Gridiron Grilling Think It’s Hot? Try Working Out At Sweltering Cheney Sweatshop

Was it hot Tuesday? With shorts and a T-shirt on, sipping that soda, misted by the sprinkler?

Try wearing a motorcycle helmet. Then strap a dumbbell to your back. Run around in the back yard for a couple of hours. Invite 80 or so of your biggest friends - say, 300 pounds each. Ask them to jump up and down on you.

Is that a barbecue party, or what?

Whatever you’d call it - hell comes to mind - the Seattle Seahawks endured just that in Cheney on Tuesday, and they did it all without gripes. Grunts, yes. And it was so much fun, they did it twice - doubling their normal training camp schedule.

The 400 or so fans who showed up in the 96-degree heat could hardly believe it.

“They’d lose five pounds a day,” said Bud Hanson, a 73-year-old great-grandfather who brought three generations along from Sandpoint. He looked behind him toward the lot where he parked. “I don’t know what it’s gonna be like just climbing back up that hill.”

A trainer said the team drank 300 gallons of water Tuesday. Their shoulder pads weighed 40 pounds, and those helmets shone bright and silver in the sun. Everyone wore a T-shirt with a jersey over it. Fortunately, they were allowed to wear shorts. But a couple unlucky guys had to walk around wearing silver-gray, plastic-looking jackets dark with dampness.

Bud’s son, Ron Hanson, decided the whole thing was medieval.

“Torture!” he said. “Look how wet he is. He must have done something wrong.”

Reserve defensive end Pat Riley loped past wearing one of the jackets, face shiny, not looking happy. What’s that for, anyway?

“Sweat,” he managed.

It was so hot, backs resting against anything turned adhesive. For the players, there was no place to run from the rays.

There was only the open field where the grass dried beneath their cleats.

Some players crashed repeatedly into big, orange, padded-metal blocking sleds.

They jumped.

They threw.

Then the guys in the white jerseys played against those in the blue.

The fans loved it.

They leaned over the steampipe-hot fence to get the best view. The Hansons did play-by-play. Or in this case, pant-by-pant.

“That’s Galloway?” one asked.

“84’s Galloway.”

And look. There’s that guy they signed in February.

“Y’know, they got Pritchard from Denver, so…” A breeze began to kick up. But it didn’t help Don Beck much.

“Shew!” sighed the Chattaroy grandpa, sticking his tongue out. “Well, it’s easier than yard work.”

He held his grandson’s football, covered with scribble like dark yarn. They had about 10 autographs so far. When practice was over, they’d add more.

Just before 5, the practice game broke up. But 10 unlucky Hawks still had to run drills and get yelled at.

“C’mon!” a coached barked. “Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with you! Five-six-seven-eight-nine!”

By the time it was over, 296-pound guard Frank Beede needed a drink. Of water, at least. He sucked it from a clear tube coming from a plastic orange drum. He just stood there for a couple minutes, staring at the ground. His face was red, his hair stained with sweat.

Then suddenly he was head up, eyes open, alive again.

Isn’t it horrible? Isn’t it hot? Aren’t you dead?

“The breeze is nice,” he said. “Yesterday it was tough - over 100.”

For many of the Hawks, Beede claimed, this was just like home. Besides, Eastern has a pool.

“We call ourselves the Seattle Hurricanes,” the Californian joked. “Many of us are from the Miami area.”

, DataTimes ILLUSTRATION: 2 color photos