Football was the white noise of my childhood. I grew up in Prosser, a small town smitten with the game, watched the local Friday night battles, heart in my chest. The games on TV after church were never about the final score. They were about letting my eyes grow heavy to the comforting soundtrack of helmets clacking, of fans roaring, and my dad periodically rising from his recliner in yelps of unbridled joy when the Seahawks scored. The games were about being together. About watching with people who loved me, safe to fall asleep.
January 10, 2004: Patriots vs. Titans
What I remember: a nurse peeking in, seeing the game on the room’s small screen, returning a few times over the course of the afternoon. More nurses coming by to say hello and catch a play, lingering longer than necessary after checking vitals to watch the next down. My dad, as ever, seated in a chair beside me. Did I fall asleep to that same white noise just like I had all those years ago? The Seahawks had lost the week before, so Dad was neutral. But the nurses cared—here in Boston, where I’d come for surgery, the Patriots were not yet the stampeding powerhouse they would grow into. They were simply the home team. In the hospital bed recovering, I cared with them.
A month earlier, an MRI had finally revealed the source of persistent health problems. I’d been sick for years with what turned out to be a growing brain tumor. Weeks before the tests confirmed it, my dad, a small-town family doctor (between Seahawks games), had diagnosed me with what he called a God-given flash of inspiration. His research led us to a renowned Boston surgeon. I used what felt like my final reserves to fly out there.
In 2015, the author's father got to share one final Seahawks playoff run with his new grandson.
“Do the pre-ops while you’re here,” a savvy nurse suggested on our way out after meeting the surgeon. So we did, even though the next opening was not for weeks. We had already booked our flight home when we got a call: a spot had opened up for Friday morning. We stuck around. Dad as a crutch, I limped to the hospital across icy sidewalks to have a brain tumor removed.
As the gauzy purple of a frigid New England evening fell outside my hospital room, the coldest game in Patriots history shone on the screen inside. The Patriots eked out a victory with a late field goal. When post-op complications kept me there long enough to watch the AFC Championship the next Saturday, the nurses and I celebrated another narrow victory. The surgeon made me well, but it was their unrelenting kindness that kept me sane—that, and my dad, always on the chair beside me. Exhausted, exhilarated by my miracle, grateful for the nurses who had ushered me through, I became a Patriots fan.
January 18, 2015: Seahawks vs. Packers
Football for me has always been the people you watch with. Seahawks and family. Packers, briefly, when I dated a megafan. Patriots and those nurses. As I grew healthier, my relationship to that Boston hospital and the nurses who carried me faded in importance. Living a coast away from the family whose ritual it had been, football’s importance faded, too.
Until the winters of 2014 and 2015, as my family gathered for long weeks back home to cherish the time we had left with Dad. His own MRI, in 2013, had also revealed a brain tumor. But this wasn’t the kind you could remove. There was nothing to do but savor the months we had.
The Seahawks won a Super Bowl in 2014. Their first, and to this day, only championship. But what I remember: January 2015. Dad is in his recliner, hand dangling to pet the dog perpetually by his side, watchful as those nurses had been with me. His first grandchild, six months old, coos up at him, the two of them sharing an inaccessible language. He is increasingly unable to speak articulately, much less control his body. The cancer has visibly changed him now, the days draw short. But he can still watch the Seahawks, still ride that emotional roller coaster, still holler in exhilaration.
So, that final winter, for two successive weekends in January, we are together. We raid Costco, grill big meat, bake cookies, chill champagne, stop everything to watch the game. In the NFC championship game, the Hawks overcome a 12-point deficit in the final minutes to tie the game. My new husband, football fan by marriage, is by my side in a borrowed Seahawks shirt. Dad’s in his chair with his jersey. Our collective muscles locked in tension for the entire impossible comeback, until the Seahawks pull off the miracle in OT. We erupt in unison, even the dog frolicking at the base of the recliner. We unfurl the 12 flag, pop that champagne, take the photo of our celebration that’s still framed on my office bookshelf.
There was no question who I’d cheer for when the Seahawks met the Patriots in the final. I saluted those Boston nurses, then hollered myself hoarse through a heartbreaking loss. But I don’t remember the loss. I remember the feeling of being together, rejoicing in the face of all that cancer, even knowing that the worst was ahead.
Every play sparks a new question: How do downs work, what’s the play clock?
January 25, 2026: Seahawks vs. Rams
My husband never fully converted, but my son, born a year and a half after Dad died, has inherited my fandom. Born and bred in the other Washington, I’ve trained him to love the one I’m from. Though our fall weekends fill with other things, when the postseason looms and the family text thread is increasingly Seahawks-centric, my son is ready. He can be challenging. I sometimes struggle to manage his host of neurodiverse behaviors, whose origin is visible in his own MRI. But his unconventional brain is also to thank for his ability to master facts, feel deeply. As a sports fan, he shines.
We start carving out Sunday evenings for the games, my chore-allergic son eagerly cleaning the den so we can watch in concert with our family a coast away. Every play sparks a new question: How do downs work, what’s the play clock? He borrows my old Richard Sherman shirt, watches attentively, riding the elation and despair of the football coaster, hands up, eyes wide—like his grandfather once did. In the final minutes, as the Seahawks strain to run down the clock against their narrow lead, we clench hands. The Rams take possession for a final attempt. “These will be the longest 25 seconds of my life,” he moans.
“Though they never met, my son channels parts of him I get to see afresh.”
When the whistle blows, we rise and scream, like the family did in 2015. “We’re going to the Super Bowl,” we bellow, waking up his sister, and half our neighbors. We grab hands and dance, something my dad would have done, but couldn’t have at the end.
Though they never met, my son channels parts of him I get to see afresh. As we look to another Super Bowl matchup with the Patriots, there’s again no question who I’ll cheer for. But whatever happens, I mostly hope my son remembers football like I do: the despairing and rejoicing, the hoping, and the feeling of being safe watching with people who love him.
Jeannie Rose Barksdale writes about finding what matters most in the ordinary and creates spaces for reflection and retreat. Currently living in East Coast exile, she is mom to three young children who receive regular instruction on the glories of Washington state. You can follow her at @tangible.ink & read more of her writing on her website.