Da Dos

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  • “Gridiron Glory” by guest reg I Bleed Navy and Orange

    “Gridiron Glory” by guest reg I Bleed Navy and Orange

    It was the last football play of my life.

    I knew it would be my last game; I saw no future in it for me – only finality.  We were a sub-500 Division III team ending the season on a low note. So deeper meaning largely escaped me.

    With less than 3 minutes to go, we were down 20-3, and the other team had all their subs, scrubs, and seniors playing instead of their starters. In the defensive huddle, our SAM spit blood onto the ground. He had lost his mouthguard a few plays back and bit his lip during a tackle. I remember pulling my foot out of the way; for some reason I didn’t want to get my weathered shoe bloody. We broke the huddle and I laughed at myself: why should I care? I was going to throw those cleats away before nightfall.

    The offense lined up in an inverted wishbone. I was Rover–a strong safety who could line up in a number of different places, depending on the offensive formation and down/distance. Our SAM set up on the inside shoulder of the tight end, acting like he was going to rush. I bounced around his outside shoulder a yard off the line, faking like I would blitz, too. The QB took the snap and after a half step forward, the SAM and I both dropped into coverage–he dropped to his hook zone, and I zoomed toward the flat.

    Sure enough, the tight end looked to block someone, but no one was engaged with him. The offensive line stuttered, then let the defensive rush through. The strong-side halfback snuck forward, and I felt like the rest of my team knew with as much certainty as I exactly where the ball was going.

    The backup playing QB didn’t have a speck of dirt or grass stain on his uniform, and for all I know hadn’t played in a game before this one. He was hyped up, and his pass rainbowed way too high, over halfback and over even the linemen setting the center screen. Our SAM caught the overthrow against his shoulderpad, took one step and caught the arm of one of the offensive linemen, who was diving to make the tackle.

    I knew that fireplug of a SAM, all 5’10” and maybe 230lbs, could break that arm tackle. The play had started from about their 20 yard line; there was a chance we could actually score on defense! one last burst of glory. I saw the tight-end in his pristine jersey, still not engaged with anyone, and knew my SAM would need help getting past. I ran to block so my SAM could score.

    I popped the tight-end and tried to drive him as  I felt my cleats catch in the cold turf. In spots, the mud was half-frozen and plastic.

    And then my SAM broke the tackle, but not clean. He fell into my right leg. All 230 lbs of him, right into the side of my knee. Somehow everything was moving slowly enough that I felt him hit, and knew the only way I wouldn’t blow my knee out would be to collapse it, so I did.

    But my cleats were stuck in the mud and grass, and could not release–especially with my weight, the goon tight end’s weight, and now 230 lbs of linebacker pushing everything down.

    I felt the bones grinding together in my ankle and screamed, but that didn’t help, and the pain didn’t end. What I remember the most was the feeling of tension–of things being pushed and pulled in ways they aren’t supposed to go–and a grinding that sounded in my brain like massive stone blocks being dragged over each other. I remember squeezing my eyes shut and seeing bright red against the backs of my eyelids, despite the late-afternoon shadows on the field.

    The next thing I knew, I was crawling off the field, refusing to look back. I was certain my foot had been ripped off my leg, and at best was dragging behind me by my sock… but more likely, it had been pulled clean off and was still stuck in the turf. The pain was immense, but the fear was even bigger. How long before the amputated foot couldn’t be reattached?

    I got to the sideline and I guess I was whimpering something about my foot being gone, and before the trainers got to me, someone told me no, everything’s still attached.

    “Is it hanging there limp?” I asked, still not bearing to look.

    No, they reassured me. Looks like it’s pointing the right direction and everything.

    The trainers got me into a seated position and I risked a look. It was already swelling, and they cut my shoe off, but it didn’t look as hideous as it had felt when it happened. It was bad–very bad–but I wasn’t going to lose my foot.

    I didn’t find out until much later that the interception had been for nothing. The game ended 20-3.

    For years, I avoided the fate my original ortho predicted–that the bone was degenerating and within 10 years I would need my lower leg unzipped from both sides and a graft from my hip put into the tibia.

    But this past spring, my new ankle doc gave me the bad news from a new MRI. Next week I get a bone graft in the talus, and cadaver cartilage to replace all the stuff that got ground away 33 years ago.

    This is the price we pay for fleeting glory on the gridiron – in a forgotten game at the end of a meaningless career, on a frozen field. The last time I took off my helmet wasn’t some moment of meaning that I kept crystallized in my memory; I tore it off and tossed it aside while injured and never saw it again.

    My buddy and I had a saying: “broken bones heal; pain is temporary; chicks dig guys with scars.” I add another one to the collection in June.

  • “Mexico is Raw” by guest reg Hippy

    “Mexico is Raw” by guest reg Hippy

    Mexico is raw. 

    Dusk urgency had us loading the van. 

    Not a good plan to drive at night type urgency

    I was to blame. I wouldn’t come in. 

    The jungle, when lush, is amazing; it’s like a green canopy creating a tunnel as high as the highest truck that prunes it over the two lane highway.. 

    We pulled through La Union and hit a checkpoint at the Troncones turn off. 

    “Dude, we are next to a Pemex”

    “Saw it, Fuck”

    You can’t turn around and have them follow you. If they control the national petrol station… That’s not the Military. 

    The Cartel monitors the highway because of business competition, not surf tourism, but that is not reassuring with automatic rifles and hard stares focused on your arrival to their open court. 

    “CHEEEEECagO” was all he said. I was wearing a Bear hat. 

    I took off my sunglasses and placed them of the brim of my hat, blocking the iconic “C” on my “lucky” Bear hat

    We were searched and my new name was Cheeeeeecago. 

    “¿Donde esta tu mota ?” 

    “No fumar”

    He didn’t believe me. We handed over our identification. Photocopies. We’ve been through this before, and there’s always money hidden inside the photo copies. 

    The feeling of being shaken down never becomes normal because there is no normal on a jungle highway. 

    Quick glance. Our “military” checkpoint did not issue military boots; they were all wearing tennis shoes. Not good. 

    What would it take to acquire Military issue uniforms?  

    The soldier in front of me with the assault rifle lingering much too close motioned to move over beyond the open door of our van. 

    As I moved, the reflections of an approaching semi truck illuminated the highway canopy and headed southbound towards our location. 

    That is when I noticed a sniper pad above us on the lush jungle headland and heard their whistles… They wanted us to move along.

    Their target was arriving.   

    The gun now faced me and his wide smile reminded me that he held the cards. 

    “Vamanos CHEEEECAGO”

    As he motioned for us to leave, he reached for my head and removed my sunglasses. He placed them on his face and smiled even wider…”Cheeeeeeeecgao”

    We drove past the highway fire pits and guns and suddenly resumed our hunger

    “You’re lucky he didn’t take your lucky Bears’ hat” was all Danny said. 

    I thought he was reaching for my hat. 

  • “Takeaways from the Bears’ offensive line extensions” by guest reg Rob

    “Takeaways from the Bears’ offensive line extensions” by guest reg Rob

    What should we make of the Bears’ decision to offer contract extensions to guards Joe Thuney and Jonah Jackson?

    Ben Johnson wants continuity on his offensive line.

    Well, the Bears mostly have it now. Outside of left tackle, the Bears’ line, barring a major injury this year, is pretty much set for 2026. This may fall into the “give Caleb everything he needs” category, but it may also be an indicator that Johnson is looking beyond 2025 in terms of when the Bears may peak (assuming Caleb Williams is a legitimate QB).

    The team has some cover for left tackle

    If we can pencil in two solid seasons from Joe Thuney (Pro Bowl seasons would be a welcome surprise at his age), the Bears have some flexibility to try their hand at left tackle. Perhaps Braxton Jones benefits from some stability. If Kiran Amegadjie or Ozzy Trapilo is the starter on day one, the Bears have a veteran presence on the left side for multiple years to allow their new left tackle to learn and develop. The same applies if the Bears choose a left tackle in the ’26 draft.

    The Bears are narrowing down their needs in the ’26 draft…for now at least

    Setting aside the foolishness of talking about the ’26 draft before the ’25 season has commenced, the Bears may be able to focus on LT in the draft knowing that the rest of the line is set, with center/guard addressed in the ’27 draft.

    Ben Johnson might really like Jackson and Thuney

    We basically must hope this is the case. The contract extension for Jackson borders on lunacy – Jackson’s ’26 cap hit has been reported as the highest of any guard, having never come remotely closely to playing at such a stature. With that said, Jackson’s age makes him ripe for a contract extension that could reduce his cap hit in ’26.

  • “This Time, It Feels Different” by guest reg Rob

    “This Time, It Feels Different” by guest reg Rob

    One of the stranger aspects of Bears’ fandom since the Lovie Smith era has been the Bears’ general draft strategy. We witnessed two reset-the-franchise picks under Ryan Pace (Trubisky, Fields) mixed in with aggressively trading away draft picks as if the team were just a player or two away from contender status. It was an odd but telling combination for one of the worst teams in football over the past decade.

    Ryan Poles has reversed some of those trends – the Bears have held more than the standard seven draft picks in three of his four drafts – but his first two years at the helm still saw the Bears treading a familiar path, selecting five defensive players out of seven total picks in the first three rounds.

    We all knew what was coming in ’24, but for me, the 2025 draft comes as a revelation in the wake of Bears history – in my 31 years of Bears’ fandom, I cannot recall a draft approach quite like this one.

    First, some historical notes: since the modern-day seven round draft commenced in 1993, the Bears have selected offensive players with their first three picks seven times (which surprised me). The 2024 and ’25 drafts mark the first time in the modern draft era in which the Bears drafted three offensive players at the top of the draft in back-to-back year.

    This offense-first draft focus in back-to-back years is extremely rare for the Bears in the overall history of the NFL draft.  Only the 1945-46 drafts and the 1941, ’42 and ’43 drafts saw the Bears select three offensive players at the top of each draft (position names back then are a bit wonky, so forgive me if I got that wrong).

    Pro Football Reference has all the gory details, like the cherished 1997 draft that brought TE John Allred, G Bob Sapp and RB Darnell Autry to the Bears with their first three selections.

    But back to the hopefully good stuff of ’25:

    • While the Colston Loveland pick has its critics (preference for Warren, too high of a selection for a TE), we should appreciate this pick for its glass-breaking novelty. The Bears have a solid TE under contract (Cole Kmet), and they went out and picked another one anyways! Perhaps this is foolish for a 5-win team, but have we ever seen such an attitude from the Bears? The only comparison I can think of was the selection of Cedric Benson in ’05 with Thomas Jones under contract.
    • The selection of Luther Burden follows a similar trend. Olamide Zaccheaus is a perfectly acceptable football player and slot receiver. In virtually any other era of Bears football, the Bears would have been “set” at WR going into the draft. And yet, the Bears aimed to improve a critical position group in the modern game.
    • Ozzy Trapilo once again breaks the mold. The Bears have an offensive line that, on paper, is at least OK. The Bears even have a developmental tackle with real draft capital in Kiran Amegadjie. For the first time in a very long time, “OK” and “let’s start Arlington Hambright” is no longer good enough for the offensive line.

    Of course, bucking history only has value as a narrative. The draft is an annual crapshoot, and Loveland, Burden and Trapiilo may all bust. But for at least a brief moment, Bears fans should savor the feeling that the franchise is, for once, trying a different approach.

  • Bears Rising: written by guest Reg Michael Blades

    Bears Rising: written by guest Reg Michael Blades

    After 44 years of fandom, I attended my first in-person Bears game In 2018, purchasing tickets for the Rams-Bears tilt I knew would be both meaningful and cold, after learning of the Khalil Mack trade, a sure sign that these Bears with their visored offensive egghead would climb to the mountaintop once again, while shedding the preposterousness of the recent Trestman and Fox regimes.  I had gambled correctly, and the four tickets I got for my son and his Rams-loving friend (and me and his step-mother) climbed steeply on Stubhub as the season moved from autumn to winter and the Rams and Bears appeared on a collision course for Conference supremacy.  The week running up to the game, it was flexed to Sunday night, and the forecast called for a brutally cold Chicago December night, prompting whispers from my wife that the $75 dollar tickets could be offloaded for triple their face, and we discussed the possibility of watching from the comfort of our family room in Skokie, warm beneath the throws with cheap(er) drinks in our hands and chili on the stove.  The experience was too strong to wave away with comfort. My son commented that this could really be a new Bears team and this game could be a dynasty harbinger; it cemented our resolve to brave the elements and watch the Beloved live and in person beneath the sharp, crisp lights of a winter’s night.

    On game day we snowmobile bundled in thickly lined boots and snow pants, layering undershirts and wool sweaters beneath mountain parkas stuffed with “hot hands”, wearing hats that clung to the ears.  Driving to the millennium lot beneath Grant Park, we were stuffed in like a bag of cotton balls, shoulders pushing out, cushioned against the doors.  Spilling out of the car, we took the long walk through Grant Park sidling along the unshirted yahoos, hatted and gloved and drunk, and as we approached the stadium beneath the tunnel at Roosevelt, the brightly lit Soldier Field rose into the starred sky.  I was not regretting the trek nor the cold. The energy for this Bears team felt like 2006 again. I thought back on taking my 4 year old son to the Candlelite on the North side to watch them dispose of the Payton Saints, a clash of offensive creativity and defensive stability, while he ate pizza and became a Bears fan at the same age I became one, wearing the Hester t-shirt jersey I had bought him for the occasion.  

    I have a few regrets in the 12 years between that game and this, and the situation had shifted from mom to step-mom, but the bond between us felt strong that night.  We sat in the South end zone with a view of the action that allowed us to see plays develop across the field, watching Mack stalk Goff with a predator’s rage and hunger, seeing our cagey veteran DC dismantle the boy genius McVay.  A deep playoff run was certain; the curtain had risen for this cast of young offensive and defensive stars and a coach who pumped the blood of the new NFL, what Mad Hatter Trestman was supposed to be, and a foil to the checked-out and somnambulistic Fox.  The wail of the third down siren and the panicked Goff papered over Trubisky’s 3 interception night; these Bears were real, we thought,  and the marching faithful returning to their vehicles chanted “Green Bay Sucks” with the fervor of an armed mob looking to draw, quarter and put to rest any thought that Aaron Rodgers would continue to reign over the NFC North.   They ran out that season with defining wins over the Pack, the Niners, and the Vikings, a three game parade over our most hated rivals until coming to a halt in a most Bears way with the belt of history pulling strongly around our coach’s neck, visor unable to hide his incredulous gape, as Staley toppled sideways to the Soldier Field turf.

    The next couple of years saw missteps and finger pointing, with Nagy unable to rekindle the pilot light of his vision, and my son, getting older, piled more resentment and anger onto his stepmom and myself, eventually coming back from his first year of college during the autumn of COVID, and deciding to live exclusively with his mother.  The strings of that relationship snapped over the next year as did the Bears and Nagy,  and more incompetence emerged through 2 ½ years of Eberflus. Eventually the communication between my son and I ceased.  I have not spoken with him for 3 and a half years.

    With the optimistic hire of a new messiah, and the passing of another Easter without reconciliation and redemption, my hope for the seeds of another draft to sprout and flourish moves lockstep with that same hope for my son and me.  Maybe this year we will build something with a rock mantle foundation, with the base to support the winds and storms of passion.  All I wish for is a hot bowl of chili, a cold Old Fashioned, and the warmth of an afternoon game next to him and beside my wife, as the Bears march forcefully down the field.