjoyed 45 to 50 degree weather without so much as a single snow­flake to contend with. They thought they were in Seattle, is what I heard. It must have felt like a practice session to them.

Toward the end of the game, the camera caught a close-up of Peyton Man­ning sitting on the sidelines, wiping what seemed to be a tear from his eye. Then it focused on his older brother, Eli, standing in his booth, his face a mask of shock and grief. We weren't celebrat­ing a win. We were grieving a loss. General Pickett say­ing to General Lee, "Sir, I have no division."

Well. Perhaps next year. But it leaves you scratching your head. Like the guy says in the movie, "The curious­ness of this life cannot be measured."