Cast Away by the Bye Week

Distraught, disheveled, disjointed, and disillusioned (this article's sponsored by the letter "D") are all words one could use to describe my state after the Bakersfield Chimpesque thrashing my beloved Seahawks endured.

The taste of pennies, bile, and sulfur left on my pallet via the Bears loss, was amplified due to the absence of a game last Sunday. It would’ve been better for the Seahawks, and me personally, to have an opponent to bludgeon immediately following Madden’s “ten count” on the night of September 30th.

But such is life for Seahawks fans. All of our crippling losses, odd circumstances, and surreal tribulations will and must be augmented by the cruel and merciless Football God, Triton.

With everything in my NFL existence stacked against me, knowing that my nose would be forcefully inserted into the Hawks pile of ineptitude by pundits, and realizing there would be no outlet to purge the memories of the Sunday night debacle, I set out on a solo flight across the Puget Sound to clear the drug scarred and meaty processor in my head.

As I alluded to above, I should’ve realized that my unwavering and unconditional hoist of the Seahawks flag would insure a deserted crash – leaving me alone with my distasteful Seahawks thoughts and memories.

I’m not sure how it occurred, considering I was two hours into a 6-hour alcoholic blackout, put somehow my plane had clumsily skid on the shore of a deserted island. The plane itself, aptly named Retribution, appeared to be unscathed by the thud from above. There were a few key pieces missing, yeah. But overall, the plane looked close to the one I began constructing and piloting seven years ago.

The island itself looked and felt like any other you’d find in the Sound. The beach was drab, smelly, slippery and gushy to your step from the kelp engulfing the shorefront. The edge of the wilderness was uninviting with its moist appearance and ominous shade of stark browns and deep greens. Digging deeper than the five standard senses however, revealed that this oasis was eerily different.

The first clue that proved this refuge abnormal was my attire and appearance. Gone were the striped polo, designer jeans, and Steve Madden loafers. In its place only a loincloth, draped around my midsection as if it were a primitive undergarment. My clean-shaven face and showered anatomy replaced with a full-grown beard and unkempt soil-smeared frame.

The beach and forest also offered abstract insights into the island’s odd intricacies. With every crashing wave or slight breeze, ghostly whispers could be partially interpreted.

Odd, trite, and wholesome sayings were resonating everywhere. “Golly gee”, “gosh darn it”, and “shucks” were violating my eardrums and psyche. Initially, the presence of these phrases offered up only one possible conclusion; I had not survived the crash and was standing at the beachhead of heaven for white guys from the 1950’s. In other words, my idea of hell. Horrific visions of crew cuts, Elvis, sock hops, malted beverages, and Norman Rockwell settings passed through my head. Upon further analysis of the voice and my physical being, I soon realized the voice was that of a Walrus-looking man and I was definitely “alive”.

Not knowing where I was, if other humans inhabited the island, or if anyone would be looking for me, I trekked onward into the woods to scour for food and shelter. I brought along a spear, which oddly enough, was already crafted and lying next to where I stood. I also tucked an isolated football that adorned the blood-painted facial features of Tim Ruskell, the Seahawks President of Football Operations, with me. I named it, Riddell.

Once I penetrated the forest edge I began hearing new faint, distinct supernatural echoes. Unlike the trite phrases, these sounds were not of a human, nor did they seem to belong to any known language. The sounds seemingly belonged in a Samsonite luggage commercial, a Peter Jackson failed epic, and/or the family of a young and nude Christopher Lambert.

Another unique trait of these murmurs was the ever-surrounding nature of them. There was no place within the forest that lessened the volume or effect of the ghostly, ghoulish primitive buzzes. The sounds were the trademark and definitive feature of the island – just as much as the ground under my feet, the waves hurling themselves onto the shore, or the old-growth trees in front of me were.

In the beginning, the sounds startled and rattled me. But, eventually I figured out that those grunts and groans weren’t for me. I’m not sure why, but something just told me that those sounds were directed towards someone or something else. I inherently felt I was safe and there was nothing to those noises. It’s as if I my DNA was programmed to ignore and disregard that characteristic of that place.

I had stumbled what seemed like only twenty feet into the wilderness, before happening upon the ghostly, frightened images of the 2005 St. Louis Rams. It was all of them, the entire team, huddled together out of fear wearing their home game uniforms. With every grunt carried in the breeze, they moved closer to each other – sharing reaffirming horrified glances with one another. After the sound subsided all of them trembled within the grasp of another teammate, yelling things like “it’s coming to get us” or “don’t let the French-Canadian superhero get the rock”. Again these quasi-transparent figures didn’t alarm me at all. Actually, seeing the Rams for what they actually are, amused and excited me. My only disappointment being I had no one around to share the laugh with.

With the 2005 Rams behind me a considerable distance, it wasn’t long before I tripped upon images of yet another football team. Directly in front of me were Jose Cortez and Drew Bledsoe, being verbally undressed by their coach Bill Parcells. Behind those three figures was the balance of the 2005 Dallas Cowboys roster. They were equipped with only a look of sheer terror and soaking wet away uniforms. I chuckled as I thought, “even on a ghostly island, Parcells insures he’s at the forefront of whomever happens upon his team”. Just like the Rams, the Cowboys team’s fear peaked with every primate shriek and you could hear someone yelling something else. “No, no, no… Babineaux” is what I think a lot of them were yelling.

Pushing onward through the forest, I encountered other frightened, stranded, ghostly outlines of other teams. There were the home uniformed Arizona Cardinals and Philadelphia Eagles. And finally the away-game uniform-donning Washington Redskins.

The Redskins were lead by an image of Shawn Springs, clapping and smiling atop his crutches yelling “good job, Egypt, good job”. Like the others they were horrified of the primeval sounds encompassing their beings and blurted out random sayings and questions. “I thought DJack was hurt!?”, “is that the white Michael Vick!?”, “who the (censored) is Maurice Morris?” are some of the items I was able to separate and decipher.

It wasn’t too far after I had passed through those faint images, that I came across another surreal anomaly on the island. I came to a steep, lengthy cone-shaped set of bleachers with an isolated, Gandalf-looking man, sitting atop the steps as if it were his throne. Panicked, discombobulated, and scared I began my ascent atop the steps without haste.

Traveling up the steps, I heard the mocking boos, cheers, and pro-Seahawks heckles of an inebriated mob. Again, I realized that the voices and chants weren’t directed at or even acknowledged my presence. It’s as if they were rooting on a game that only they could see or were privy too.

Perched atop the steps was a man, who by all accounts looked to be Tim Ruskell, except he was dressed like Pai Mei from the Kill Bill movies. His hair and moustache were hygienically long and ghostly white. His presence, while mute and settling, was intimidating at the same time. He didn’t notice my approach until I was directly in front of his sitting, omnipotent position.

I frantically began explaining and speaking to my isolated crash, my need for assistance, and inquires for a phone or civilization. While his eyes told me he heard and was processing my pleas, he looked attentively to the base of the bleachers.

Not understanding exactly who or what I was dealing with I raised my voice, demanding answers with an increased urgency.

Looking annoyed and perturbed that I had interrupted something only he could see, he raised his head and met my eyes with a look of busy disgust. He proceeded to tell me “you don’t belong here”. “There’s not enough resources or space for you on this island. Soon, the St. Louis Rams will be here and whomever represents the AFC”. Finishing with a threatening, “Unless you want to spend eternity stuck among the other talentless, I suggest you leave”.

With that he raised his right hand as if casting a hokey spell, landing me fully clothed, showered, and familiarly entrenched on my couch for the kick off of the St. Louis Rams vs. Green Bay Packers game.

It’s as if it never happened, or it was a dream. Whatever it was, I was glad to be back where I belonged…watching the game.

Quick Hits

  • In my opinion, Terrell Owens’ failure to catch any balls the first half of Sundays Dallas vs. Philadelphia game was anything other than coincidence. Say what you will about Owens, but he’s too talented not to be open almost every play. That doesn’t even factor the featured stature of the game itself. Owens never lets an opportunity to be in the spotlight slip. So what gives?

I’ll tell you what gives. Bill Parcells instructed Drew Bledsoe not to feed Owens in the first half to establish his fundamental principle. There’s only enough room for one media whore on any Parcells team, and that’s saved for Parcells himself.

  • The only possible conclusion of why Parcells is sticking with Bledsoe over back-up Tony Romo, is this will be his last year. He knows that despite his shortcomings, Bledsoe will fare better against playoff defenses than a first year starter would.
  • Good call CBS, for forcing the Bills-Bears game down our collective throats. Ray Charles could’ve seen that was going to be a blowout. At times I think the NFL and the networks purposely offer such viewing options to force consumers into buying NFL Sunday Ticket.
  • As much as it pains me to say it, Joe Buck’s ironic and dry sarcastic commentary is warming on me. Now, if he can just stay away from his moral pontifications.
  • Much love goes out to the Detroit Tigers for vanquishing the embodiment of what’s wrong in sports, the New York Yankees. Will A-Rod ever get a championship? I say no.

Mule Sniff

Coming out of college he was one of the, if not the, most dominant players I had ever laid eyes on.

It’s as if Jesus was leisurely playing Tecmo Bowl, using this player as Bo Jackson against the computer confused Oakland Raiders defense.

Adding to the hype, are current questions regarding his relations with school boosters, the pressure of a distraction-starved city, and odd circumstances on draft day. With all that, he’s remained a professional, a good teammate, and admirable in how he’s handled his circumstances.

This week’s sniff goes to Reggie Bush for his first of many game-winning touchdowns.

Known very well to friend and foe as "pehawk" in our fan forums, Ryan Davis provides a fresh voice on the Seahawks, Seattle sports in general, and life in a nutshell. Feel free to send your thoughts, recriminations and mule sniffs to Ryan here. Top Stories