2 hours ago
This is a true story-
Later that night, Dennis Erickson was sitting down the bar about seven stools away from us, quietly drinking a beer like he was just another guy killing time. My buddies leaned in and told me who he was—the head coach of the Seattle Seahawks. I looked back over and noticed the rings. Two of them. Huge. Absolutely gigantic, catching the light every time he lifted his glass.
I figured they had to be Super Bowl rings. That’s the only thing that made sense.
After a couple beers, volume and confidence lining up just right, I yelled down the bar, “Hey Dennis! Let me see those rings!”
I expected him to hold up his hand. Maybe flash them for a second.
Nope.
He took them off and rolled them down the bar like dice, one after the other, metal clacking on wood, and the whole place erupted. Laughter, hoots, disbelief. The rings stopped right in front of us.
We passed them around, trying them on, one by one. Nobody’s fingers fit. Not even close. Those things swallowed knuckles whole. Someone finally asked, and that’s when we found out—they weren’t Super Bowl rings at all. They were from his college days.
Didn’t matter. Rings are rings, and legends are legends.
Eventually we sent them back down the bar the same way they came, sliding and clattering until they landed in front of Dennis Erickson, who just smiled, slipped them back on his massive fingers, and went back to his beer like nothing had happened.
Just another night at the bar—where coaches rolled rings like dice and everybody got a turn.
Later that night, Dennis Erickson was sitting down the bar about seven stools away from us, quietly drinking a beer like he was just another guy killing time. My buddies leaned in and told me who he was—the head coach of the Seattle Seahawks. I looked back over and noticed the rings. Two of them. Huge. Absolutely gigantic, catching the light every time he lifted his glass.
I figured they had to be Super Bowl rings. That’s the only thing that made sense.
After a couple beers, volume and confidence lining up just right, I yelled down the bar, “Hey Dennis! Let me see those rings!”
I expected him to hold up his hand. Maybe flash them for a second.
Nope.
He took them off and rolled them down the bar like dice, one after the other, metal clacking on wood, and the whole place erupted. Laughter, hoots, disbelief. The rings stopped right in front of us.
We passed them around, trying them on, one by one. Nobody’s fingers fit. Not even close. Those things swallowed knuckles whole. Someone finally asked, and that’s when we found out—they weren’t Super Bowl rings at all. They were from his college days.
Didn’t matter. Rings are rings, and legends are legends.
Eventually we sent them back down the bar the same way they came, sliding and clattering until they landed in front of Dennis Erickson, who just smiled, slipped them back on his massive fingers, and went back to his beer like nothing had happened.
Just another night at the bar—where coaches rolled rings like dice and everybody got a turn.