Time, Memory, and Why These Moments Matter

There are moments that land not because they’re monumental in isolation, but because they are part of a long series of moments that, together, shape how we remember life itself.

Last week’s NFC Championship game between the Seattle Seahawks and the Los Angeles Rams was one of those moments. Seattle won the game 31–27 in a thrilling, tightly contested battle that secured a Super Bowl bid and placed this team squarely in the narrative arc of its own franchise history. The game was defined by swings of momentum, big performances, and a signature mix of offense and defense that turned into one of the signature victories of this season. (AP News)

But what stuck with me most was not the final score, or even the performance itself. It was the celebration on the field afterward, the confetti raining down, my son’s hand clutching a piece of it afterward, and how that image now sits beside photos from a decade ago.

When I got the “On This Day” reminders from Google Photos, I saw a picture from 2015 that took me by surprise. It was from the Seahawks 12K — the race that finishes at The Landing in Renton and winds around the Seahawks’ practice facility — and there I was, holding my son in my arms when he was only a few days old. (Seattle Seahawks)

That photo and the newer ones from last week could not be more different on the surface. One shows a newborn bundled up against the cold with no idea what the moment meant. The others show a boy who asks deeper questions about football than I ever asked at his age, not just who scored, but why a penalty was called, or what a catch really means in real time.

I didn’t plan for those moments then. I simply took the picture because that was my instinct. Over time, it has become clearer why that instinct mattered.

How Sports Mark Time

Sports have a unique way of helping us track the years of our lives. They give us landmarks where we otherwise might just see a blur. We remember winning seasons and losing seasons, not just for the scoreboard, but for who we were with, where we were, and what else was happening around us when they occurred.

I grew up going to Seahawks games with my father. Long before Super Bowls were in the conversation, long before stadium renovations and star quarterbacks of today, I sat with him in the old Kingdome. We rooted from the 300-level second row at midfield. I remember the echo of the crowd. I remember the smell of concrete and turf. I remember that almost tactile sense of belonging.

And I saved every ticket stub.

At the time, I didn’t know I was preserving memory. I just did it out of habit — a physical breadcrumb through time. Collecting snapshots and stubs eventually trained me to notice what matters before it’s gone.

Years later, leaning against that same instinct, I watch my son in the stadium. He isn’t just present at the game; he sees it. He asks questions about play calling, why a penalty was enforced the way it was, what a coach’s decision really means in the life of the game. He has, unintentionally, taken up the same curiosity I had — the one that makes you lean in, not just cheer.

Technology as Memory Marker

We talk a lot about the costs of technology. What it intrudes upon. How it changes privacy. How it alters presence. All of those concerns are valid and deserve scrutiny.

But one byproduct of this era is that moments that once lived only in our minds now come back to us in ways that are vivid and emotional.

A decade ago, I carried my son through the Seahawks 12K race, a newborn with no concept of memory yet. Now I have photos that anchor that event to a point in time that otherwise would have only existed in my internal archive. I have video clips of last week’s NFC Championship celebration, the confetti, the laughter, the joy. Those tangible pieces of memory bring back sensory layers — the sounds, the visuals, the feeling of being there — in a way that a simple recollection cannot.

That’s not a technological side effect most people talk about. But it is real. It is significant. It is human.

And it matters.

Why It Still Hits Differently

If you’ve followed sports for any length of time, you know that seasons of frustration don’t make the wins feel cheap. They make them feel worthy. After decades of setbacks and near-misses, Seattle’s more recent success feels like it was earned by time itself.

We talk about boards, strategies, coaching decisions, and analytics all the time — and those things matter — but there is also an emotional currency built from being there through it all. From going to games when they were less exciting. From cheering louder than ever. From insisting your kid pay attention even when they’re too young to know the context.

My instinct to document these moments — learned from years of saving ticket stubs and carrying disposable cameras everywhere — has given me something more valuable than I ever anticipated: a timeline of connection.

It’s not just about the sport. It’s about who stood beside you when each moment happened.

I have photos with friends who are no longer part of my weekly routine. I have images with relatives I see less often. I have pictures of my son when he was smaller than his cleats felt would someday be. Every image is a bookmark, a reminder not of the moment alone, but of the passage of time.

That is what gratitude really feels like: not just celebrating here and now, but honoring the threads that got you here.

Capturing Presence and Memory

Here’s the funny thing about being the guy who always takes the picture: it used to feel like just something I did. Almost a default behavior. Over time, I’ve realized it’s more than that. It’s a form of presence.

Presence is not just being there physically. It’s noticing. It’s valuing what’s unfolding even when you’re in the middle of it. It’s recognizing that the ordinary is actually extraordinary once you look back at it years later.

That’s what these photos now represent:

• They mark the times in our lives.

• They reveal who was around during those times.

• They show family growth and the circles of friends that come and go.

Looking at these images now — juxtaposed across a decade — I don’t just see sports history. I see continuity and evolution. I see memories shaped and reshaped by time. I see the seasons of life reflected in the seasons of a team I love.

And I see my son, asking thoughtful questions about the game, older now, but still in the crowd next to me.

What I Hope We Carry Forward

So if there is any advice buried in all of this, it is simple yet profound:

Be present in the moment. Really be present.

Feel the experience fully with your senses and without distraction.

But also, don’t shy away from capturing it — whether through photos, videos, or simply simply committed memory.

Because years from now, when those images resurface unexpectedly, they will bring back more than just the moment itself. They will bring back who you were, who you were with, and how you felt while it was happening.

They will remind you of the passage of time in a way that nothing else can.

Different years.

Different roles.

The same joy.

And for that, I am deeply grateful.

Go Hawks.