It Still Stings

No, I haven’t been avoiding the issue. OK, so maybe I have been avoiding the issue. I’ve just been too depressed to confront it. I’ve tried blocking it out and moving on with my life as if it never happened, but it returns to haunt me each time I accidentally view a Disney commercial.

I didn’t know how to begin this entry. I had a difficult time wrapping my mind around it. How can I possibly describe the level of disappointment I feel about my Bears coming up short against the Indianapolis Colts? How can I relay the inner-nuisances involved? The hair-pulling, heart-wrenching anguish?

I’m forced to fall back on the ex-girlfriend analogy… the same one that fueled the angst that created about fifty-percent of my crappy book of poetry. It’s the only comparison that comes close to illustrating the depth of my trauma.

OK… say you have a girlfriend right? Well, she’s pretty fickle about the relationship. One day she’s hot for you, the next she doesn’t seem to care if you’re dead or alive. Now let’s say that she kinda-sorta dumps you, but not really, opting to revert to a state of casual courtship. You go along with it, keeping the torch lit, hoping that someday her heart will return to you as readily as her genitals when she needs a quick-fix.

That’s similar to how I felt about my Bears during the middle and end of the regular season. I was confused, frustrated, and tormented by Rex Grossman’s erratic performance at QB in the same way that I was confused by said ex-girlfriend’s mixed-signals several years ago. To make matters worse, the Bears defense, the strength of the team, was showing signs of weakness once we lost Tommy Harris and Mike Brown to injury. But despite their injuries, I kept on believing. Whenever a doubt crossed my mind, I pushed it right out of my mind because… this year was our year, right?

“She loves me. She just needs time to realize it.”

Getting back to my extended analogy, now say that the ex-girlfriend/casual friend is warming up to you again, and though you can see the love-bites on her neck from other guys, you can tell she’s coming around, especially when she gets jealous and pissy about your own love-bites from other women. You see her renewed possessiveness as a positive sign, and once she begins calling you again, holding your hand in public again and even dropping the “L-bomb” again from time to time in moments of weakness… well… you know she’s yours again right? You feel a certain level of restored comfort and familiarity. Though technically, you’re still only engaging in casual sex and nothing’s promised, you’re feeling pretty good about your position in the pecking order.

That’s how I felt once the Bears demolished the New Orleans Saints in the fourth quarter of the NFC Championship Game. I still had my doubts, but I was on cloud nine. Grossman shook off the jitters, ditched the pull-up diapers, and found his big-boy pants again. The defense looked ferocious. The snow began to fall, as if George S. Halas himself had ordained the victory. The levels of joy in my heart were tempered by uneasiness about the future, but at least there was a future.

OK… back to the analogy… now say that the ex-girlfriend invites you over for family time with her kids and the neighbor. This is it! Excited, you drop a Benjamin Franklin* on pizzas, liquor, and other goodies. You get there only to find that a bunch of her sailor friends have crashed the party, some of which you know are no-good because you use to run with them back in your scoundrel days. You’re apprehensive and more than a little pissed-off but hey, screw it. It’s now a less-than-intimate party, so you must adapt. After all… in the end, these jabroneys will be sent home, and you’ll take your rightful place in bed beside your woman, right?

Wrong.

You notice your woman sneaking off with one particular fellow quite frequently. Suspicious, you begin tracking their movements through the party, cockblocking every chance you get. But you’re not a chameleon. You can’t see everything at once with so many distractions. You lose track of them… and by the time you catch up, only the bathroom door separates you from their primal moans. This cat ate your pizza, drank your liquor, and is now banging your woman… with mucho gusto.

You knew there was a fifty percent chance that this would be the night that she fell in love with you all over again, fulfilling your destiny together, happily forever after. But there was also a fifty percent chance that she would screw one or more guys within earshot of you, just to drive the point home that to her, you’re nothing more than an extra joyride connected to a fat wallet. Yet you pressed on, ignoring the bleak possibility while remaining transfixed on the rosey one. It was this lack of foresight, this willingness to delude yourself that caused your broken heart and shattered pride. It’s not the ex-girlfriend’s fault, because you knew along that she could never settle for being pollinated by just one bee, even if he had a health care plan and benefits. You can’t force someone to be ready for monogamy.

That was pretty much how my Superbowl played out. I knew there was a fifty percent chance that Rex Grossman would strap-on a prophylactic and get all Ron Jeremy on the Colts’ weak-assed defense, lighting em up for touchdown after touchdown until they begged for mercy or anal-lube. But there was an equal chance that he would piss his panties, crap his huggies, and throw the game away in a typical Grossman-like fashion. We all know which scenario played-out on the national stage. I know there was a heavy rain, but our defense and special teams were also uncharacteristically sloppy.

I don’t remember what point I was trying to make with the extended analogy. I guess the Bears banged my ex-girlfriend in the bathroom. No… that’s not right.

I guess former Arizona Cardinal Coach Dennis Green said it best… the Bears… are who we thought they were. I probably shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.

(Intermission while I find inanimate objects to punch)

Now comes the sour-grapes, “Hater-in-the-house” part:

Much respect to the Colts for being the better team and making fewer mistakes. But the Colts didn’t win that game. The Bears lost it. We made fundamental errors and screwed-up way too much. We couldn’t have beaten a varsity high school team that night, let alone the AFC Champion Colts.

Peyton Manning was far more efficient than Rex Grossman, but he was clearly not the Most Valuable Player. Even Disney knew that, which is why Coach Dungy and that running back who trucked the Bears all game long were featured in the “I’m going to Disney World!” commercial instead. I don’t remember his name, but he ran over so many Bears that I was tempted to alert wildlife protection. Without him, the Colts don’t win. Without Peyton, maybe they still win.

Prince, while shorter than me, appears to have a larger penis, complete with a French tickler. (Best halftime performance in history, by the way.)

Despite everything, I’m still a die-hard Bear Fan. We’ll get em next year. We’ll have to… it will be Coach Lovie Smith’s last season, and the owners are too cheap to pay him what he’s worth. It’s all downhill from there.

*Benjamin Franklin is the American founding father who appears on the United States one-hundred dollar bill, meaning that $100.00 US was spent in a futile endeavor.

One Game, One Dream: So it Has Come Down to This

One Game, One Dream. That was the hook to a pre-game song sung by Gloria Estefan. I understand the song, but I’m confused by the whole Technicolor Latin salsa theme with kids in Colts and Bears uniforms banging on drums, and folks in psychedelic cheerleader outfits and facepaint dancing around like cirque-du-sole performers. It looks less like a pre-game show and more like something from my nightmares.

I was going to try to do a pre-pregame analysis on the Superbowl hype, but I have such a deep personal interest in this game that I’m drawing a blank. Besides, my universal translator exploded when Shannon Sharpe began talking.

I thought I’d be a nervous wreck, but I’m actually excited. As late as yesterday, I didn’t think my Bears had the horses to compete with the Colts, but now… something’s different. I think we’re gonna be ok. Yesterday, I had the colts running away with this one, 35 to 10, but now I have no idea who will win.

Message to the Bears: prove the analysts wrong! Go out there and prove to everyone that the so-called experts (even an opinionated non-expert like me) wrong. Let them know that the heart of a champion cannot be measured or quantified with statistics and analysis. Strap on those helmets and go pop those guys in the effin mouth!

Regardless of what happens, I’m proud of my Bears. They put together their best season since I was a kid, and they did it with hardnosed, smashmouthed, grimey, hard work. Regardless of what happens today, I will wear my hoodie with the giant wishbone “c”, and I will wear it with pride. May the best team win.

See you on the other side.

LET’S GO BEARS!!!!

The Weekender

Superbowl weekend is finally upon us and I’m actually a bit relieved that the hysteria is almost over. The NFL Network has been my crack cocaine for a solid two weeks, and ESPN.COM has been my heroin. After about three solid days of non-stop coverage, my addiction has even driven my wife into the livingroom. Why she prefers boring regular programming over in-depth footage of my Bears’ arrival, practice, interviews, team assessments, and bathroom tush-wiping techniques is still a mystery to me. Here are some observations from the past two weeks leading to Superbowl XLI:

1. The Dream is still alive. Apparently, Chicago Bears coach Lovie Smith and Indianapolis Colts coach Tony Dungy are not white. In fact, they are what we now call African Americans, or black men, or… if you’re from Montesano or Monroe, WA, colored. This is the first time that a brotha has ever coached a Superbowl team, let alone two of them. This means that, baring two untimely assassinations or the reinstatement of the Jim Crow laws, we are a mortal lock for having the first black guy to ever coach a winning Superbowl team. This pleases me.

2. Peyton Manning is a ham.

3. These guys are no fun to talk to. With the exception of the possibility of legally-mired Tank Johnson pulling a Yosemite Sam on the press during media day, these two teams are pretty bland. I don’t mind bland, but I suspect that the media would rather guzzle Drain-o than endure another moment of this wholesome goodness. There’s no Terrell Owens stirring the pot and conducting interviews with both feet in his mouth. In contrast to the cocky brashness of the 85 Bears, the 2006 Bears appear to have a quiet, but earnest confidence. This makes for good team football, but it’s a nightmare for guys whose livelihoods depend on conflict, drama, and “the big scoop”. Coaches Smith and Dungy are good friends, so the press conferences have all been friendly, amicable and without any verbal barbs or controversy. Most of the players either have an “aw shucks I’m just glad to be here” vibe, or they’re reciting from the Big Book of Sports Clichés.

4. Peyton Manning is 6 foot 4 with a laser-rocket arm. He’s also the first successful hybrid between a super-jock and an uber-nerd.

5. The NFL Network is scared of Jesus. I’m not kidding. Some interviews ran longer than they should, with riveting questions like, “What will you, Player A, do to contain Player B?” And, “Is Player B the best you’ve ever faced? Why?” Blah, snore, wake me when it’s over. But as soon as a coach or player mentioned Jesus, God, or Faith, the network immediately kicked it back to the studio hosts until they found a player or coach that was clearly not caught in the grips of the Holy Ghost. I’m agnostic, so it was no biggie, but I found it amusing. I imagined the producers franticly waving their arms, shouting, “Oh SHIT! We’ve got a Holy Roller! Throw it back to Rich Eisen! I don’t care what he has in his teeth!”

6. The Bears don’t get enough respect. At least that’s what the Bears keep saying, over and over. I think this is a lame way to get gassed-up for the biggest game of their lives, but hey, whatever works. So quit disrespecting us, dammit!

7. Peyton Manning needs to lead the Colts to victory to secure his legacy as the greatest quarterback in the history of annoying overexposed goobers.

8. The NFL, the league I’ve loved all my life, is a cash-hording, soulless corporation. I don’t know when or how it happened, but it’s true. They created the NFL Network, knowing that fanatics like me would pay to extend the cable channels so I’d NEVER miss a game, only to televise the crappiest games of the year and hire Greg Gumbel’s younger sister to call the play by play. I’m still pissed about that. And if that wasn’t enough, there’s this.

9. Even though his team was eliminated three weeks ago, Terrell Owens still needs to be interviewed for some strange reason.

10. Jamie Dukes hates Jim Mora Sr. Now, I could be totally reading into this, but at times, I was certain that Jamie was going to reach out and shatter Jim’s skull. OK, so maybe I secretly wished for this.

11. Peyton Manning has anal warts. OK, I made that last part up.