Tom Lynch

I grew up in a Bears household.

My father was never a true baseball fan, and when he tried to be, he'd cheer for the White Sox--by this time I had already developed the painful and masochistic love of the Cubs via my grandfather, so the Sox were out. So, with the exception of the Bulls--with whom, let's face it, if you were between the ages of 10 and 17 in the early-to-mid-nineties, you were completely spoiled--my dad and I bonded over Bears.

I can't remember the '85 championship season. I was 4. I have a vague recollection of just the start of the game, sitting in my aunt's living room, inches from the television, while the elders in my family cracked beers and snacked, unworried, awaiting the inevitable domination. I remember that Gary Fencik was my favorite player, and that I thought the Fridge was funny, because, well, you know--he was fat.

I was never big enough to play organized football. Or tough. I lost friends in the sixth grade, as soon as we were old enough to play for our school--they all went on to tryouts, got on the team. My best buddy became the quarterback. That was pretty much it for our friendship. I was left in a trail of mud and grass, clutching a copy of Tecmo Bowl.

For the duration of my recallable life, the Bears have never been that good. When we played the Vikings in the first-round playoffs in '95, we beat them bad. My cousin cheered from the basement. We were crushed a week later by Steve Young and his 49ers. We got there again, in 2001, that magical and unexpected year, only to have our quarterback, Jim Miller, pile-driven into the artificial ground in Philadelphia, taking him out of the game, the Bears out of the playoffs. I was driving in my car when that play happened, on my way home from work, listening intensely on 780AM. I knew it was over. I knew we were going to lose. I envisioned careening off the expressway, sending my car sailing into the Outback Steakhouse that's right near the Cumberland exit on I90. "No Rules! Just Right!"

Last year, the only year I felt we had somewhat of a chance, Steve Smith hammered us single-handedly.

Growing up, my dad always told me that the best place to see a Bears game is on the couch, in front of your television. The actual Soldier Field experience wasn't all that great--too many drunken assholes, bad views, rows of seats closer to the sky than to the field. I didn't see a live game until that 2001 season, Bears versus Browns, during the last year of the old Soldier Field. If anyone remembers, that was the game in which we were down a touchdown very, very late--almost everyone in the stadium left--and the improbable Shane Matthews led us back to a tie with a Hail Mary pass. In overtime, Mike Brown intercepted a throw and took it in for a touchdown. It was the greatest sports event I have ever seen in person. I was hooked. There are assholes everywhere, I thought, you might as well be watching a Bears game. The next year, I saw two games in Champaign. The following season, I watched Peyton Manning beat us by forty points, tossing four touchdown passes. We were really bad that year.

Everyone has these odd rituals for the Super Bowl. My friends and I used to buy one of those six-foot Subway sandwiches and insist on finishing it before the game was over. Some White Castles, too. I miss that. Now it's based in booze and chips. And now that the Bears will be playing, lots and lots of stress-reducing smokes. This won't exactly be fun.

I met Walter Payton once. It wasn't at one of those handshake-and-autograph conventions, either--I played basketball my freshman year of high school, and my shitty school played against St. Viator's, on which Jared Payton played. We were annihilated. But during the pre-game warm-ups, I noticed Walter entering the building, hiding out in the back. I ran straight out of a drill and up to the man, shook his hand and had him sign a flyer I had grabbed off the wall. When he smiled, I could see all those years of toughness, all those hits, those stiff-arms, all those yards. He was already sick at that point. Years later, I ran into Jared again--I was at college, and he was dating a friend of a friend. This was roughly six months after Walter died. I told him about how I met his dad years ago, and how I was sorry for his loss. He just nodded his head.

Last week, when my roommate and I were, big surprise, discussing the impending Super Bowl, he posed a question that actually shocked me: "What if we never make it back again in our lifetime?" I hadn't thought of it until that moment. What if? What if this is it, all we get, for fifty or sixty years? My grandfather had `85--he's gone now. He only got to see that one season. It's not out of the question that this could be the last time I see the Bears in the Super Bowl. And that scares me.

I think about this, and I think that I better enjoy it while it lasts.

Maybe we'll win--and maybe we won't win--but at least we got there. To this big dance. It's so strange. It almost doesn't feel right, like the Bears aren't really this team in the NFL, not like the Colts or the Patriots or even the Packers.

But they are. They did it. Finally.

My prediction? I'll side with the Super Fans: Bears 122, Colts -9.

(2007-01-30)

Also by Tom Lynch

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