There’s no surf in the forecast, but I’m planning on some sort of surf trip. It’s as cold as it gets on the Olympic Peninsula, and I’m about to get past the previous football season. Just, not yet. Not quite yet.

The big game’s over; we won. Still, we can’t get enough. We watch highlights, stay up to watch Russell Wilson on Letterman, munching on the leftovers of chips and dips, wondering if we still have a few buffalo wings, think about the possibility of going to Seattle for the victory parade.

[update; didn’t go, but over 750 thousand other screaming fans did, and I listened to a lot of it on the radio while working, watched taped highlights last night]

We are so unfamiliar with this feeling, evidently the thrill of victory.  

I may have made too much of a deal out of how Trish might be the worst person to watch a Seahawks game with. Sure, she does actually run into the bedroom when any other team gets even close to getting a score, does yell “Nooooooo!” or “How can they be so stupid?” or “Oh, that’s it; it’s over,” sometimes several times during a game, even if our team is only a few points behind. Yes, she does have a tendency to blame herself, or me, or some official, or some twisted part of the greater Fates when things look bleak.

And, yes, she does get loud and proud when our team pulls ahead (and any opponent is never far enough ahead to positively avoid a comeback). “I’m passionate,” she’ll explain; “What’s wrong with you?”

Well; I do have a fear of publicly sobbing; and I do buy into every sport-related story, ready to tear up at previews.

Trish and I (and all real fans) did endure incalculable stress over the protracted break between the nailbiter with the 49ers and the Superbowl, constantly checking with the NFL Network, ESPN, any national (understanding local bias) news outlet that had any sports commentator who would give the underdog Seahawks a chance against the perfect Peyton and, oh yeah, his team of Manning support staff.

I did try to go surfing Sunday morning, to get away from the stress; listening to NPR instead of KIRO, their pre-game coverage having started the previous Wednesday. By the time I got halfway back, I just had to listen to people who would actually predict a Seahawks victory. 27-24 seemed to be the average score.

And, close to game time, already working on heartburn and creating future problems related to downing five or eight deviled eggs and almost tasting five or seven buffalo wings, I was positioned in front of the flat screen. And, because my father-in-law was a lifetime sports fan, we positioned his ashes on a TV table with a view, and, his daughter having already promised to try to maintain her sense of coolness (after all, we were not favored to win, so, why worry?), we prepared to watch the game. Calmly, coolly.

Then the game started.

The image of the first snapped ball whizzing past, the startled expression on Peyton Manning’s face, this will long be freeze-framed in our memories. WOW!

By the time the Seahawks, Denver still scoreless, seemed to recover yet another fumble… NO! That’s Too Much!

No, it wasn’t too much. Though some would say it was a boring, one-sided blowout, Trish and I would say, agreeing with some suddenly-Seahawks fans in the National media, “It was great!”

No tears, and may the hangover last until at least the next pre-season.

And Trish is still my favorite person to watch anything with.