As a child in Catholic school I was taught the difference between want and need. Needs: food, shelter, water, clean air to breathe. Wants were everything else, always tinged with a suspicion of selfishness. The implication was clear: wants were excessive, amoral, ungodly. So as a kid I never asked at a birthday party for the piece of cake I wanted, the one thick with frosted flowers; if the person cutting the cake handed me that slice, a tacit reward for being so altruistic, so agreeable, such a good girl, so be it, but I wouldn’t make my mouth say the words. I learned over time how to push down want and shape it into something acceptable, something that took just enough to satisfy a desire but didn’t dare ask for more.
But yesterday, standing in a rain of blue and green confetti, watching the Seahawks victory parade, that want surged up suddenly, an aching feeling in my chest that was so acute I literally had to breathe around it.
Because I want this for the Mariners. So badly. I want the streets to be full of Mariners jerseys. For confetti in Northwest Green. For MVP chants to follow Cal Raleigh down the street, carrying an award earned in a ballroom and not in the court of public opinion. I want that compass rose S, something that has signified so much pain over the years as we’ve watched it sink lower in the standings, flying from every flag on every building.
I want the Mariners players to get to wave from their own custom-wrapped double decker buses. For J.P. Crawford, who has seen this organization and fanbase through so much, has had the captaincy passed down to him, has grown into a husband and father here, to get to wave to his adopted city. For Julio Rodríguez, who has not always been treated kindly by the city he threw both arms around to adopt, to have a moment of pure, untarnished joy. For the core of young pitchers who put their bodies on the line every night and push past pain and exhaustion, who push each other to be better, to have a moment to relax and take it all in. I want Josh Naylor to feel like he made a good choice, signing himself in partnership with this city for the next half-decade.
And I want the Mariners front office and staff members and clubhouse attendants and nutritionists and mental skills coaches and all the hundreds of people who touch the on-field product without ever being seen to get their due praise other than the tepid applause of a hurriedly-read list of names on Opening Day. Justin Novak the bullpen catcher who has a t-shirt for each member of the roster, even if he has to special-order some of them from Etsy. Ally the nutritionist who curates game-day snack boxes and smoothie flavors of the day written in a sunny penmanship that tempt grumpy professional athletes into taking care of themselves. Kaz the manual therapist who trained with Cirque de Soleil, taking care of bent and battered bodies. Pete the beloved clubhouse attendant who brings in a bucket of his own personal Halloween candy the last series of the season. All these people deserve their flowers, and not just on Opening Day.
I want this for Jerry Dipoto and Justin Hollander, proof their plan has worked, that the gambles and risks they’ve taken—or not taken—have been correct. For ownership to be rewarded for making a financial investment in the team, to realize that winning baseball is profitable and fun. I want this for Dan Wilson and the fierce protective love he feels over his players, all that he pours into them with no expectation of getting anything back. For all the nights after losses we walked by his office and saw him sitting in his chair staring into the middle distance, processing but in pain.
I want this for Rick Rizzs. Before he retires, while he is still the primary play-by-play voice of the Seattle Mariners, and our remaining direct link to Dave Niehaus, who never got the privilege of calling a World Series game. I want it, too, for all the broadcasters who have to make a good broadcast out of a bad game. (And maybe, selfishly, for the media members who have to do the same.)
But really I want it for the fans. For the people who haven’t quit on this franchise despite years of ineptitude, frustrating losses, head-scratching decisions, embarrassing meltdowns by members of the organization. All the shame we’ve carried over the years with this team, on the field and off. I want this for the people who know baseball isn’t boring, who drag friends to games and make them care about our sport, and grow the fanbase one soul at a time. For Mariners fans to get to feel the connection Seahawks fans felt yesterday, united in joy, the crowd shouting as one, bouncing chants up and down the street on a cold winter’s day. Right now that kind of connection feels so precious, a way of being in the world that isn’t complicated or fraught but just joyful, being in community with each other.
Last year I was not sad about the outcome of the ALCS. No, that’s not right—I wouldn’t let myself be sad. Because sadness meant wanting more than I felt like I had the right to ask for. It was a historic run by one of the best Mariners teams we’ve ever seen. It was logistically implausible, considering where they started the season, and yet came so close to being possible. It was enough that they made it this far. It was enough.
Now I know. It was not enough.
That became clear during the post-season media meeting, where eyes were still wet and the pain was still palpable. It sharpened over Fan Fest, the collective low-grade fury over the way the season ended and the steely determination to do better. It honed into a clear point with the trade for Brendan Donovan, slotting in the missing piece in a game the Mariners are determined not to lose again.
It’s scary, wanting things. Wanting opens you up to being vulnerable, exposed, hurt and disappointed. It feels bone-deep selfish: who am I to want this more than anyone else? I have always believed in parity, in fairness. No one gets everything. Be happy with what you’re given by grace and don’t ask for a second serving.
But I want. Want is a noun and a verb that answers itself: the lack of the thing (want, noun) creates the need for the thing (want, verb). And it’s time to make peace with that, to reframe it not as greed, and not as something owed, but purely as an object of desire. At Fan Fest, George Kirby spoke about how he and his fiancee practice manifestation, speaking things into existence (George, I have a feeling, never had trouble asking for what piece of cake he wanted). Because that is how it starts: Naming a thing, and being honest about it, is the first step to bringing it to you, to making it yours.
I saw a parade.
I want a parade.
Let’s go get a parade.
