The Clumsy Interloper

I wrote this nearly 19 years ago, on 1/17/07, on a now defunct blogspot about a Chicago Bears vs. Seattle Seahawks Division Round Playoff Game that I had recently attended with my Dad:

“Now, I’ve been to roughly twenty Bears games in my life but never one in the playoffs. Let me tell you something, nothing compares to energy of a Chicago Bears crowd during a playoff game. NOTHING. It’s like eating PB&J’s at lunch everyday for your entire life, same bread, same crust cut off, same glass of milk to wash it down. That’s it. Then one day, out of the blue, you are presented with a Bar Burger with all the fixings and a tall, frosty pint of Stella. You almost can’t believe your sensations. You almost can’t fathom that you’ve lived all these years before witnessing something so good, so right. As the players were being introduced chills ran up my spine and into the base of my brain. It was a magnetism unlike any other. Urlacher was the last introduced as we hopped up and down like children on Christmas morning. It was time.”

This past Saturday night I watched the third matchup of the Bears v. Packers this season with my Dad at his kitchen table. The camera panned the crowd before kickoff, white flags waving, breath puffs rising, like a fleet of tiny helicopters ready to lift Soldier Field up and over the Chicago skyline. The muscle memory spiderwebbed through me – my feet numb, my eyes wide, my tongue tasting a phantom drop of bourbon.

This nostalgia was quickly bludgeoned out of me. The Packers moved the ball with impunity looking like an older brother playing one-on-one, collecting baskets and rebounds with a quarter-speed ease while the younger brother frantically guarded and flailed and jockeyed in vain.

Packers 21 – Bears 3. Halftime.

I turned off my cell phone.

I placed the Gillette by the sink.

I waited for the inevitable.

Then something miraculous happened.

Sometime during the 4^th quarter, the older brother had his hands on his knees taking quick, frantic breaths. The little brother had just hit a step-back three, a tear drop runner from the baseline and now the scoreline was even. The older brother clamped down on defense but the belief had taken seed. The little brother was crossing him over and finishing with his left hand. The older brother, the author of so many beat downs, was now a spectator.

Bears fans were manically grating cheese in the stands.

The Packers crumpled to the frozen turf as the clock expired.

My Dad and I stared as the scenes unfold on TV in stunned disbelief.

Bears 31 – Packers 27. Full Time.

This feels like a football fever dream. First UVA beats Tech, now the Bears beat the Packers in the playoffs. Please don’t wake me. Let me slumber a little longer.