My friend Pete Moss never took off his Steve Hutchinson jersey all season.
You could tell what he’d had for lunch – and dinner – the past three days. By the look of the front of his jersey, I’d guessed either beef stew or borscht. Probably both.
We were in his favorite cafe, Dimitri’s Wok Right In. The public isn’t ideal for Pete’s fashion sense and hygiene. Especially today.
He smelled like postgame laundry.
“It’s my own personal protest,” Pete said. “I won’t shower until the Seahawks’ season is over. I won’t take Hutch’s jersey off. As soon as Tim Ruskell bumbled that move and let Hutch go, I predicted this.”
By “this” Pete meant 9-7. He predicted the Seahawks would win the NFC West, but only out of default. He predicted the San Francisco 49ers would sweep the home team and that Arizona would steal at least one. He called an end to the regular season in which Seattle would lose three of its last four.
“It hurts me to say this,” said Pete, a Seahawk fan since the Nick Bebout days, “but they deserve what they got.”
“Deserve what?” I asked. “They’ve had injuries all season. Deserve? Did they deserve to have nine offensive starters, including three Pro Bowlers, miss a total of 48 games? C’mon, Pete. Walter Jones is the only offensive starter to start all 16 games, and he’s been hurting all year. How did they deserve that?”
“Karma. It started with Hutchinson. It’s been a slide all year. And the slide won’t end until they clean house.”
“Clean HOUSE? They’re a year out of the Super Bowl. You think they’re just done because of an off-year?”
“The window of opportunity is open but a moment, my friend. Use it, like the Patriots did, and you have a few good years to play with. Break it, like the Seahawks did, and you’re out. It’s over.”
“How do you figure?” I asked. “Even with the injuries, they made the playoffs. Where are the Steelers? The Bengals? The Broncos? They should have made it. They’re watching. Playing golf. In the Bengals’ case, they’re probably plotting off-season felonies. Things could be a lot worse, Pete.”
He rolled his eyes. We have a longstanding agreement. He doesn’t mention my incompetence in forecasting games, even though I’m a sportswriter, and I don’t mention his four ex-wives, even though he’s a marriage counselor.
“Have you noticed the offensive line?” he said. “Best in the NFL. You think Shaun Alexander ran for three miles and scored a million touchdowns by himself last year? They protected Matt Hasselbeck as though they carried automatic weapons.”
Pete took a deep breath. I thought I detected moisture in his eyes.
“Look what’s happened,” he said. “Pork Chop Womack isn’t Hutch and never will be, even when he’s healthy, which is about once every Presidential election. Robbie Tobeck and Chris Gray entered the league shortly after the last lunar landing. Walter Jones is starting to creak around. And Sean Locklear? Pffft! Heather Locklear is a better pass blocker. They’re in deep trouble.”
“Seattle isn’t the only team, especially in the NFC, that’s having problems,” I attempted to reason. “The Bears don’t have a quarterback. The Cowboys can’t stop anybody. Besides, the Seahawks have played well the past two games. They have some momentum.”
“Momentum won’t heal their cornerbacks,” Pete said. “Who’s gonna stop Terrell Owens and Terry Glenn? Jordan Babineaux is playing out of position and Kelly Jennings is a rookie. Behind them are two guys who were garage attendants a week ago.”
I thought. And thought. I didn’t have an answer. Nothing. Finally the woman came to take our orders.
“I’ll have the borscht,” Pete said. “Coleslaw. Fries. Chocolate shake.”
I looked at his stained jersey. Every time someone entered or left the caf, the wind carried Pete’s aroma across the table and my way.
“Just coffee,” I said.
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