Intensitivity Training

Editor's note: Promoted to the front for general, goose-bumpy awesomeness. - Jeremiah

There he stands, in the pre-dawn silence of Occidental Park, as still as any of the statues. A slight drizzle falls around him, but his hoodie remains dry.

The rain stops as color creeps into the sky. Breaking his vigil, he walks south. I trail behind, the clicking of my nails on the masonry echoing down vacant streets.

We arrive at his destination, stopping in front of the locked doors. The night watchman approaches to shoo us off, but swallows any objections as recognition sets in. Wordlessly the guard opens the gate, gives a brief nod, and hurries off into the darkness. We enter the vacated stadium as the lock clinks shut behind us.

I'm forgotten as my hooded companion heads towards the sound booth. I slip away and trot down the concourse, looping to the south, with an occasional detour to investigate the scent of spilled popcorn or stale beer.

The PA suddenly hums with the sound of nothingness, followed by the Enya box set cuing up. I take the next tunnel, arriving in time to see a lone figure walking to the center of the field under a pink sky. Once there, he drops to the lotus position, and calmness pervades the pitch.

Tranquility washes over me, and I continue south, approaching the Brougham End with a sense of reverence. Crossing into section 121 is like entering a sacred grove. This is hallowed ground. Rites have been performed here. Many voices coming together as one, to support a single cause.

I'm shaken from my reverie as the music stops abruptly. He rises, casting a long shadow across the field, and ties a scarf around his head as a blindfold. The first notes of a new song ring out, and he starts spinning, frantically.

I cock my head, trying to place the song, or plumb the reason for the spinning. He slams to a stop right as I recognize the song: Firework by Katy Perry. He allows himself only a single wobble after the disorienting spins before breaking into a dance routine. I can't be sure, but I think the base of the choreography is early Madonna, modernized, with some pop-and-lock routines layered on top.

Despite his dancing, the stadium still lies dormant... events may have been held here, perhaps people gathered to watch sport performed. Turf has been replaced and signage swapped. But it's been far too long since Century Link was truly alive. Months have passed. Now, I can feel it awakening around me.

The last notes of the song echo around the stands, and he beelines towards a post of the northern goal, still blindfolded. At the last possible second he drops into a tackle, buckling the upright. Immediately he's up again and sprinting south. Indomitable power.

The sun has crept just high enough to reveal a dew-ladened practice ball, apparently forgotten on the field. I notice it for the first time as he veers towards the ball and cranks a shot from 30 yards that rockets off the underside of the crossbar. Total field awareness.

Before the goal even stops ringing, he's sprinting north, leaving a roostertail of rubber pellets in his wake. On a collision course with the unmangled goal post, he once again drops into a tackle. The goal breaks free from its mooring and skitters back against the north end suites. Unerring precision.

He stands, removing the scarf, and walks to his place at the top of the box, right of center. Taking a knee, he bows his head, and whispers the first word of the day, barely audible to even my canine ears, "Seattle". The memory of 64,000 crazed fans roar back: SOUNDERS!!!