Even if you’re not Pete Carroll, and you didn’t receive, on Christmas Eve, a contract extension paying you a rumored $11 million annually, the Seattle Seahawks still got you something. Tis the season and all.
They don’t even care if you were on the naughty list. They got you something. Five somethings.
Since Russell Wilson has arrived, a playoff berth, sitting under the tree at Christmastime, has been like the cozy, predictable, ubiquitous pair of socks from your grandmother. You know, the gift you can spot ahead of time, before it’s unwrapped, from the return address label even; the one you can count on year after year; the one you know will be there no matter what else is wrong with the world.