Only one more day to go. Only one more night to pace. Only one more day of waiting, wanting and wondering.

Who will it be? Who will win? Who will lose?

And then there are those of you who could care less about tomorrow’s Seahawks/Steelers Sunday Super Bowl.

Then again, maybe you are reading this on Monday and your team has already won.

My dilemma — I like both teams. I like both coaches. I like both cities. I like both uniforms. I like all cheerleaders.

Why couldn’t the Seahawks be playing the University of Michigan instead? It would be so much easier.

Growing up in our family meant that you changed schools at least every two years, if not every year. Dad sold motor oil. When he was promoted, we moved. We moved a lot because Dad did a great job selling motor oil.

When we lived in Denver, we had no local teams to root for, so we rooted for St. Louis teams since Dad was from Missouri.

When we lived in Memphis, we had no local teams to root for, so we still rooted for St. Louis, but were allowed to root for the Detroit Lions on Thanksgiving.

When we moved to Columbus, Ohio, we finally had a team nearby in Cleveland to root for. Lou “The Toe” Groza, Jim Brown, Bobby Mitchell. What a team those Cleveland Browns were.

Then we moved to Oil City, Penn. After being a Browns fan for a number of years, I was shocked when I heard Dad cheering one day for the Pittsburgh Steelers.

“Dad, what are you doing? That’s the Steelers. You are rooting against the Browns?”

“Jimmy, you root for the home team. Pennsylvania is your home now, not Ohio. We like the Pirates, we like the Steelers. We root for the home team.”

No wonder I ended up drinking Iron City Beer while I did my homework.

Now what was I supposed to do? Take down my pictures of Jackie Robinson of the Brooklyn Dodgers, or Oscar Robertson of the Cincinnati Bearcats, or Jerry Lucas of the Ohio State Buckeyes? What about my pictures of Hopalong Cassidy and Bobby Layne of the Detroit Lions?

For a moment, it seemed like it just might be easier to run away from home than to root for my Dad’s new home teams. Is that why he changed from a Democrat to a Republican? Is that why he switched from a Baptist to a Presbyterian? From Bourbon Deluxe to Jim Beam?

How loyal do we need to be? What is loyalty and to whom is it owed?

Mom never changed her allegiances. She rooted for Ole Miss from day one. She never rooted for any other college football team than Ole Miss, even when we lived down the road from Woody Hayes.

Mom was a southern belle loyalist. She always rooted for Miss Mississippi, in every Miss America pageant, no matter what year or no matter where we lived. Of course, Mom rooted for Arthur Godfrey and Julius LaRosa.

So, what do I do? My childhood memories of Franco Harris, Terry Bradshaw, Rocky Blier and Mean Joe Greene are forever emblazoned on my remaining brain cells. I didn’t even know how to spell Hasselback and Holmgren until last month. I thought the Seahawks mascot was a gooey duck until last week.

How silly will I look at the Eagles, or China City, or the Bayview Cash Store, or Cozy’s or the Freeland Café or Island Fabrics or Saucy’s or The Edgecliff or La Paz or Gordon’s or Neil’s or Gerry’s or Giuseppe’s or The Beachfire or Vino Amore or The Rod and Gun or The Legion or The Litehouse or Whidbey Pies Café or Mukilteo Roaster or the Seahawks Game Store or El Corral or Trinity Lutheran Church wearing gold and black?

I can hear Dad now.

“Son, you root for the home team. You support your community. You support your local teams, your local merchants, your local restaurants. You carry your beer cans out in a sack at night so the neighbors won’t see you.”

So much for can anonymity at Island Recycling.

I can hear Mom now.

“Jimmy, cheer for the team that you want to win. It does not matter what anyone else thinks. You are a good boy. Just be careful.”

So, I think I’ll listen to both Mom and Dad once again. I’ll root for the home team from the hometown of my heart.

You know, my Mom and Dad were always right. I remember Dad’s laugh when I told him that I needed to borrow money from him to get a large life insurance policy so I could be a millionaire by the time I was 35. I was 17 at the time.

Dad always said, “Just do your best, son. Do your best.”

May the Home Team do The Best tomorrow.

May The Force Be In Them.

As our minister said last week in church, “It’s our turn!”