Ode To The Seahawks

Darkness had been replaced by a hazy dim light. Thin coatings of ice cracked underfoot as I stepped down off the bank and started to make my way out into the river. The water temperature was frigid, but the air was even colder. My breath formed great billows of mist as I blew on my fingers in a vain attempt to keep them warm. The sun had not yet met the surrounding mountain peaks as I laid my first cast against the far bank. In Detroit, kick-off was still eight hours away. That’s right, I chose to spend the pre-Super Bowl hours fly fishing in a glacial fed river about 1 ½ hours north of Vancouver. At the same time the players were undoubtedly beginning their game day rituals in snowy Michigan, I was chasing the moonlight along a west coast highway, intent on catching first light in the water. We were all praying for our good fortune; the players hoping to catch the top prize in the biggest media event in America, me hoping to catch, and release, a winter run steelhead.

The river was running high due to a series of storms that had dumped over 100 millimeters of rain in the area over the previous several days. Luckily, the water had remained clear. Still, conditions were such that my chances of hooking up were remote. A betting man would not have put much money on me, even given favorable odds.

The Seattle Seahawks were facing a similar challenge. No one gave them much of a chance for success after reviewing the Super Bowl conditions. Pittsburgh was supposed to be the better team, having played a tougher schedule, and the crowd in the stands would be primarily Steeler fans. The betting line rather graciously placed the Seahawks as four point underdogs.

My day on the water passed surprisingly quickly - they all do. The sun rose soon after I began, splashing a brilliant pink over the snow capped peaks. The river had seemed sluggish in the cold, but as the air temperature warmed it brought with it a sense of opportunity. Eagles soared high above, or sat quietly in the tree tops watching me work the water. In the end, they proved to be the only thing interested in what I was doing. The fish, for their part, seemed quite content to ignore the variety of brightly colored flies I cast in their direction.

Perhaps the eagles knew something that I didn’t, because when it was over, I swear I could hear hints of laughter in their calls. Were they aware of some preordained proclamation that had ensured my coming up empty handed? Their playful mocking accompanied me for the several kilometer walk back to my car. It had been a beautiful morning, despite the lack of any tugs on my line. My thoughts turned to football.

Where to start in describing the travesty that was Super Bowl XL? Despite their underdog status, the Seahawks played admirably. They outplayed their supposedly superior opponents for most of the game. Yet, whenever they seemed ready to strike, the opportunity was snatched away. Not by fate, but by the men in stripes. When it was all over, the story line that the NFL had hoped for had come true. Pittsburgh was victorious.

Still, a day later, I can’t seem to shake this feeling that “we was robbed!”. Sound like sour grapes? You bet, and I’m not alone. But don’t take my word for it, read what some of the admittedly pro-Steeler media has to say: http://msn.foxsports.com/nfl/story/5310192. It certainly inhibits the healing process when you know that you've been duped and there's not a damn thing you can do about it...

If the Seahawks can take anything positive out of what may forever be remembered as “Black Sunday”, perhaps it is some sort of satisfaction attained just by having been there? Their main goal was sadly not achieved, but after a thirty year drought, the Seahawks were actually in the Super Bowl. They made it all the way to the big dance, and no one, not even some guy in a striped shirt, can take that away from them. They may not have caught the big prize, but they were there. I just hope they were able to stop and appreciate the sunrise while it was happening.