Saturday morning, 10:30 AM, Residence Inn Charlotte Uptown, Charlotte, NC

Pete Carroll: All right fellas, let’s get the show on the road. Make sure you load up your plates before the fine people at this Marriott property take all the food away.

[on his wrist, Pete Carroll’s Fitbit registers “NFL +1”]

Jon Ryan: (through a wired jaw) Cerch?

PC: Yes, Jon.

JR: Tanks for arranging da soft fud. I tink dey said I cud get dis stuff off my face dis aftanoon.

PC: No problem, Emmitt. Everybody loves scrambled eggs. We need you healthy enough to take the field goal snaps.

Steven Hauschka: (giggles) LACES OUT, DAN!

Kam Chancellor: BAM!

PC: That’s right, Kam. Gresham did almost get Jon killed last week. But I think Jon knows by now he’s a kicker and not a rusher. And Gresh knows now he has to hit the goddamned target.

Clint Gresham: It was cold, Coach.

PC: (irritated; hands on hips) I swear to God, Gresham. Every word you say makes me wish I’d kept that Green Beret instead of you. Only reason you’re still here is because you said the only people you don’t question are Jesus and your coach.

CG: Yes sir.

JR: makes notes in binder, under “spree” tab

PC: Okay, down to business. First off, O-line. Tom?

Tom Cable: Thanks Pete. Okay you fucksticks. Let’s go over the rules AGAIN! Now, who controls the snap count?

Patrick Lewis: (mumbles) the Virgin Mary

TC: WHATTHEFUCKYOUSAYSON?!

PL: Russell, sir.

TC: Which fucking one? We have two.

PL: Wilson, sir

TC: Fuckin’ right. Speaking of Russells…OKUNG! Every time you fart, dumbass here thinks it’s go-time. He’s trained to go on sound, and the fucking things that come out of Pretty Boy’s hole sound like my morning shit. He thinks a Russell is a Russell. If you drop that air biscuit, he’s gonna snap that fucking ball. YOU HOLD THAT SHART IN, GOT IT?!

Russell Okung: Coach, I hardly think…

TC: YOU’RE NOT PAID TO FUCKING THINK! Every pancake you eat Sunday is a guaranteed 5-yard penalty thanks to Quick Draw Fucking McGraw there. You wanna win, right?

RO: Of course, coach. (looks at breakfast, cries a single tear)

KC: (lifts left leg off seat) BAM!

TC: Good! Last thing I need is more fucking questions on Monday morning about air balls. I got enough of that shit working for Al Davis.  Pete?

PC: Thanks, Tom. Now, running backs. Sherm?

Sherman Smith: Thanks Pete. Well, no point in suspense.  Marshawn, did you remember your dice?

Marshawn Lynch: Ya boss!

SS: What’s the magic number this week?

ML: You all got 10 while I was sleepin’ last Sunday, so gotta be at least 11 o’ mo’. (rolls dice on table)

SS: C’mon 11!

Christine Michael: C’mon 11!

Fred Jackson: C’mon game check!

[dice rolls off table; falls onto floor; rolls over to offensive line table]

J.R. Sweezy: (leans over) Mmm, candy! (picks up dice; eats it)

SS: FUCK!

CM: FUCK!

FJ: GONNA GET PAID!

KC: BAM!

TC: SWEEZY! WHATTHEFUCKISWRONGWITHYOUBOY?

PC: Easy Tom, or he’ll pee himself again.

TC: I swear to God, Pete. I don’t understand this fucking kid. We make him wear a mouth guard just so he doesn’t eat turf! He walks around the end zone after home games picking up Skittles! He ate a goddamned quarter some Vikings fan threw on the field! I need more help.

PC: Don’t worry, Tom. Once Chip cuts the black guys from the Niners, we’ll bolster the line.

TC: *mutters* Fat lotta fucking good that does me tomorrow.

PC: Now Tom, you already owe $32000 to the swear jar since the bye. Let’s keep that blood pressure under 250, hmm?

TC: Sorry. Sure thing Pete.

PC: Perfect. Now, don’t worry fellas, I already listed Marshawn as “probable” until game time. So, QBs – Carl?

Carl Smith: (half lit) Doin’ great, Boss!

ML: Hey, man, stop stealin’ my lines.

PC: *sighs* (downgrades Marshawn Lynch to “questionable” on chart)

Russell Wilson: Guys,

Every game’s a championship game. When we focus that way, get prepared that way – that this is it, you know, this is the last one, the biggest one – you get ready, you get amped up, you get that laser focus and you’re ready to play.

Team: (in somber unison) Yes, Russell.

RW: At the end of the day it comes down to are we going to keep focusing on each other and are we going to keep getting better day by day? We ignored the noise, we ignored all the talk from the outside.

Team: Yes, Russell.

PC: (senses he’s losing the room) Tavaris! Shouldn’t you, ah…

Tavaris Jackson: Right, Coach. (To Russell Wilson) C’mon Russell, let’s go.

RW: Where to, T-Jax? I haven’t finished my speech yet.

TJ: I want to go swimming.

RW: Swimming? Awesome! Let’s go to Russell Wilson’s pool. (grabs towel with “Russell Wilson” written on it in Sharpie; hums Macklemore; runs outside; starts writing “Russell Wilson” on diving board)

PC: (waves at Tavaris Jackson) Thanks T-J!

ML: (gets up) Later, boss!

PC: Marshawn, where are you going?

ML: Russell’s gone, so I’m done. I ain’t got nothing to say. I just wanna play football. See you on the bus tomorrow.

PC: But Marshawn, we need to get your role for tomorrow down with the rest of the offence.

ML: I don’t know what’s in store for me. I don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring. I’m just about that action, boss. Beast mode OUT!

PC: (downgrades Marshawn Lynch to “doubtful”) Well, now that that’s happened, let’s talk defense. Kris?

Kris Richard: Coach, before I start, may I ask a question?

PC: Sure, Kris. What?

KR: Coach, I know you are all about team building exercises. It’s one of the reasons I enjoy working for you.

PC: Thanks Kris.

KR: But coach, what did you think the defense would get out of going to the NASCAR Hall of Fame?

PC: Well, Russell was already taking the offence to the Billy Graham Library, so I thought you’d enjoy visiting what Trip Advisor ranks as the second best tourist attraction in the city.

[on his wrist, Pete Carroll’s Fitbit registers “NFL +1”]

KR: But…racecars?

PC: Exactly, Kris. Racecars are just like defensive linemen. They’re big, fast, run on high octane fuels, and explode when they hit the wall hard. How doesn’t that translate into football?

KR: …

KC: BAM!

PC: Precisely, Kam. The defensive line needs to accelerate penetration if they are going to force the Panther’s offense to melt before them. Nice to see you’ve been teaching the boys up, Kris.

Richard Sherman: Coach, follow-up?

PC: *sighs* Yes, Richard?

RS: Coach, you had us spend an awful lot of time in the “Champions Exhibit”. Why was that?

PC: Are you not a champion, Richard?

RS: Coach, I never question my abilities. Ask Crabtree. (LoB giggles). It’s that the current exhibit spends a lot of time analyzing fire suits and helmets, and how cars are designed not to burn or melt under the extreme heat and possible incendiary conditions of a crash.

PC: Exactly. NASCAR engineers design products that won’t fail under extreme conditions. Just like you guys on Sundays. [Defense coaches all high-5 each other]

RS: But why did you have us take notes on flash points, and oxygen mixtures in fuel combinations?

PC: What exactly are you saying, Richard?

RS: Well, I know you took the coaches on a tour of the Nucor steel mill yesterday…

PC: Listen, Richard, I’m tired of your insinuations. Just because I want to take the coaching staff on a tour of a Fortune-500 company, and I send the defense to examine accelerant combustibility during high-velocity impact, doesn’t mean anything but concern for this team being ready on Sunday!

RS: But Coach, they have a location in Seattle. Why couldn’t you go there?

PC: (irritated) Look Stanford, when you have the chance, you visit the main office and speak to whoever’s in charge. I did that when we went to Arizona two weeks ago; I did that when we went to the White House; and I did that when we played the Super Bowl in New York. Unless your name is Clint Gresham, you keep asking questions until you get the real answers or Alex Jones calls. Let’s move on.

Clint Gresham has a thought; changes his mind; closes his mouth & silently hangs his head.

Bobby Wagner: Coach, while we’re talking about combustible elements, I’d like to again address Coach Cable punching my son on New Year’s Eve.

TC: I WAS DOING MY FUCKING JOB, BOBBY!

BW: Coach, he is four years-old!

TC: And I guess with an attitude like that, he’ll never grow into a fucking man. Maybe I should talk to his mom about that? Boy howdy, and I thought Al was soft on Bowl Cut…

PC: Knock it off, you two. Hey, Quality Control*! Get over here!

John Glenn: Yes Coach?

PC: Look Astro-NOT, get your guys in line. I don’t need division in the ranks.

JG: Yes, Coach.

PC: Lemme tell you something Spaceman Spiff, we may not have gone to the moon, but I damn sure will shoot you into space if you don’t shut this temerity down.

JG: Yes, Coach.

PC: Okay fellas. Richard, may I have you and the rest of the Legion stick around for a moment? The rest of you can go. Don’t forget to pick up your delicious Tropicana Juice and Doritos on the way out. Bus leaves at 9:00 AM tomorrow morning.

Rest of the team leaves.

[on his wrist, Pete Carroll’s Fitbit registers “NFL +2”]

PC: Now boys, I just want to make sure everyone is up to speed on where we are at for tomorrow. Newton is a dangerous young man, and only Peter King can keep him from being MVP. But we can stop him on the field if we play smart.

BW: You got it Coach.

PC: Excellent. Now, I’ve brought in a guest speaker for you. He’s a hall of famer himself, and knows a thing or two about four man formations. Sir?

[Door flies open]

Ric Flair: WOOOOOOO!

KC: (starts twitching) BAM!

RF: WOOOOOO!!

KC: BAM!!

RF: WOOOOOOO!!!

KC: BAM!!!

RS: DAMMIT! Now we’re going to be here all night.

_{(* “Quality Control” is an actual title on the Seahawks staff.)}