In the history of famous men named Wilson appearing at Stadium Bowl, we never thought any visit could surpass the gravitas of President Woodrow Wilson making a speech there in 1919.
Then Russell Wilson arrived Wednesday under clear blue skies that signified God smiling on Tacoma.
It was a top-secret mission, but what we know is this: The Seahawks quarterback is a pitchman for Look Larson Automotive Group, and he was filming a car commercial. Stadium High football players were used as extras. Stadium Bowl was rented for the school district’s standard hourly rental rate, plus custodial fees, for a total of $1,350.
Wilson signed autographs. He didn’t stay long. There were no reported sightings of him at haunts such as Stadium Thriftway or Shake, Shake, Shake.
There hasn’t been this much star power at the Bowl since Heath Ledger danced across the concrete bleachers in “10 Things I Hate About You.”
Nor so much cause for excitement about a TV commercial since Seahawk Richard Sherman sold cars for Sunset Chevrolet in “tiny overhead” Sumner.
Sorry, pal. A story this huge cannot be contained any more than R-Dub can be held in the pocket while running the read-option offense.
As we’ve said before, Wilson could be Mr. Tacoma if only he were to embrace the role — the undersized underdog who exceeded the world’s third-string expectations.
Just one request: Next time, can you please make an appearance at Wilson High School? We’re pretty sure they’d be willing to replace the “Woodrow” part of their name in a heartbeat.
But we do say godspeed this week to the right honorable Peter Callaghan, the three-day-a-week political scribe who shoveled words for this daily fishwrap for the better part of 30 years — including occasional contributions to this weekly column.
How sad are we? Not since we got that boil lanced has The Schnoz been this red and puffy.
Legislators feared Callaghan. Tacoma historic preservationists loved him. Teachers unions will forewarn their comrades in Minnesota about him.
Meantime, TNT colleagues marveled at his ability to work himself into a tizzy over seemingly trivial stuff — like last week, when he voiced (loudly) that Pierce County Executive Pat McCarthy shouldn’t wear a U.S. Open hat on television.
We don’t know why he felt that way. We were afraid to ask.
But this man who stood up for open government was rarely more lathered up than when he sensed censorship in his own newsroom. Thus, for the last several years, he kept a running list of Nose items that didn’t make the paper.
In his honor, we now present the list. As each item lacks its original context, we understand if you don’t feel the same amusement and/or outrage that he and we did at the time.
• The governor’s dead pets.
• College drinking.
• University of Puget Sound law school sale.
• Former Tacoma School Superintendent Charles Milligan.
• The Hilltop.
• Gay polar bears.
• Balls (Titleist, we think).
• The former mayor’s enormous melon.
• Dissociative fugue disorder.
• Elf sex.
• Chronic street inebriate wine socials.
• Legislative aides/schnauzers.
• Crotch-grabbing athletes.
• Public breast feeding.
• Anything regarding firefighters.
And a handful of others not fit for print. Because sometimes self-censorship is the better part of valor.
Man, those Special Ops guys sure know how to blow up the script.
A chatty crowd gathered Wednesday to watch one full-bird colonel pass command of the 1st Special Forces Group to another. Being Green Berets who live on the edge, the spectators needed more than commander biographies to hold their attention.
They made a gate out of two Mad Max-like combat vehicles. The latest sniper rifles were on display. One soldier walked around in a full sniper suit, complete with fake grass sprouting out of his helmet and shoulders.
But the party didn’t really start until a soldier fired three blanks from a handgun and sprinted down the JBLM parade field with a muscly German shepherd on his heels.
The canine leapt, grabbed the soldier by the collar and pinned him to the grass until another Green Beret whispered the magic words to release the dog’s jaws.
Just another day at the office for a group that calls itself “the quiet professionals.”