By Adam Watson| Glitter an Grime | February 9, 2026

The Seattle Seahawks are world champions again, which means roughly 4 million people who've never been within 50 miles of Seattle suddenly became diehard fans for approximately 72 hours before forgetting football exists until next January.

In a stunning upset, or perhaps a stunning expected result, depending on which armchair analyst you ask, Seattle demolished the New England Patriots in Super Bowl LXI, evening the cosmic score at 1-1 in what future historians will call "The Grudge Match Nobody Really Needed But We All Watched Anyway."

The game took place in San Francisco. Or San Jose. Or somewhere in that weird suburban sprawl where the stadium technically exists in one city but everyone pretends it's in the other because continuity is for cowards and cartographers. Levi's Stadium squats there like a gleaming monument to geographic ambiguity, hosting events for a city 40 miles away while San Jose residents quietly seethe.

But none of that matters. What matters is revenge. Sweet, narratively satisfying revenge.

You remember the last time these teams met: Russell Wilson, standing on the 1-yard line with destiny in his hands, decided to throw an interception that got returned for a touchdown, ripping the hearts out of an entire fanbase and sparking a decade of "Why didn't they just run the ball?" think-pieces that clogged the internet like digital cholesterol. It was heartbreak. It was tragedy. It was content.

This time? This time the Seahawks, sporting a younger roster with fresh knees and uncrushed dreams, dominated. We're talking a blowout. A massacre. The kind of game where even the announcers started talking about the commercials by the third quarter.

The revenge narrative was chef's kiss perfect. The underdog redemption arc was flawless. The Gatorade dump was executed with military precision.

And yet.

Some eagle-eyed fans, the kind who notice when the simulation glitches—realized something was missing. Something fundamental to the Super Bowl experience. Something that once defined American excellence and corporate synergy but has been dead and rotting since 2004.

Nobody said they were going to Disneyland.

No one has uttered the phrase "I'm going to Disneyland" with any cultural weight since Tom Brady said it in 2004. If anyone HAS said it since then, they were so forgettable that history itself chose to erase them from the record. That's 22 years of silence. Twenty-two years of champions stepping up to the microphone and NOT giving Disney the free advertising they so desperately crave. This is either a conspiracy or proof that corporate catchphrases have a half-life shorter than a TikTok trend.

The air in the stadium was thick with unspoken disappointment. The champagne tasted flat. The confetti felt... wrong.

We reached out to Jerry, a local worker at the Disney Store—yes, that Disney Store, the one with the faded, sunburnt Mickey Mouse decal peeling off the window down by the swap meet where someone's definitely selling bootleg Starter jackets out of a van.

Jerry was wearing a T-shirt featuring Joe Namath and his famously long, flowing hair with the caption "Dirty Hippy" emblazoned across the chest. He is either some kind of mystic barstool wiseman dispensing forgotten truths to those brave enough to listen, or the weird uncle no one invites to family reunions anymore. Possibly both.

Jerry had thoughts.

"It's a damn shame," he said, gesturing wildly with a knockoff Buzz Lightyear action figure missing an arm. "Nobody says 'I'm going to Disneyland' anymore. Ungrateful bastards. That's tradition. That's America."

He paused, staring into the middle distance like a man who'd seen the fall of Rome and was watching the sequel play out in real-time.

"Used to mean something, you know? Winning. Going to the Kingdom. Now these kids just,"

Unfortunately, Jerry's philosophical musings descended rapidly into a series of increasingly indignant phrases involving "the death of showmanship," "corporate cowardice," and something about how "Broadway Joe would've gone to Disneyland and banged a cocktail waitress on Space Mountain."

Security escorted him out shortly after. An early departure, but a memorable one.

But if you want to pinpoint the exact moment the Disney dream died—not in 2004, but right there, live, in front of God and everybody, you have to rewind to the post-game press conference.

Sam Darnold, the Seahawks' tall, redheaded quarterback and USC alum, stood at the podium dripping with victory and looking like a guy who'd just accidentally won something he wasn't entirely prepared for. The lights were hot. The cameras were rolling. The moment was his.

Someone lobbed him the softest of softballs: What would you say to young athletes watching right now?

Darnold, bless his heart, tried to deliver some generic inspirational pablum.

"All I'll say is you just need to believe in yourself," he said, the words tumbling out like a motivational poster that had been run through Google Translate twice.

It was a layup. A gimme. The kind of quote that gets screen-printed on middle school gym walls and forgotten by Tuesday.

But then, then, Janet, a YouTube influencer whose entire brand is "aggressively asking athletes questions they don't want to answer," saw her moment.

She leaned into her microphone, eyes gleaming with the desperate hope of someone trying to birth a viral moment into existence, and asked out loud, in front of everyone:

"Yeah, but do you believe in Mickey Mouse?"

The room went silent. You could hear the collective held breath of every Disney executive watching from their Burbank war room, leaning forward in their ergonomic chairs, whispering say it, say the line, say the fucking line.

Darnold blinked. Once. Twice.

And then, with the casual brutality of a man who has no idea what he's about to do, he said:

"That's for kids."

The crowd erupted. Not in cheers in cackling. The kind of unhinged, delighted laughter that only comes when someone accidentally commits corporate homicide on live television.

Janet's face fell. Somewhere, a Disney PR intern quietly updated their LinkedIn profile. The ghost of Walt Disney still haunting that vault let out a long, weary sigh and returned to his eternal slumber.

The "I'm going to Disneyland" revival campaign died right there, on the podium, murdered by a tall redheaded man who just wanted to talk about believing in yourself.

Sam Darnold did not mean to kill the mouse. But he did. Swiftly. Mercilessly. With four words. Historians will debate whether this was accidental manslaughter or premeditated corporate homicide. We may never know.

And yet, Jerry's rage, unhinged as it was touched on something real. A cultural death we've all been ignoring.

The "I'm going to Disneyland" moment was theater. It was spectacle. It was a quarterback, still dripping with Gatorade and adrenaline, leaning into the camera and delivering a line so gloriously, shamelessly commercial that it looped back around to being iconic.

Tom Brady did it in 2004. And then… nothing. Silence. A 22-year void where champions just shrugged, said some boring shit about "the team" and "hard work," and shuffled off to collect their endorsement checks in private like cowards.

If anyone's said it since Brady, they were so mediocre, so utterly forgettable, that even Google has scrubbed them from existence.

And now Sam Darnold—whether intentionally or not—has driven a stake through the heart of any hope for resurrection.

"That's for kids," he said.

And the people laughed.

But Jerry wasn't the only one mourning the death of manufactured joy.

Frank, head coach of the local pee-wee football team The Sugar Bush (yes, really), echoed the sentiment with the solemnity of a man who's seen too many 8-year-olds cry over fumbled handoffs.

"It's a sad state when champions don't talk about going to Disney," Frank said, adjusting his visor with the kind of gravitas usually reserved for war generals. "They could learn a little bit about class from my team, the Sugar Bush. Go Bush."

(We did not ask for clarification on that slogan. Some mysteries are best left unsolved.)

And then there's the other phenomenon, one as predictable as rain in Seattle (the city, not the fanbase): the sudden proliferation of "WE" in post-game conversations.

"WE beat the Patriots."
"WE dominated."
"WE are champions."

"We," of course, being people who watched the game from a couch while eating nachos and screaming at a television. People who did not, in fact, intercept a pass, throw a touchdown, or experience a single traumatic brain injury for the glory of the franchise.

But that's the magic of sports fandom, isn't it? The collective delusion. The shared psychosis. The beautiful lie that somehow, by purchasing a jersey and yelling at strangers on Reddit, you're part of the team.

You didn't suit up. You didn't take a hit. You didn't risk CTE for the glory of a billionaire's investment portfolio.

You ate chips.

The Seahawks won. Revenge was served cold, with a side of dominant defense and a surprisingly competent offensive line. The narrative arc was perfect. The trophy was hoisted. The city rejoiced (or at least the parts of the city that aren't still mad about the Sonics leaving).

But somewhere, in the hollowed-out husk of American commercialism, the ghost of Walt Disney weeps. Not because he cares about football—he's dead, and probably haunting a vault somewhere—but because a perfectly good branding opportunity has been gathering dust for 22 years, only to be shot execution-style by a well-meaning quarterback who just wanted to inspire the children.

The Seahawks had one job: win the game and revive a dying tradition of shameless corporate synergy.

They nailed the first part. They dropped the ball on the second.

Which, let's be honest, is peak Seattle energy.

Great job with the win, champions.

Now have some class.

Go Bush.

[FINAL EDITOR'S NOTE]:
Jerry, if you're reading this from whatever dive bar has graciously accepted your business: you were right. Not about everything—definitely not about Space Mountain—but about this. The magic is dead. The spectacle is gone. We're all just pretending anymore.

Sam Darnold, if you're reading this: we're not mad. We're impressed. You didn't just refuse to play the game, you torched the stadium on your way out. Respect.

Also, Jerry, that Joe Namath shirt is fire. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.