Coupeville Sports

Pride of a new generation of Hawk fans. (Oliana Stange creation)

And Ken Stange danced, all day and all night and into the next day. (Wendy McCormick photo)

I am a die-hard Pittsburgh Steelers fan. That’s not going to change just because the Seahawks are suddenly trendy.

That being said, I have a great deal of respect for the true Hawk fans, the ones who wandered in the desert for many years before finding that elusive oasis.

My one true sports obsession is not the Steelers, however. It is, and has always been, the Portland Trail Blazers.

I was six when they won their title and nine when I started listening to every game on the radio when we lived in the border town of Kelso.

So, I missed Bill Walton.

Twice the Blazers have gone to the NBA finals in my 33 years of fandom, running into Detroit’s Bad Boys and Michael Jordan.

So, that sucked.

From Sam Bowie (a nice guy who gave me an autograph but will never live down being drafted ahead of Jordan, Charles Barkley and John Stockton) through the Jail Blazers, the trading of Clyde Drexler, Brandon Roy’s forced medical retirement, Greg Oden not being Kevin Durant and the Blazers blowing a 15-point fourth-quarter lead in Game 7 of the Western Conference finals to the much-loathed Shaq and Kobe, I have endured.

Against all odds, Portland is the biggest surprise in the NBA this season, 35-14 with two young All-Stars in LaMarcus Aldridge and Damien Lillard.

And yet, these are the Blazers, and I know, deep down, in the name of Walter “The Worthless” Berry, it’s all going to go wrong.

It has to. They’re the Blazers.

I know that’s how Seahawk fans, the long-timers, the ones who know their Tom Flores from their Dan McGwire, have felt for so long.

Maybe, one day, I will know what you are feeling right now.

If nothing else, I can give a platform to one of the true fans, Coupeville High School tennis coach Ken Stange. Here’s a beautiful piece he wrote.

Hope, sometimes it gets answered.

Unless you’re a Trail Blazer fan. Hope doesn’t exist in this dojo.

But, anyway, testify brother Stange. Testify.

Today, as I basked in Seattle’s Super Bowl glory, I took a trip down memory lane.

My family moved to Washington when I was seven, in the summer of ’78. We became instant Seahawk fans. Fall and winter Sundays were marked by supporting our pathetic Seahawks.

In my house, nobody was more vocal than my mother.

She screamed at the TV as if the players and officials could actually hear her. I loved it. Today, I carry on the tradition.

Oh, did the Seahawks stink! Jim Zorn ran as if his very life depended on it, and the most exciting plays were pure trickery. It was all they could manage.

I thought of my mom today, and know that she would have been ecstatic!

I also remembered the many games I attended with my father.

The Kingdome was drab and dull, and the awful turf shortened many a career. However, I loved the place.

The sound was deafening. Sitting in the corner of the end zone, I had a commanding view when the action was at my end of the field.

Binoculars, and the information provided by my father, who always wore headphones so he could listen to the play-by-play, kept me in the action when the team was on the other end of the field.

He provided me with all the info that I’d normally see if I were watching on TV. One needs to have every stat, you know?

In fact, my father provided those stats to the entire section. After all, he was wearing headphones, and never realized just how loud he was.

I think it was the only time that my normally quiet father was that loud!

Subway sandwiches and Seahawk games with dad. Those are fond memories.

I remember all the no-name players, I remember the fake kicks and punts, and I remember Dan Doornink rumbling down the field for an 80-yard TD.

I remember Ground Chuck, and the years that we began to achieve some degree of respectability.

I remember the string of mediocre quarterbacks, including Rick Mirer, and I remember the 2-14 team, too.

I remember the ’05 run, and our team not being able to make the plays necessary to overcome a couple of bad calls.

I recalled last season’s heartbreak in Atlanta.

What I remember most about last season is how my daughter, Oliana, became a hard-core Seahawks fan. She learned how to be passionate about it, just like her father.

My son, Fletcher, thinks we are crazy for being so loud. He doesn’t get it.

Oh, well. Someday, he will understand, and hopefully will join us!

Today, I shared my joy with Oliana. She created the photo I included.

In a couple of decades, maybe she’ll share her love of the Hawks with her own kids, if she chooses to have them.

It was a family affair, and I was all smiles and cheers.

My father called me after the game. I shared with him much of what I just shared with you.

I was all choked up. I’m a sentimental guy, and today my sentimentality paid big dividends.

I know it was just a game played by overpaid athletes. I know in the larger scheme of life, football doesn’t really matter that much.

But today? Today was a beautiful day of distraction.

It was a day of remembering all the good times I’ve had, thanks to the Hawks.

It was a good day for the collective 12th Man. It was a day for me, it was a day for Oliana, it was a day for my dad, and it was a day for my mom.

It was a day of celebration and memory — a day of love.

Go Hawks!

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