best-laid plans...

So... I still haven't seen Sunday's game.

I know that's not very Diehard of me.

Here's what happened: My family took a road trip over MLK weekend, from the Bay Area down to L.A. and then over to Tucson, the town where our son was born. Of course, I carefully planned the itinerary to ensure that I would be able to see the game at the Skeptical Chymist, a Seahawks bar in Scottsdale. (I wanted no repeat of the 2010 NFC divisional round when I watched Chicago crush Seattle in the bar next to my Tucson hotel, which happened to be a Bears-themed joint.)

My partner didn't have time to look at the itinerary, so she booked a salon appointment along the way, and this triggered a cascade of dominoes that put us behind schedule and made my worst nightmare a reality: We had to hit the road on Sunday morning.

As my lovely partner and beautiful boy dozed, I sped demonically down I-10 eastbound, making extraordinarily good time. I pulled off in Palm Springs with time to spare before kickoff. While stopped at a red light, I wondered... could there be a Seahawks bar here? Yes, indeed: Google pointed my iPhone to Beer Hunter (love the Bob & Doug McKenzie reference).

I tried to sell my partner on the idea of depositing me at Beer Hunter for a few hours while she and our son enjoyed lunch, shopped and hit the playground. This did not go well. She wisely pointed out that a long delay like that would make for a very late night and derail our plans for Monday.

So, we bolted a quick lunch at Taco Asado (great Mexican hole in the wall in Palm Springs) while I scanned the radio dial until I found the game broadcaset. Then, we used Waze to find a good playground for our sun while listening to the dispiriting end of the first half. We let our son run around on the playground until imminent sunburn threatened his paleness (and mine), and then we piled in the car.

I thought we were bound for the interstate again, but I learned that there are more important things than the Seahawks and making Tucson by nightfall. Specifically, my partner needed to hit the Anthropologie in Palm Desert to find something fashionable to wear the following day.

My partner and I rather heatedly debated the priorities involved while I obediently drove her there and tried to listen to the game while our toddler son screamed in his car seat. The futility of Seattle's efforts at that stage of the third quarter threw me into overload, and I had to turn off the game to maintain my sanity.

I played with my son for a long time while my partner painstakingly scrutinized every garment in the store.

Finally, we left Anthropologie and hit the road again.

I was too broken to turn on the game, but my partner, to her infinite credit, insisted that we do so. We listened on the radio while Seattle drove for its second touchdown, scored an improbable 2-point conversion, recovered an impossible onside kick, and held Green Bay to a field goal to put the game into overtime. My partner and I shouted for joy. Our son seemed perplexed that the Seahawks could score a touchdown when the TV wasn't on. She doesn't like the sport, but she said she enjoyed football more on the radio.

We pulled off in a godforsaken stretch of desert somewhere between Palm Springs and Blythe so my partner could rummage around in the luggage to find something for the baby. In this desolate place, with a fading radio signal, we heard about Russell Wilson airing it out to Jermaine Kearse for the game-winning touchdown. I smiled and turned off the radio.

I saw the highlights that night in our Tucson hotel, but I can't wait to see the whole game when I get home.