The 12th Man flag is back up on the Space Needle (or, as my pal Angelina calls it, the Spice Noodle) after having been taken down Friday night for Windstorm 2006. The pregame hype-athon is already underway. I’m psyched. I’m primed.

My big dream last night: The game’s inexplicably taking place on a Monday afternoon. But I miss most of it because I’d rather see a small intimate concert (at some place like Gallery 1412) by a noted female performance-art star who tells seriocomic monologues, accompanying herself on the cello. It’s a fascinating act, but I leave as soon as I can to catch the fourth quarter. I run to the nearest bar (ok, the nearest bar I like, which in this dream world happens to be in south Wallingford on Lake Union).

By then, the Hawks are behind 7-3; it’s apparently been a dogged defensive battle. But sure enough, our boys come through with a fumble recovery leading to a TD run in the last five minutes. (The refs spot the ball as being down within the five yard line, then our boys stick it in on the subsequent play.) The rest of the game is spent holding the other guys’ offense, a task which seems almost lost when the other guys complete a bomb pass into the red zone. But subsequent pass plays are broken up, including one in which the football lands helplessly on the ground in the end zone. Subdued celebrations commence throughout town, aided by a beautiful, unpredicted, gentle snowfall. (There are even snow flurries back inside the stadium, which in the real world won’t happen at the domed Ford Field.)

(Snow, as some of our longtime readers may know, has always symbolized boyish innocence and unfettered joy to me.)

The dream game’s results, of course, don’t predict the real game’s results. But they do reflect my own attitude.

I’ll watch the game at a WiFi-less bar, so don’t expect blogging-in-progress. I’ll write a big post-mortem later today or early tomorrow.