Treasuring Our Past

The noise is what I remember most about Seahawk Sundays. The paralyzing noise. Noise that made Pro Bowl quarterbacks look as confused as rookies. Noise that turned opposing offenses into blooper tapes. Noise that became part of the defensive game plan.

Waves of noise that tumbled from the 300 level down to the line of scrimmage. Giant, waffling, seismic waves that literally shook the Kingdome.

The Behrings wouldn’t know about these unofficial earthquake tests. Their bumbling ownership of the Seahawks silenced that noise in the 1990s.

The pre-Behring noise, however, was Seattle’s 12th Man. Jacob Green and Dave Brown, Kenny Easley and Jeff Bryant waved their arms up and down, encouraging the full-throated roars. It was intimidating.

The noise helped beat the Broncos, Chiefs and Chargers. The noise confused John Elway and Steve DeBerg and even Dan Fouts. New rules had to be drafted in an attempt to hush the Kingdome. In the end, only the Behrings could do that.

Of course, there are indelible games. Here is my Top 5 list:

Dec. 31, 1983 - Five Miami turnovers were the difference in Seattle’s 27-20 come-from-behind playoff upset of Miami in the Orange Bowl. Rookie Curt Warner ran 29 times for 113 yards.

Dec. 22, 1984 - Secret weapon Dan Doornik had the game of his life, running for 126 yards as the Hawks won 13-7 in their first-round playoff game against the Raiders. “Ground Chuck,” the Hawks’ offensive nickname, accounted for 205 rushing yards that day and controlled the clock for more than 34 minutes.

Nov. 27, 1983 - Making a lie out of their conservative offensive image, Seattle won an overtime shootout with Kansas City 51-48.

Dec. 23, 1983 - Krieg missed on only one of 13 passes, throwing for three touchdowns in Seattle’s first playoff win, 31-7 over Denver.

Nov. 11, 1990 - On the last play of the game, Krieg completed a 25-yard pass to Paul Skansi that beat Kansas City 17-16, the Hawks’ first win at Arrowhead Stadium since 1980.

As thrilling as those games were, it is smaller things I most remember.

The anticipation that filled autumn Sunday mornings. Pete Gross’ “touchdown Seahawks” call. The crowds packed around McCrory’s an hour before kickoff.

A Steve Largent out-route as precise as cut glass. The way Curt Warner could turn a 4-yard run into poetry. The uncertainty Dave Krieg brought into each game. The ferociousness of Kenny Easley’s game.

Joe Nash’s inexorable rushes. Eugene Robinson’s intellectual toughness. Chuck Knox’s tears after a win. Edwin Bailey’s grace after a loss.

I remember standing outside Mike Tice’s deli during the 1987 strike, watching a fierce argument between the players who wanted to return and the players who hung true to the union.

Most of the time, however, the pre-Behring Seahawks were as close as family.

They believed in Knox’s aphorisms. They were willing to play the hands they were dealt.

As with most families, the tragedies that had to be overcome were as profound as the triumphs.

There was no more bittersweet moment in the franchise’s 19 years than the postgame celebration in December of 1989.

In the drafty gloom that is Cincinnati’s Riverfront Stadium in December, Largent presented his Seahawks uniform to Pete Gross, after Largent broke Don Hutson’s record, catching his 100th career touchdown pass.

Gross’ courage as he fought against liver cancer for four years is the most inspiring sight I’ve seen in my 15 years around this team. His brief speech on the Monday night he was inducted into the Seahawk Ring of Honor, less than 48 hours before his death, was remarkable.

I remember the shock I felt when I heard Kenny Easley had a life-threatening kidney problem.

And I remember that Warner sweep to the right against Cleveland on Opening Day 1984. That horrible, little hop that signaled he had scrambled his knee ligaments, costing him the season.

Like most strong families, the Hawks hung together and finished that regular season 12-4.

The history of a professional franchise is made of these moments, precious as diamonds. These plays and games and people tell stories that are supposed to be passed down like heirlooms from generation to generation.

Maybe the Behrings can steal this team.

But they can’t touch these memories.