Close your eyes, throw back your head, spread your arms wide. Rain pelts your skin. Drink deep the liquid sun. Gorge yourself until rivulets run down your chin. Let it seep into your core. No meager, paltry atmosphere for us. Our air lives. It breathes. It burbles. Our sun. Our sky. Our revel.
Let nostrils flare and tumble in the musk of moss and cedar, a verdant dream. Thousands of different aromatic greens weave through the moisture. Tease them out of the mist until they flit around your conscience, a tapestry of scent. Small wonder we find words for the greens of our world that our barren, green deprived brethren cannot comprehend. Our greens. Our Emerald City. Our Rave.
Gather the green moisture laden air into your lungs. It rumbles and quivers in your chest. It strains the harness of your lips and chomps the bit between your teeth. It paws the very earth through the beating of your heart. Slip the tether and let the cacophony erupt. The roar explodes into the sky, pushes aside the clouds, and beats against the boundary of the heavens. It compresses and then rebounds, a pyroclastic torrent of noise reverberating through the stadium, sloshing back and forth in raw ecstasy. Leave no doubt why it is called the Puget Sound. Our home. Our fortress. Our Sounders.
Sheath your hands in a Pitch Black scarf. Armor yourself in Cascade Shale. Feel the tingle of vintage Electricity Yellow. Rave in Green. Throw your arms around your friends and feel the stadium shiver with the anticipation of your pounding feet. Touch the spectacle of 40 years of Sounders history condensed into a single crowd. Born in 1974. Our passion. Our history. Our joy.
Now open your eyes. See the air shimmer. Linger over the sea of greens that engulfs you. This is First Kick. Revel in the moment that only happens once a year. Revel in the friends and the joy of a city obsessed with soccer. Welcome a new fan. Welcome the new players and the returning core. Remember the Sounders of the past who now take the pitch in Valhalla. Laugh. Cheer. Revel.