Editorial: What exactly is a Seahawk?

We like Seattle. We always have. Some of our best, dampest, most highly caffeinated, fishiest, most main-arterial-traffic-clogged moments have been in Seattle.

And we like the Seahawks. It’s a fine football team. Look at the uniforms. So green and blue and Seahawkish. And we like the Seahawks’ coach, Pete Carroll. So handsome and California surfer dudealicious; after all, he was USC’s coach, back in the day.

And we like CenturyLink Stadium, with its deafening acoustics and contrast with the pewter, lifeless skies that harbor the delicious Seattle downtown smell. We like the mixed aroma of dead salmon and mildew that sets into your sinuses like a cold that hangs on for months.

And we like the quarterback, Russell Wilson. And we like his alma mater, the University of Wisconsin, with all its Bucky Badger cheesy goodness.

We like Seattle because people who are so inclined – we’re not – could enjoy a hearty bong hit and a triple shot breve skinny latte with cinnamon all at once. Plus, the bluest skies you’ll ever see are in Seattle.

Nine times a year, usually around the end of July.

Yes, we like Seattle because the average Saturday daytime speed on the freeway is 26 mph, where you can enjoy yet another Venti (c) Americano with Coho Sprinkles while you creep slowly through the gloom, hoping you can find downtown in the fishy mist, let alone park in it.

We like Seattle because it’s the home of the most imaginatively designed freeway system in the history of highway engineering, plopped on an isthmus sitting next to a massive active volcano that we dearly hope won’t blow up before game time this Sunday.

We like Seattle’s Pike Place Market, where you could take a Chinook in the face, by accident, if the friendly fishmonger bobbles it. You can then go have a double decaf nonfat chai espresso at Starbucks, a Seattle company, to recover while you ponder the cherubic face of Paul Allen, the owner of the Seattle Seahawks who is very, very good at making operating systems that crash with frightening regularity.

We don’t like Chris Hansen, the billionaire who tried to buy the Sacramento Kings and abscond with them to Seattle.

Despite Hansen, we like Seattle.

But we like San Francisco better. By a touchdown, at least.