We interrupt this political blog to bring you some perspective on today's game.
Full Disclosure: I've lived in San Francisco for 30 years. However, as I originally hail from Chicago, Da Bears, Cubs, Bulls, and Blackhawks will always command my sporting loyalties. Still, I have made a sincere effort to get behind the local teams as my second choice. They've not made it easy.
Look - I am enormously grateful to the Niners for knocking the Green Bay Packers out of the playoffs. After the Packers lay down against the Vikings to keep the Bears out of the playoffs, watching Green Bay go to the Superbowl would have been too painful to bear. Since then, I have enthusiastically cheered the Niners throughout the playoffs. But the Superbowl is another matter. There is a very good case for my fellow City citizens to follow my lead and pull for a Ravens win.
Here the top ten reasons why every San Franciscan should reconsider their support for the Niners:
I naively saw the ad as simply a straight-line continuation of the theme and style of Chrysler's excellent "Imported from Detroit" Eminem ad last year.
"Fox News released a poll (.pdf) this week with many of the usual political questions one would expect to see right now — the 2008 presidential race, the war, etc. But, with the Super Bowl in mind, the network also asked respondents two of the strangest questions I’ve ever seen in a national poll."
I didn't really believe it, but sure enough, here is a screenshot of the questions linked to the complete poll on the Fox News site. Question 36 reads "Which team do you think God wants to win the Super Bowl this year?" :
I take some consolation from the fact that 14% of my fellow Americans recognize that God is a Bear fan as opposed to a misguided 11% who believe that He favors the Colts. Personally, I've always thought that there was something vaguely satantic about Peyton Manning.
Searching the Fox News site, I cannot find any stories referencing this poll. Maybe they are saving it for Super Bowl Sunday. Or maybe this is just too stupid, even for Fox News. More concerning to me, is the journalistic incompetence of the Fox pollsters. Why did they not ask the question that inquiring minds really want to know? Why not dig for news that we could really use? Like:
Who would Jesus bet on? And would he take the point spread?
POST SUPERBOWL UPDATE:The previous advice in this post was offered while in a state of temporary insanity. Legal and medical documentation available on request. Any and all advice offered while I was in this state is now formally declared inoperative. Thank you for your understanding and cooperation during this difficult time.
3:23 AM. No time had passed. That was impossible. The digital clock on the microwave must be broken. I checked my watch. 3:23. I checked the time in the lower corner of the laptop screen. 3:23. I poured another scotch, my hand was shaking again. The top of the bottle tapped out a staccato click on the rim of the glass. I needed to sit down. I needed to think. Everything seemed normal now, but the frightening reality of the waking nightmare I had just experienced still frissioned in my brain. Of course I knew Abe Gibron was not really in the kitchen with me moments ago. Of course it was a dream. But there would be no sleeping for me now. My heart was pounding in my throat. With glass in hand I wandered into the living room and fell into an easy chair by the fireplace.
My brother must have a built a fire for his kids earlier in the evening. A few embers still glowed in the hearth and an occasional brief flame threw an orange cast into the room. Smoke curled up from the charred remnants and was swept out the flue and up the chimney. I could hear my brother snoring in the bedroom. I don’t know how his wife gets any sleep at all.
One curl of smoke escaped the fireplace and floated into the room. It calmed me to watch it rise toward the ceiling where it seemed to stop and thicken into a translucent cloud. Odd. It was not behaving like any smoke I had ever seen before. The smoke cloud grew in size fed by the trail still leaking out of the fireplace, but it never seemed to hit the ceiling. It just seemed to collect into an oblong cloud above the mantle.
Something was not right. I could not hear my brother snoring anymore. Now I was hearing something else. It almost sounded like a orchestra. It was an orchestra - quite distinct now - In fact, it was the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. There was no mistaking the ambience of the crashing tympanis under the inspired conducting of Sir George Solti. The music swelled and filled the room. I could hear a ghostly audience clapping and singing. They were playing the Bears Fight Song. The smoke cloud stop swirling and began to coalesce into a familiar shape. A figure, a human figure began to form … was that the shape of a porkpie hat? Wait… wait… I know this man.
It was George Halas. Hands on his hips, a grimace of a smile, white shirt, stripe tie, he peered down at me through Rayban Wayfarer sunglasses.
I cleared my throat. "Are you the Spirit, whose coming was foretold to me?".
"I am." His voice was firm and sharp.
"Who, and what are you?" I asked
"I am the Ghost of the Chicago Bears Past."
He kneeled before the mantle as if he was on the sideline at Soldier Field and pointed. Smoke swirled around him like the snow swirling outside. In front of his outstretched hand words and images began to form. Scrolling like the credits of a movie they rolled before my eyes as “Bear Down Chicago Bears” rang in my ears:
63 years as an owner 40 years as coach, 324 wins 8 NFL titles as a coach or owner 1921 NFL Championships 1933 NFL Championships 1940 NFL Championships 1941 NFL Championships 1946 NFL Championships 1963 NFL Championships 73-0 Victory over the Redskins in the 1940 title game
The numbers flashed faster than I could read them. I saw flickering images of Red Grange, Sid Luckman, and even George Halas himself stripping Jim Thorpe of the ball and running the fumble back 98 yards for a touchdown. All playing out under Poppa Bear’s outstretched hand before the fireplace. Still there was more – T-formations formed and flowed, I saw Bobby Layne, and George Blanda, now Dick Butkus and then – I suddenly saw myself as a child - sitting on the floor in front of a black and white Zenith television, mesmerized by Gale Sayers running down the field evading one tackler after another.
I stood up, the glass of whiskey dropped out of my hand and crashed to the floor. The ghost and the music disappeared in an instant. I was standing in a quiet living room again, in front of a dying fire, my brother’s snores echoing from a distant room.
Except…
I was still standing up, or more accurately, I appeared to be floating upwards toward the ceiling. My feet no longer touched the floor, as I drifted toward the ceiling, just as the smoke had done before. The fireplace receded from my vision as I passed right through ceiling, through the rafters, until I floated above the roof of the house, outside in the night wind and blowing snow.
Number 34 was waiting for me there. Walter Payton, helmet on, game ready, in the Bears home uniform, dark jersey, white pants, a polished silver football cradled under his arm, bouncing on his toes as if was waiting for a game to start.
“You would be the Ghost of Chicago Bears Present I presume.”
Walter smiled and nodded. "Rise. And run with me." He said.
He turned, beckoned with his arm and ran straight up into the night sky as if he was running up the training hill in his back yard. I stopped wondering if I was going insane. I stopped thinking altogether, and just started to run. The billowing clouds of blowing snow seemed to give way as my feet tried to push against it. My legs would churn but I was running in place. Payton disappeared in the distance, then came running back down through the snow and clouds, touched my shoulder, turned and ran back up into the sky again. I was moving now. One foot in front of other, climbing higher into the night sky, the neighborhood grid of argon streetlights spreading out beneath my feet as I climbed higher and higher. We ran for what seemed like hours. Walter Payton running ahead of me, then running back, like a yo-yo, back and forth while I struggled to keep up far running far behind. I could see we were heading south. Through breaks in the clouds I watched the skyscrapers and trains of the Loop far below and drifting behind, with the foreboding darkness of an icy Lake Michigan off to my left.
Then Walter stopped, turned and waited for me. As I approached, he grabbed my arm and we began to descend through the clouds. We were falling toward a bright green spot of light. The light became an oval, and I soon saw we were drifting toward the open yaw of the remodeled Soldier Field.
There was a game in progress on the field. The stands were filled. The crowd was roaring. As we crossed the level of the highest seats, night turned into day. I looked at the scoreboard. It said Chicago Bears - 9, New Orleans Saints - 0. Less than six minutes were left in the second quarter. We descended toward the field and landed softly in the middle of the 10 yard-line. On the other end of the field, I could see Rex Grossman leading the Bears offense on to the field with the ball on their own 31 yard line. Walter must have seen the panic on my face.
"We are but shadows” said the Ghost. "They have no consciousness of us."
He pointed up the field. “Look. Learn.”
It was the first play of the series. Grossman handed the ball to Thomas Jones. He ripped up the middle for 14 yards and a first down. They were only 45 yards away from where we stood. On the second play of the series Grossman handed the ball to Thomas Jones for two yards up the middle. On the third play of the series Grossman handed the ball to Thomas Jones for a run up the middle, but he cut it outside for another 33 yard gain. It was first down on the New Orleans twenty-yard line, only ten yards away from us now. Under our feet a bright yellow line lit up for the width of the field. "Cool." I thought "I always wondered how they did that."
The fourth play of the series Grossman handed the ball to Thomas Jones who ran it up the middle for seven yards, finally pulled to the ground right in front of me on the 13-yard line. The fifth play of the series Grossman handed the ball to Thomas Jones who ran it up the middle for two yards falling at my feet. Payton laughed as I jumped in the air leaping right through the gang tackling New Orleans defenders. It was 3rd and 1 on the 11-yard line. The sixth play of the series Grossman handed the ball to Thomas Jones who ran it up the middle right through me for 2 yards and a first down on the nine-yard line. As the Bears broke from the huddle I was standing right next to one of the Chicago Bear offensive lineman as he walked up to the line of scrimmage. He had a glint in his eye and a twisted smile on his face as looked across at his defensive counterpart. I was stunned by what he said. The Bear pointed at Jones in the backfield “You see that guy? He is getting the ball. He is going to run it right through here. He then pointed at the New Orleans defensive lineman in front of him. The snap count is two. See if you can stop it.” He then dropped into his stance. Sure enough, on the seventh play of the series Grossman handed the ball off to Thomas Jones who ripped off another seven yards to the two-yard line. The ghost formerly known as Walter Payton, eyes sparkling, could not stop laughing. On the eighth play of the drive, Grossman handed the ball off to Thomas Jones who pounded it up the middle through the defenders into the end zone for a touchdown.
The waves of sound from the stands pounded through my insubstantial form like Niagara Falls, and I felt myself starting to discorporate. As the scene faded to white, I could see the smiling Ghost of the Chicago Bears Present mouth the words – “Do you understand now?”. I understood. This was the New Orleans defense. New Orleans has a better defense than Indianapolis. New Orleans could not stop the Bears, even when they knew the play.
I was back in the living room. The fire was out. I cleaned up the broken glass and walked back into the kitchen to throw the broken shards in the trash. There was no longer any doubt in my mind about what was happening. I wondered when I would get the third and final visit from the spirit world. I looked at the clock – 3:23 AM still. No surprise. While I was staring, it flipped to 3:24. Time was passing normally again.
By 4:00 I began to suspect I would receive no more ghostly visitors this morning. That was a relief, but sleep was out of the question. My mind was still abuzz. Perhaps a little television would relax me. I walked down the stairs into the basement my brother had recently remodeled into a den and media room. He had had just installed a 42” Panasonic Plasma Hi-Def screen with satellite Direct TV and Tivo. The remote control made about as much sense to me as the control panel for a nuclear power plant, but by pushing enough random buttons I eventually hit a combination that turned the television on. I left it muted so I would not be accosted by some random infomercial for feminine shaving products while I tried to figure out how to flip through the channels. Mike Ditka was on the screen sitting behind a studio desk on one of the network football pre-game shows. I flipped ahead a few channels. It was again Mike Ditka sitting in the same studio. I flipped over to the Tivo to see if there was anything interesting recorded. Maybe I would find a recorded Daily Show, or the latest BattleStar Galactica. Now this was odd. My brother was a Bear fan but this seemed a little ridiculous. All the recorded shows said the same thing. Mike Ditka. Every single one. I didn’t even know that Ditka still had a show in Chicago. Must be some local station. I flipped over to satellite channel selection menu and started to scroll through the 500 channel matrix. My thumb stopped pounding the scroll bar, a chill went up my spine, and a sense of dread fell over me. Every channel on every station, in every time slot forward and back said “Mike Ditka”.
I took a deep breath, made sure the mute was still on, and flipped back to live TV. Mike Ditka was still sitting at the studio desk. I began to notice some odd things that I should have noticed before. Ditka was the only one sitting at the desk. Ditka was not saying anything. It was 4:00 Saturday morning. There was no game today. The Superbowl was a week away. There was no reason for Mike Ditka to be sitting at that desk. This was a younger Mike Ditka. This was the 1985 Bears Coach Ditka wearing his trademark 1985 Bears banner sweater. He was chewing furiously on a wad of gum. He was staring right at the camera. He was staring right at me. The camera began to zoom in until his face filled the entire Hi-Def screen. He looked really, really mad. I hit the un-mute button.
“It’s about time! Do you think I’ve got nothing better to do than sit around here waiting for you to pay attention!” Ditka’s voice boomed out of the surround sound system in THX three dimensional fidelity.
“Are you talking to me?”
“Who do you think I am talking to?! Do you see anybody else there? Because I don’t see anybody else there. So I guess I must be talking to you DUMBASS!”
“Ah. Ummm…. I just want to be sure now … you are the third spirit I was told to expect?”
Ditka rolled his eyes and slapped his head in disbelief. “Yes I am the Ghost of the Chicago Bears Future! DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THAT???”
As I sat in front of Mike Ditka’s hi-def 42” screen filling face yelling at me, a fine mist of spittle seemed to settle on and all around me.
“No. No problem. But um … Coach, Its just that ...you are not dead.”
"You think that just because I am not dead I can't walk in the spirit world ? They don't tell me what to do. My time here is almost done. Lets just get to the point. EXACTLY WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM??”
“Ok, Coach, you know I have always a loyal Bears fan … its just … its just…” I swallowed hard. “It’s Rex.- I mean he’s great, he won a lot of games for us but…” I shook my head and spilled it out. “He is too young. He does not have the experience of playing in a pressure cooker like the Superbowl. He is up against a grizzled veteran in Peyton Manning. How can he possibly handle that kind of pressure?”
It is amazing the detail you can see in Hi-Def. The veins in Ditka’s forehead pulsed like a boa constrictor. His faced turned a very interesting shade of vermilion. He spit the wad of gum into his hand, and in a single gesture threw it out of screen where it smacked me in the forehead. It hurt. A lot.
“He laughed and pointed. That’s going to leave a mark. Now, listen to me! I am only going to say this once and I am going to say it very slow so you can understand. Rex is a young kid. He thinks he is going to live forever. He thinks he is going to be in many Superbowls. Nobody expected him to get there and nobody expects him to win. Peyton has been in this league for a long time. He also has never been in a Superbowl. He does not know if he will ever be in another. He thinks this is his only chance. Everybody thinks he should have been there before, and everybody thinks he will win now. Now, who do you really think is under more pressure??”
The screen started breaking up with digital static. I suddenly realized what was happening and lunged at the screen.
“Coach! Wait! You are in Miami aren't you? You are in the future. Coach, are you are at the Superbowl?”
“Of course you dumbass.” I heard him say through the static.
“Coach!” I yelled. “The score, the score! Can you show me the final score? Coach! Coach!" I was yelling into an empty screen.
I just stared at the static in the screen for a long time. Finally I walked back upstairs.
The sun had just come up over the horizon and beams of light were pouring on to the kitchen table. I needed air. I opened the door and walked outside.
My breath was a frosty cloud in front of my face. The air was cold, crisp, clear and still. I took a deep breath and felt the snot freezing in my nose. I was filled with a peace that I have never known. As I had stared into the fading static of the screen, I saw one last glimpse from the future before it was all gone. I only saw it for a second, but it was seared into my memory.
I saw the scoreboard in Miami at the end of the game.
I have not posted for a few days. I should be focused on covering every detail of the titanic constitutional struggle unfolding between the legislative and executive branch over the war. But I cannot. The truth is - I cannot focus, I cannot concentrate, I cannot think. I have barely slept the last three days. My mind keeps replaying what I have seen. I have spoken of this with no one. But if I do not tell someone I will go insane. Perhaps I already am. No matter, I decided I will write down what has transpired and post it on my blog. Perhaps then I will get some peace. I don’t expect anyone to believe this, I barely believe it myself. But I know what I saw.
It started last Friday. I flew to Chicago for some family business, landing at Midway, and stayed at my brother’s house. I got in late. The Southwest flight landed at midnight. I grabbed a Chicago-style hotdog with the works [Poppy seed bun, all-beef dog with the thick skin that pops when you bite it, a kosher half-sour pickle spear, wedges of tomato the length of the bun, primary yellow mustard – not brown, no speckles, just yellow mustard, nuclear fluorescent green relish, six small green hot sport peppers, and celery salt sprinkled over it all] from the 24 hour food stand in the terminal, and inhaled it on the way down to baggage claim. I always have a hot dog within five minutes of landing in Chicago. I should have taken my time. The baggage handlers were on strike, or the union was taking a break, or the Chicago Southwest Airline baggage claim is incompetent, but it took two hours before my bags spilled onto the carousel.
I was not in a good mood. This was the “tweener” weekend. The Bears beat New Orleans the previous week and punched their ticket to the Superbowl. The Superbowl was yet another week away. The mindless euphoria in the city added to my irritation. It permeated the airport, the streets, the radio, TV and seemed to be in the very air I was breathing. It was inescapable. Everyone was wearing Bear hats, Bear sweaters, Bear scarves, Bear buttons. The Bears were on the cover of every newspaper and magazine in every rack. They were on every radio station and every commercial on TV. From the cab I saw one billboard that said “All Bears All the Time”. That said it all. “Bah! – Bullshit!” I said out loud, startling the driver. If I see one more smiling Bear-bedecked fool give me the thumbs-up and saying “Duh Bears.”, I swear I am going to hit them. My head rolled back in the seat of the cab and I closed my eyes. What is wrong with these idiots. The Bears cannot beat Indy. Peyton will chew ‘em up and spit them out. He is exactly the kind of quarterback in exactly the kind of offense the Bears can’t handle. “What blind fools they are!” I practically spit the words out. Young quarterbacks folding in the Superbowl is as reliable as the sun setting in the west. Brady was the exception that proves the rule. Grossman has no chance.
Don’t get me wrong. I grew up in Chicago. I have been a Chicago sports fan all my life. Cubs, Bulls, Bears. They are my lifelong teams. But I am a realist. I have been around these teams too long and I know exactly what to expect. I have seen it all before. The Cubs a few outs away from the World Series, and Steve Bartman knocks the ball away from Alou’s mitt. Grossman throwing an incomplete, 4th & 1 pass to Muhsin Muhammad with a minute to play in the Division championship last year against Carolina. The Eagles running roughshod over the Bears in the divisional playoff game at the old Soldier Field in ’02. No. They are not going to fool me this time. These are not the ’85 Bears. Rex Grossman is no Jim McMahon. Thomas Jones is no Walter Payton. Brian Urlacher is no Mike Singletary. And Lovie Smith is no Mike Ditka Why can’t these idiot fans just be happy with the Conference Championship and let it go. I don’t have the time or psychic energy to waste on another disappointment. Been there. Done that.
The cab ride was uneventful, except for one odd moment. When I reached for the door handle, for just a second, I thought it looked exactly like Mike Ditka’s moustache. I reflexively pulled my hand back. It was just a trick of the argon streetlight streaming through the ice streaked window. I jumped out of the cab, knocked on the door, woke up my brother and went in.
I was too keyed up to sleep. The only place I could get a decent signal from his wireless network was at the kitchen table in the corner. I poured myself to a healthy shot from his 15 year old Laphroiag and sat down in front of the Dell laptop, stealing a glance at the digital clock glowing above the microwave. 3:23 AM. I thought writing a post would get my mind off of the moronic Bear insanity in which I was immersed. I was on California time, and too wound up too sleep, but I was too tired to write. I don’t know how long I sat there in the dark, staring across the top of the glowing laptop, watching the lake-effect snow swirl around the Weber grill just outside the window.
A chill seeped into the room. It was more than a chill. It felt like the knife edge of a Lake Michigan winter wind slicing into my soul. I shivered but still didn’t move. It was almost like I was in a trance, sitting there, staring out the window at the snow.
Then I heard it. A scraping sound. A metallic sound, a cold, dragging, shuffling sound. It was distant at first, but became louder, heavier, punctuated with clanks and scratches, as it drew closer to the door directly at my back. But still I did not move. I just sat there staring out the window, lit by the laptop in the dark cold room. Then - Somehow I was standing by the door. I don’t know how I got there. I was just - there. I could sense a presence, a heaviness, something was out there, just on the other side of the door. I watched my hand reach out as if it belonged to someone else, turn the knob under its own volition, and open the door.
It was Abe Gibron. He looked… well… he looked dead. In fact, he was dead. But he was still standing there looking at me. His eyes were sunk deep into the gray pallor of his fat face. But it was Abe Gibron all right, at his full 300 pound 1974 Chicago Bear coaching weight. And he was standing outside the door substantial as his bulk, yet somehow insubstantial as I could see right through his girth at the chain-link fence behind him. Startled, I fell back on to the kitchen floor as he flowed right through the storm door, filled the doorframe and floated into the room. He seemed to glow with a wispy pale light. I could see all of him now floating blimp-like in front of me. Large linked iron chains draped over both of his shoulders, wrapping around his great girth, entangling in his legs and dragging on the ground behind him. In his right hand he gripped long streaky blond hair wrapping through his fingers, from which dangled a severed male head. He held it casually, almost unnoticed, like he was holding a coach’s clipboard at his side. He slowly raised his left arm until it was pointing directly at me.
“You know me.“ He said. Speaking slowly, ponderously.
“Well, yeah.” I said. “ You look familiar, but I kind of suspect that you are actually an undigested bit of the hot dog that I ate when I got off the plane.”
His head rolled back, his jaw dropped open to his chest, and an indescribable scream filled the room sending me scurrying backwards in terror, crab-like, into the farthest corner by the cabinets.
“Okay! Okay! … You are Abe Gibron! You coached the Bears to three last place finishes from ’72 to ‘74 - Please go away!” The spirit, quiet now, looked down at me again. Finally I cried out “Why are you here?”
The spirit spoke again - "It is required of every NFL coach, that the spirit within him should walk among his fellow-men, if that spirit did not enjoy a Superbowl in life. It is doomed to wander through the world -oh, woe is me!- and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth.”
“Bummer… That is rough, Abe. But why do you wear those chains?”
“I wear the chains of my losing seasons, one link for every Bear loss while I was head coach. I forged these chains in life and I am now condemned to wear them in the hereafter for all eternity.”
“Okay. Okay, I got it...But what is the deal with Bobby Douglass?” I asked, pointing at the severed head.
His eyes rolled, he shook his head slowly and sadly, took in a deep breath then let it out slowly. The room filled with the smell of rotting barbecued pork ribs.
“Hear me!" cried the Ghost. "My time is nearly gone!”
I didn’t say a word.
“I have been sent to warn you! You will be haunted by Three Spirits. One Spirit of the past. One Spirit of the present. One Spirit of things that have yet to come to pass. You have been warned!”
Then – I was alone sitting at the kitchen table again, slumped back in the chair, in front of the laptop, staring out the window at the snow, in a warm kitchen exactly as before. It was all a dream. A waking, lucid dream. It had seemed so real. I stood up, the trance broken. The whiskey in the glass was gone. I uncorked the bottle and spilled a few drops as I poured it unsteadily with my shaking hand. The glass was emptied again before it hit the table. “Just a dream!” I thought. And yet… I could swear that I could still detect the scent of barbecued pork ribs hanging in the air.
No, it was just a dream. I looked at the digital clock again.
