I can't be the only one who had a flashback Sunday while watching the Super Bowl in Glendale, Arizona — the first at the venue since the fateful afternoon in February 2015 when the Lombardi Trophy was yanked out of the Seahawks' hands.
I've been in that stadium — called University of Phoenix Stadium in 2015, State Farm Stadium now — several times in the ensuing eight years for Seahawks games. Each time, especially when the action heads toward that end zone where New England's Malcolm Butler made his interception, I involuntarily think about that play. In more than 40 years as a sports writer, it was the single most shocking moment I've experienced — and it's not even close. Certain victory became tormented defeat in the blink of an eye.
What's increasingly clear is that the stunning interception, the forever second-guessed play call that led to it and the fallout from both had profound and far-reaching ramifications for the Seahawks. It's not a stretch to say that the end of the unique chemistry that powered that team — and the de facto end of their would-be dynasty that never was — was sealed at that precise moment.
We have known that intellectually, but last week I read a typically great story in Sports Illustrated by former Seattle Times reporter Greg Bishop that crystallized the effect of that Super Bowl more succinctly than anything I'd seen. And it only stands to reason that the poet laureate/philosopher king of the NFL, Marshawn Lynch, provided the best perspective.
It was Lynch, of course, who didn't get the ball on second-and-goal from the 1-yard line with 26 seconds left on the clock, the Seahawks trailing by four points. Instead, Russell Wilson's throw intended for Ricardo Lockette on a slant was jumped by Butler. The look of stricken disbelief on cornerback Richard Sherman's face on the sideline mirrored that of every Seahawks fan (many of whom I can only guess are screaming at me right now for even bringing it up).
I'm not here to relitigate the play call, which has been done ad nauseam. I even concede you can make a sound argument for calling a pass play, given clock considerations and other factors. But what Lynch pointed out in the article is that the call went against the very ethos that those Seahawks were built upon.
" ... I don't think it's so much the fact that, if you give me that ball, we're gonna score," Lynch told Bishop. "But more just what we had built in Seattle: tough-ass defense and strong-ass run game. If we were going to win or lose, you would want to see it go down that way ... especially given the opportunity of how it could have played out."
I think he speaks for the majority of his teammates. But that's not the Lynch quote I'm referring to. It's this one:
"What we had before was a belief system. The belief system was tarnished after that."
That was a fiercely independent, strong-minded group of players at the core of those Seahawks. You know the names: Lynch, Sherman, Kam Chancellor, Earl Thomas, Michael Bennett, Cliff Avril, Doug Baldwin. That strong-mindedness was their strength, but it also made them, in a way, resistant to nuance or compromise on this matter. And it seems clear that they never let go of that play call, and Carroll's refusal to apologize to them for it — to take the same accountability he demanded of them, to repeat the charge that some players made anonymously in the national media. Remember Sherman's sideline tantrum aimed at Carroll and offensive coordinator Darrell Bevell when they called a pass play from the 1 against the Rams in 2016? It was crystal clear that Sherman, in particular, never let go.
And remember all those articles detailing the alleged dissension in the locker room and the rift with Wilson, whom many players felt strongly was coddled by Carroll (a notion that, to be fair, predated the Super Bowl call — but certainly was accelerated by it). All those articles harped on the lasting, irrevocable hangover from the Super Bowl loss. Undeniably, the Seahawks were never great again. They made playoffs and won division titles, but they still haven't won multiple games in any postseason since. Three times, they've been one and done — a major fall from grace for a team that seemed poised to win multiple Super Bowls.
To bring this discussion into the present day, I'm not sure there was any way for Carroll to truly get past that debacle in Arizona until all the great leaders of that team who held onto that baggage were gone. That happened last year when the last two last vestiges of the Super Bowl era — Wilson and linebacker Bobby Wagner (who never seemed to hold grudges of the same intensity as, say, a Sherman) left Seattle.
Now Carroll had an entirely new roster to mold, to unleash his motivational magic upon, without the metaphorical or literal eye rolls that reportedly increased as time went by. No one denies that he's a master of the art, but even motivational masters stop being heard after a while. Carroll certainly wouldn't be the first to experience that phenomenon — but few have such a stark line of demarcation.
Last season, Carroll's words seemed to hit home with a young team. Predicted for three or four wins in Wilson's absence after a 7-10 season, they instead won nine and made it back to the playoffs. They look like a team on the rise again. Maybe the tarnished belief system has been restored. But this Sunday was a grim, perhaps even subliminal, reminder of a time, and a place, when they stood on the very brink of back-to-back titles and didn't get there.
