There was a time not so long ago that I said, “I hate football. It’s so barbaric and dumb. I can’t believe people spend their whole Sunday watching.”

But one day that all changed. I was watching a Seahawks game with friends at someone’s house. I loved it. I loved the excitement of the game. I loved the unifying force of all of us holding our breath together then letting out a cheer. I loved the huge plate of nachos in front of us.

Even after I moved across the country, I rallied behind my team. Last year, I would wear my Seattle gear to the gym and find a treadmill with a view of the game. Occasionally I’d find a like-minded fan (or at least someone who didn’t totally hate the Seahawks). One game went into what felt like extreme overtime. I spent a lot of time walking on the treadmill that day.

It’s also fun to trash talk fans of opposing teams or division rivals. Bougie and I do that a lot. He threatened to bring me a 49ers jersey back from his weekend in San Fran. I told him he was welcome to, as long as he didn’t mind if I kept it at his house. I wouldn’t dream of buying him Seahawks gear.

If you’re the superstitious type, I was single handedly responsible for the Broncos losing the divisional title last year. But that’s not a story my parents or perspective employers need to read.

The Seahawks are my favorite team. It took me a while to figure out that my hometown Minnesota Vikings (that employed me for one whole day) are No. 2 in my heart. The truth is the Seahawks are the team that made me love sitting on my ass on Sundays. They’re the team that makes me scream at the computer (where I watch games).

You could say the Seahawks chose me.

Marshawn Lynch, Golden Tate and Russell Wilson are my starting lineup. I don’t do the fantasy thing. I just care about my team, nachos and beer.

Published by Candace

I’m a journalist, nutritionist, doting auntie, one-time bobsledder, and wannabe health nut (who loves chocolate and pizza too much to fully commit). I don't want you to think my life is perfect. It's not.

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