Old Man called it.
The patriarch of our family – known affectionately as Old Man Via – had seen the outcome of Super Bowl XLVIII in a dream and insisted it was going to be a Seattle blowout. The rest of us weren’t so sure.
On game day, the house was overflowing with energy. Brothers, sisters, cousins, grandparents and children decked out in blue and neon green.
The bar was stocked, the counters crammed with festive fare. We moved the TV from Old Man’s bedroom into the living room for extra viewing.
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The game quickly went from 2-0 to 5-0, 8-0 to 15-0. We drank and smiled and cheered.
Malcolm Smith intercepted a pass and took it the distance. The house shook with excitement.
It was 22-0 at the half, and hope gave way to anticipation.
When Percy Harvin returned the kickoff to open the third quarter, the celebration was on.
Old Man bellowed, “I told you! I told you!”
My wife warned that Peyton Manning was still on the field, and anything was possible.
The rest of us stared in a dizzy daze as Seattle continued to pile on points.
Eventually, the outcome was secure.
The Seahawks were Super Bowl champions, and by proxy so was the Twelfth Man, the Vias.
We danced, hugged, raised our glasses and toasted the achievement. The kids took to the driveway with Silly String and fireworks. Horns honked in the distance.
The phone rang with congratulations long into the night.
We’d earned it. Through 38 long years of familial fanaticism.
From the rafters of the Kingdome to the runoff rain at Husky Stadium, we’d been there.
From Seahawks Stadium to Qwest Field to CenturyLink.
From a fledgling franchise to the best team in the world.
It almost didn’t feel real, like a dream come true.