Ladies reading this…I apologize. But I must talk about football for a moment.
Two years ago, my Seattle Seahawks marched into New York City and practically waltzed away with their first Super Bowl win. My football team. Sports snobs will never get this. For a Seahawks fan who endured the 90s, having your team be the champ isn’t just amazing. It’s therapeutic. The NFL’s highest honor at long last.
And five months later, what were most Seahawks fans doing?
Dissecting the draft, analyzing our new free agents, wringing our hands over which star players were leaving…and worrying.
Worrying over whether we would repeat.
Are you kidding me? We fight for almost forty years to get to the big dance, finally climb out of the kiddie pool and shut up the peanut gallery, and we can’t even stop to just bask in the moment? For nine months, we’re the undisputed top dogs…and we have no confidence that we’re the real deal. I walked up to a guy in church wearing a Broncos hat, pointedly adjusted and fiddled with my Seahawks hat in front of him, and he chuckled and went “Yeah, everyone gets lucky once in a while.” That’s what we fear. We don’t want a fluke, a one-off. We want a dynasty.
But part of it is…we just forget. The glow fades and it’s back to prove-it territory.
We do this with God, too.
That blessing was it for a while. I won’t be getting much more.