After fully recovering from my Ambien coma around noon, I learned the Seahawks had a game today. The jersey-clad guys playing catch and pitching tents in the empty lot across the street, highlighted by the scent of barbecue and random indecipherable shouting, tipped me off. So far, the only feature of living next to Safeco Field has been an extra half-mile walk to anything interesting. Today, I’d get to bear witness to the vibrant side of my neighborhood in action.
Even though I wasn’t going to the game, I thought about going out for a drink at one of the bars around here. The new girl in town surrounded by a zillion men out to kick back and have a good time? Like shooting fish in a barrel.
But wait a minute, I hate football. Actually, I am so oblivious to the appeal of football, I don’t even think I can hate it. In fact, the only sport I like involves sitting in a chair for many hours and looking serious (and kickball, but I’ve said enough about that). Any bar I visited in my neighborhood this afternoon would be at least partially filled with blustering idiots yelling plays at a deaf plasma TV and humble sheep nursing obscure brands of beer because “it’s the thing to do on game day,” and partially may be a rather forgiving estimate. I’m sure some decent folks would be out, but it would be asking a lot to get them to talk about something other than football during the big game.
So, no game for me today. Perhaps my proximity to the festivities will break me one day…
Addendum: So what’d I do instead? I walked up First Avenue for a long time, then settled in at a cafe and wrote in my journal for two hours. Yeah, I know. Snark on, sports fans. Snark on.