In case you didn’t know, the Seattle Seahawks are officially out of the NFL’s Super Bowl playoffs. This may not impact your world, but I assure you, it impacts mine. But most importantly, it affects the love of my life, the Carpenter.
In the days leading up to the do-or-die game, my husband made it very clear that on Sunday at 1pm, the television and the four hours that followed were his time. No interruptions. No requests; just pure fan devotion. The teenagers looked up from their iPads and nodded in dazed agreement. And me? I was on deadline. I just wanted peace and quiet. Sunday and a Seahawks game make that near impossible. I anticipated the worst.
But as I sat I upstairs, researching ecclesiastical architecture (I know, I live a wild life) directly below me, in the family room, sat the loudest member of our family. Only he wasn’t loud. He was silent. It was eerie. You know right before a really bad storm, how birds and little wild animals scatter and disappear, indicating that the dark clouds rolling in are carrying more than rain? Yeah, like that.
Occasionally there would be a short exclamation, something akin to a gasp, sharp and then dissipating back into silence. Otherwise the emotions from downstairs were muted through much of the first half of the game. It distracted me from my deadlines. I couldn’t concentrate on work. I had to see this for myself.
I found the Carpenter on the edge of the couch, poised as if the ball might come through the screen and he needed to be there to catch it. It seemed to help. Seattle showed up in the second half, as he predicted they would. His cheers got louder, though his jaw remained tight. How could I go back to work now? The action was getting good. I had to stand by my man, right? (Also, there was chip dip).
But life isn’t fair. Despite wearing his lucky Russell Wilson jersey, a championship Seattle ball cap, with his lucky Seahawks hard hat nearby, and offering silent prayers (I am serious, I caught him), there was nothing he could do to help his team turn the balance of fate in the dying minutes of the clock, as the Carolina Panthers pounced on his dream.
There is something deeply unsettling about watching the Carpenter, when his Seahawks season draws to a close. It’s painful. He looks lost. Every instinct in me wants to wrap him up in warm blankets, spoon feed him chicken noodle soup and let him hold the remote for as long as he wants so he can watch anything his heart desires, even Die Hard reruns. Anything to make him happy again.
Yeah, except I am so totally not that wife. Ever. Suck it up. Season’s over. Move on.
There is work to be done around our house and nothing to distract the Carpenter now. This was me winning, big time. I was just about to start a conversation about my dream plans to renovate the garage into a home studio, when out of the corner of my eye I saw the Carpenter remove the Wilson jersey, neatly fold it into thirds and put it away. For next season, he said. Heartbreaker.
I passed him the chip dip. We shared. This is a love story, for my guy and his team.
Writing has been my passion since I learned how to hold a pencil (which I still cannot do properly). Despite my father’s insistence that I would starve to death in this career, I remain well fed and eager to write more. They say you should do what you love: I love to write.