By the time Seahawks’ quarterback Russell Wilson threw his fourth interception of the game, the 12th Man jersey had been in a heap on the floor for at least 10 minutes.

On one end of the couch sat my 17-year-old son, Conner, eyes fastened to the screen, arms crossed, looking for all the world like he’d just lost his best friend.

I suppose in a way it looked to him like that was about to happen.

On the screen, the scoreboard was telling an ugly tale, plunging daggers deep into the hearts of the Seahawk faithful.

Green Bay 19, Seattle 7. It appeared that Seattle’s magic had run out, just shy of Super Bowl XLIX in the National Football Conference, and Conner was feeling deflated at the prospect of the defending champs’ season ending anywhere short of another title. I was as well.

For the Skager clan, football, and more specifically, the Seahawks, are more than just a game, they are a passion.

For Conner, the emotions tied into this team run deep, encompassing his entire life. From the frustration of the late 1990s and early 2000s to the “we’re almost there” glory days of the Mike Holmgren era and into the present halcyon days of the franchise, we lived and died by the yearly fate of the team. In fact, the thread runs so deep that while my father was fighting esophageal cancer – which took his life on May 13, 2011 – it seemed the only good days during his several rounds of chemotherapy and radiation treatment were Sundays, when we’d gather to watch the Hawks. My dad was there when we watched the infamous “Beast-Quake” run during the team’s 41-36 Wild Card playoff win against the defending champion New Orleans Saints.

With all that weight occupying space in our family’s emotional consciousness, alongside our love for the Hawks, it’s no wonder Conner was feeling so down. To tell the truth, I was, too.

I must confess that I have not always been the most shining example of sports-watching etiquette to my son. I’m a wear-my-emotions-on-my-sleeve kind of guy. When I’m happy or upset, people around me usually know about it. Not much seething under the surface emotionally, it’s usually all right out there in the air.

In fact, when the Seahawks lost 27-33 in overtime to the Packers in the 2003 Wild Card Playoffs (the game where then-Hawk-quarterback Matt Hasselbeck opened his big mouth, promising the team would score on the first OT possession), my beloved Cortez Kennedy jersey ended up swinging from my living room chandelier where I’d tossed it in disgust.

Apparently, that’s a trait I passed on to my son.

The aforementioned jersey lying on the floor in a heap was his. He had deposited it there in a fit of rage after a Seahawk offensive miscue. With things looking to keep going south for the team, I anticipated more histrionics from the boy. The thought of dealing with an emotionally-wrecked teenager, distraught at watching his team’s season come to an end, and of coping with my own frayed emotions tied in with the team had me dreading the next few minutes, and trying to muscle down a growing anxiety inside.

Normally, my dad was the voice of reason in these circumstances, lending a calming influence to counterbalance both of our emotional outbursts during games. Since his death we’ve been pretty lucky because the Seahawks have seen such success we haven’t had to deal with a soul-crushing loss like the one we were sure we were witnessing on Sunday.

Help with fending off the potential outburst, however, came not from my dad this time, instead it came from the very team struggling to come back on our TV screen.

Watching Russell Wilson calmly lead the team to a seven-play, 69-yard scoring drive with less than three minutes left in the game was just the ticket for me.

Watching the Hawks come up with an onside kick and capitalize on it with a 24-yard TD run by Lynch had the effect of pouring water on the anxiety conflageration burning in my soul.

Although the team was playing with passion and emotion, there wasn’t a lot of anxiety to the way they were going about their business, despite facing an uphill climb to victory.

Soon, I found my anxiety loosening up, replaced with a confident assurance that everything was going to be alright.

And with this newfound calmness filling me, I was able to provide a better example to my son, whose attitude swiftly changed once Wilson found Luke Willson in the end zone for a two-point conversion.

By the time the teams met at the 50-yard line for the overtime coin toss, every negative emotion tied into this game for me was replaced with a calmness that spread from me to Conner.

It’s nice to see that, even at my advanced age of 45, I’m still able to glean a lesson or two from sports. Guess you can teach an old dog new tricks.

Now I’ve just got to keep it together for one more game this season.

Go Hawks!