What it’s like to play in the NFL’s loudest environments

“Do you want to hear the most annoying sound in the world?”

Fans of the movie “Dumb and Dumber” will remember this scene, when Lloyd Christmas, played by Jim Carrey, asks this question, then makes a high-pitched whining noise that fits the description.

Playing on the road in the NFL, especially in Seattle, is a lot like that, except there are 70,000 Lloyd Christmases all making the most annoying noise in the world at exactly the same time.

Dealing with crowd noise as an NFL player is part of your job. Half the time it works for you, half the time it works against you. My old coach, Mike Shanahan, used to say there was no sweeter sound in the world than walking out in the NFL and silencing 70,000 people. It’s great to win a game in front of your fans, but winning away from home is a different experience. It’s not just our 53 against their 53, after all. It’s also the 12th man you have to beat — and Seattle’s 12th man is so involved that they trademarked the phrase.

Every time an opposing offense jumps offside, it gets louder. Every delay of game. Every obvious miscommunication. Every quarterback who shakes his head and then points to his helmet. It causes a frenzied roar that can sound like a tidal wave coming to bury you. Your mistakes encourage the raging fans to scream louder and louder, making the ever-important tactical communication harder to achieve.

One thing Europeans have a hard time understanding about American football is all the starts and stops, the huddles and discussions.

“What on earth are they talking about?” they wonder. “Just play along!”

But football doesn’t work that way. Tactics are so detailed and nuanced that a robust language is created to choreograph the movements of each of the 22 players on the pitch, and this must be constantly communicated. You can’t “just play.” If you tried, the other team wouldn’t need a crowd to bury you – you have to.

Crowd noise matters. How much? In 2020, the year of COVID-19, we gained an interesting perspective. Games were played without spectators in the stands, meaning there was no crowd noise, and the result was the best year for quarterbacks in sports history.

Because the quarterback would go to the line of scrimmage while the game was on the line, on the outside, and instead of hearing the deafening screams of the opponent, there was silence. He could work on snap counts, blow up the defense, audible the play, call coverages, and give last-minute instructions to his teammates, all game long, all with an inside voice.

It was every quarterback’s dream, but it tipped the scales in the offense’s favor. And that’s not how football is supposed to be played.

In cities like Seattle, with fans in the stands, playing quarterback is not a dream. It can be a nightmare. Unless you’re prepared. Unless you’ve practiced with the crowd noise. You’ve perfected your silent count. You know all the hand signals, the game plan is pretty simple, and you’re confident you can execute it. When everyone is on the same page, it’s a lot easier to enter a hostile environment. But if one player on the offense is confused, it can be a disaster.

The Seahawks are hoping the guy they’re confusing is Broncos quarterback Bo Nix, and they’ll be counting on the 12th man to help them get there.

But there is another way to deal with noise that will make your silent countdown useless and your hand signals useless: Cut the power. From the opening kickoff, dominate the opponent. Run away. Take a two-touchdown lead in the first quarter and make it clear to everyone at Lumen Field who the better team is.

Silence 70,000 Lloyd Christmases. Do that and there will be no sweeter sound.