We are on vacation, celebrating our 10th anniversary with 10 days kid-free. At the moment we’re in the San Juan Islands, but last weekend we drove through Portland and Seattle, where a LOT of people are super-into the Seahawks. Sunday Night Football they had an away game and it seemed that the entire city of Seattle was decked out in Seahawks jerseys. The cars all flew Seahawks flags, and EVERYONE seemed to be rooting for number 12.
At first I was like, “Man, that number 12 has a lot of pressure on him. It’s like he’s the only player that anyone here cares about.”
As the day wore on and we wedged ourselves into the crush of a bar packed to the gills with Seahawks fans watching the game, my concern evolved. “I wonder if 12 is okay? Maybe he’s got severe head trauma from a game injury and everyone’s rallying together to brighten his final days.”
Finally, during halftime when the game cut to NFL news and I saw Tom Brady wearing a shirt with a 12 embroidered on the collar, I figured out that 12 was bigger than the Seahawks. This had to be some sick kid that somehow grabbed the attention of the entire National Football League. That Poor Kid didn’t even have a name. He was so big he just had a number. A symbol. Like Prince.
Now that I had figured out the mystery of number 12, I decided to share my revelation with Paul.
“This whole number 12 thing is everywhere. I wonder if it’s a kid or something whose really sick.”
Bless my husband for having pity on me and my wide-eyed concern for this kid whose name must be numbered, as he suppressed a guffaw and explained to me that football teams have 11 players on the field, and the twelfth man, little sick Timmy12&, was actually a symbolic stand-in for the fans.
So while I think that my number 12 story was much more interesting, I am glad that some poor kid doesn’t have to die during Sunday Night Football.
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