Last night I, for some hair-brained reason, decided to watch the Sunday Night Football game, between the Chicago Bears and Green Bay Packer, a storied matchup between two franchises that has sparked a rivalry for decades, and also has devolved into one of the dumbest things to have to endure every year because Aaron Rodgers is Aaron Rodgers. But last night was something special, it was chaos incarnate, it was the final scene in The Cabin in the Woods, it was someone pulling the rip cord in a ‘Fucking Fire EVERYONE’ kind of fashion.
At the beginning of the season, I was more on the side of let ‘Let Nick Foles Lead the Team because Mitch Trubisky is a Golden Retriever Too Busy Staring at a Hustler Magazine’ kind of mood. That quickly devolved into an anaemic team that just sat on the floor and didn’t want to move anymore. People got mad on Twitter, they screamed for Trubisky to be put back in, and then a few weeks ago Trubisky, in all his glory, got injured on the one play that he was in, and sat out for weeks until Nick Foles got boinked and sat out with a hip injury.
I have to disclose that I only wanted to watch the game for Allen Robinson, for pure fantasy football reasons, but part of me thinks I started gripping the edges of the Bears collapse into the phantom zone and decided to re-enact that scene in Dr. Strangelove where he rides the nuclear bomb into oblivion, waving his arms frantically around his head until everything went KABOOM. It’s the same fervor you get before the roller coaster plummets towards the earth when you’ve reached the top. It broke me. Mitch broke me. Nagy broke me. I got borked.
I started doom tweeting. A friend tweeted at me, calling him ‘Trubiscuits’ and because I have access to photoshop, went absolutely nuts, cackling to myself as Trubisky threw into triple coverage because he has lead shields for eyeballs and an attention span that would make make a teenager on Mountain Dew and Adderall blush.
All the Bears angst I’ve stored in my system like a Tesla battery for the last 20 years started escaping me. The great ghosts of Dick Jauron, Paul Edinger, and Kordell Stewart smiled and nodded with approval as it corkscrewed into a fever dream. Robbie Gould shuddered somewhere in the hills of San Francisco, a cold whisper of “Bears….. God damn Bears,” left his lips.
I am prepared, jettison everyone, and I mean literally everyone. I don’t want a single recognizable face on this team, the front office, or the booth. Fire them all. I want the Bears to be a snowflake among snowflakes, disappearing into the cold, dead winds of winter.
After embracing the chaos, and finally getting some of that angst out of my system, I finished the night out playing a video game I truly suck at, Overwatch. I did competitive placements for fuck’s sake while drinking several beers, reminding myself of how much I’ve regressed in a game that I really loved for years on end.
I rode that into the ground too, with a bronze SR tank score I won’t bother mentioning in this blog because it’s too horrendous to associate myself with. But I didn’t care, I rode the wave.
The nightmare isn’t over. They won’t fire everyone because the McKaskey’s value loyalty over a good team and quarterbacks that don’t suck me into an existential acid trip. I mean, they let Lovie Smith batter our souls for the better part of a decade. But I’m ready, I’m ready to push the eject button, I’m ready for all of it to go away. I no longer care for whatever purgatory the Bears have placed themselves in. I want the Bulls season to begin so I can at least see some modicum of progress in an organization that’s beginning anew.
But at least for one night, I got to ride the wave of anarchy and feel something that didn’t give me hope or stagnation, it was a full blown snakeskin shedding, and my god I would ride that wave again. At least Jamaal Williams dancing was fun.