Bears/Seahawks Game

I was planning on writing another running diary for the Bears/Seahawks game this past Sunday, however I had some reservations about the limitations of such a design. Since the structure of a running diary is fairly rigid, I find that the large strokes are sacrificed for the minutia of the game time experience. Timeouts are documented. Quirk plays are noted. The overall feel of a Soldier Field Sunday afternoon is sprawled out, minute by minute, in what usually amounts to a very idiosyncratic list of events. It seemed apparent that a game of such magnitude needed something a little more free flowing. Something that could breathe. So I decided to take some sparse notes in lieu of meticulous ones. I decided to write something that better captured just how important this game was for me as a fan. This game that, no matter what fate awaits the Bears, will be indelibly etched in my mind forever.

Nick and Mary informed my Dad that they would be out-of-town for the first playoff game and kindly offered up their tickets to us. My Dad and I were joined by my godfather Bobby Stovall and family friend John McGregor. I absolutely could not pick a better line-up to fill in for Nick and Mary on this blustering Sunday in January. Bobby (aside from being my appointed "spiritual guide" during this crazy journey called Life) is one of the most colorful personalities to ever throw back a whiskey on the rocks. He's been one of my favorite people on this Earth from a very early age. I recall his high pitched Southern twang as he would bound through the doors of my childhood home, "DON ALAN! BOY! GIT OVER HERE AND GIMME SOME SKIN!" as his deep abiding laughter unfurled before me and shot off the walls. To put things in perspective, I was four years old when the Bears played in Super Bowl XX and while I didn't understand what was going on or why we had a new big screen TV, I knew that my Dad and Bobby were immensely happy. I remember the joy this Bears team created in that living room on 20 West Burton and I remember wanting to be a part of that. Now, John McGregor was a wonderful addition to our party for decidedly different reasons. He hails from Scotland and is a business relation turned fly fishing buddy to my Dad. Throughout the years the two of them have transversed the globe stalking trout and asking each other the same rhetorical question, "Should we open another bottle?" Mr. McGregor went to school in East London which fostered his allegiance to the West Ham Hammers football club in the FA Premier League. Yet despite his worldliness and sports acumen, he has never seen an American football game. Needless to say, he picked a good one to call his first.





As you can probably tell, the crowd was confident but not boisterous as we entered our beloved Soldier Field. We'd been burned during home playoff games before (in 2001 and of course last year) so everyone was wearing an all too familiar "If we don't acknowledge our trepidation, it won't manifest" demeanor. That's not to say that things were not eventful outside the stadium. I saw three drunks (all in separate parties) who in their excitement slipped and spilled on the ice patched sidewalks. Applause and laughter coarsed through the herd. One man, with his arms raised in the air for the customary pre-entry patdown, gave the security guard a gracious and loving waist-to-waist bear hug to convey his drunken appreciation. (By the way, I love the lip service paid by the Bears administration towards unauthorized boozing in the stands. During my patdown, the guys hit my camera, wallet AND flask before waving me through. As we walked in, my Dad and I discussed this practice and concluded they didn't want any handles of Beam coming in. That's about it.)





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 the crowd during a NFL 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 I caught some major chills. Urlacher was the last introduced as we hopped up and down like children on Christmas morning. It was time.

The Bears won the coin toss and chose to receive. Rex then methodically led us down the field on a 12 play, 80 yard touchdown scoring drive that took 6:25 off the clock. It's a good mix of running plays and intermediate passes that brings even the biggest pessimists out of their seats. The biggest play (possibly of the game) was a 37 yard completion to Sheed Davis on a 3rd and 10 from midfield. I'll explain my reasoning here. Seahawks CB Jordan Babineaux made a play on the ball just as it got to Davis. The tip was corralled by Sheed before he picked up another 15 yards after the catch. Now, if this ball is intercepted by Babineaux (which replays indicate was a definite possibility) then this entire game is turned on it's head. Now, I'd like to think Grossman could recover from this proposed obstacle and I think he could given the right play calling. What REALLY worried me was the crowd. I'd like to think that Mr. and Mrs. Bears Fan would be supportive through everything this 13-3 season has afforded them, however I'm not sure that option is still on the table. After the bombardment on Rex from the Chicago media, if he shows even the slightest deficiency in the early going we're conditioned to want blood (or in the event that blood is not available, then Brian Griese). Thank God this is only a "What If".

Mr. McGregor asks me after our post touchdown flask tilt, "That was quite good then?"

I nod, "Yep. It's just that easy."

I'll classify that one as a white lie, because no one got hurt.

After dueling punts, the Seahawks take the ball and march down the field on the strength of Matt Hasselbeck's arm. On the first play of the 2nd quarter, he finds Nate Burleson over the middle for a 16 yard TD pass. Bears 7, Seahawks 7. Everyone is now settled in. At this point, the four ya-hoos sitting to our right flag down the beerman. ID's and 20's are handed to us, we are now in assembly line mode. But for some reason, these guys want to pay separately (draining this poor guy's reserve of $1 bills). They also change their mind mid-pour, "Did I say MGD? I meant 2 MGD's and 2 Miller Lites". We're trying to act like this drunken ballet of words and fermented grain doesn't effect us, but both parties in our periphery are leaning in, straining over us, confused and pissed off. And then, in an instant, it happens. On the very first play of the ensuing drive, Rex hits Berrian in stride for a 68 yard touchdown. Bears 14, Seahawks 7. All beer related problems melt away.

It stays this way until this happens on 3rd and 7 with 4:27 left in the half:





After the fumble and four Shaun Alexander runs later, the score is tied at 14 all.

(EDITORS NOTE: If this were a Tribune article, this would be where the Rex Grossman bashing would commence. I would point out his inability to protect a lead and question his manhood in new and inventive ways. Then I would throw around Cade McNown's name because I know it causes my readers to see red. Then I would take a parting shot at Bears owner Mike McCaskey for no apparent reason out of habit. Please make a note of it.)

Luckly for us, this isn't the Tribune and Rex isn't some delicate wallflower that needs coddling. He runs a nearly perfect Two Minute Drill completing passes of 21 and 18 yards en route to another Thomas Jones touchdown run. Bears 21, Seahawks 14. Halftime.

FLASHFORWARD to 10:33 left in the 4th quarter. Seahawks 24, Bears 21.

It's too early to start panicing, but it's also turned too ugly on offense to expect the Bears score many more points. The defense is waffling and everyone in the stands is pretending like they aren't INCREDIBLY uncomfortable. I look over to my Dad who is usually my ace in the hole during the more dire moments in my life (this being one of them) and all he can do is shrug his shoulders. We're uneasy, still cheering loud, but it sounds less reassuring. The kick to Hester. Looks unreturnable. He stops, almost stands straight up and then a Seattle player goes flying past him. HE'S UP THE SIDELINE. WE'VE SEEN THIS BEFORE! COULD HE AGAIN!?!?! IS IT EVEN POSSIBLE!?!?! IT IS!!!!!

I high ten Mr. McGregor before I jump over him to hug my Dad. He's got tears starting to form in his eyes from the combination of cold weather and pure joy. And while a block in the back nullified the touchdown moments later, that was one of the Top Ten happiest moments I've ever experienced. I know, I know. It sounds stupid. How could some playoff game engender strong emotions that compete with a lifetime of experience. Well, because I honestly feel like this was not a singular moment in time. Rather, this was a culmination of so many happy memories. My Dad and I loosening our ties after church in the late 80's as we walked in the door, ready for 3 hours of Bears football. Just a little kid at December games in the snow with Bobby, Uncle Nick, My Dad and Bill Davis (my late Godfather) in these very seats. Clutching hot chocolate. Singing the songs. Learning the game from these larger than life men in my life. And for that brief, blinking moment... everything snapped into focus for me.

Several minutes later, Robbie Gould ties it up with 4:28 left in the game. I love Robbie Gould. Let me count the ways.


IN A COURTROOM SETTING. THE DEFENSE ATTORNEY RISES, PACES THE LENGTH OF THE BENCH AND LOOKS TO THE SKY BEFORE CLEARING HIS THROAT TO SPEAK: Your Honor, I only have one piece of evidence I wish to present before this court today which I believe to be sufficient. The following video takes place with two minutes left in the NFC Divisional Playoff game between the Chicago Bears and the Seattle Seahawks. Please keep in mind that the score is tied 24-24 and the Seahawks have the ball at the Chicago 44 yard line. The Down is 4th. The distance is a yard...





... Now if my client, Mr. Lance Briggs is traded at the end of this season. It will make a mockery out of everything this system of justice is based on. The very foundation of logic will crumble and anarchy will ensue. If you don't match any and all offers for this Pro-Bowl outside linebacker, well, your Honor... may God have mercy on your soul.

Tank Johnson brings regulation to a close with a sack on Matt Hasslebeck. I always knew that guy was alright.

Overtime begins and Matt Hasselbeck is conspicuously absent from the coin toss. Somewhere Ben Carthew is giggling to himself. The Seahawks win the toss as we explain overtime rules to Mr. McGregor. He responds, "Well, that hardly seems fair." We all solemnly nod in agreement. However, the Bears defense (emboldened by the strong 4th quarter) stiffens and forces the punt. What is usually the faint whiff or marijuana in the air has turned into the smell of opportunity. Then Rex (just as he did to start the game) finds Sheed Davis for a 30 yard completion on 3rd and 10 from Bears territory. Two Cedric Benson runs and an incomplete pass setup a Robbie Gould 49 yard field goal. Time stands still...





We FLOAT out of Soldier Field. "BRING ON THE AINTS" chants begin. Drums line the horizon. Strangers are hugging. My arm around my Pop.

"One more game," he says with a content grin.

One more game.

New Sports Blog

What's up people? I just wanted to do a quick plug for a new blog I'm doing with my buddy Ben from Uva. We lived in the same hall first year and spent the majority of that time playing Sega Genesis, making fun of Redskins fans and, uh, studying. We lived together second year, upgraded to a PS2, discovered fantasy sports and never looked back. Ben hails from Long Island but was raised a Packers, Brewers and Bucks fan through family affiliations. While I make fun of his man love for Brett Favre and he waits with bated breath for the Cubs 100 years of ineptitude party (tentatively being held at Medieval Times), we manage to pull for each other when the chips are down. We respect each other's commitment to team. He plays his Green Bay 1996 tape about as many times as I play my Bears 1985 tape. And that's how it goes.

Well, this blog were starting is just kinda exploratory and somewhat spitballed together. It's going to be 100% sports (or at least sports related) and it'll be updated more frequently than this blog. We figured it would be a good way to pass the time until we became charter fishing boat captains/mini-golf moguls. I hope you enjoy it and if you do, please pass it on.

Mahalo,
AK

My Celebrity Look-Alike

I love when friends in my everyday life share an unanimously stark resemblance with a universally famous person. I think we all do. For one, it's a devastatingly powerful weapon to wield when pressed to describe them to a third party. I could say, "She's a blond with blue eyes... She's got a great body.... um, She's very intelligent and always interesting," or I could say "She's a dead ringer for Jessica Simpson. Fiercely smart. Loves crossword puzzles, base jumping and skinny skiing." Which is more helpful? If I drop ole Jessica's name in front, I can more readily address her personality qualities and quirks. It's the name that helps, because now instead of thinking about what she might look like, my friend is now picturing Jessica Simpson's alterego doing all these things: Pensively tapping a blue ink pen against a twice folded New York Times in the morning, jumping off a suspension bridge at the height of the day and then flopping around in the evening mist for one last pass around Lake Wallenpaupack. See what I'm saying, the name is huge. Totally huge.

With this is mind, I find it important to make one absolute distinction. What I love even more than having a friend who looks like a celebrity, is having a friend who THINKS they look like a celebrity (and usually in a flattering way) except they don't at all. Examples I’ve heard in person have been Mariah Carey (she had the crazy part right though), Ricky Martin (he had flaming part down), Tom Cruise (he put on a jean jacket and went as him for Halloween one year, hilarity ensued) and of course Chris Farley (he actually adopted personality traits of Farley's different routines, which is either a brilliant homage to the late comedian or a wonderful way to go if you don't really know what to make of yourself during your formative years. Just assume the role of the drug abusing, painfully self-aware clown/party-animal when you go out on a Friday night with your buddies. A recipe for success any way you slice it).

I'm reminded of the scene from the movie Friday when "Janet Jackson" pulls up in front with her weave on and Chris Tucker rolls up to the car, makes an astonishing discovery, spends the next 45 seconds peaking as a comic actor and then sends "Ms. Jackson" on her way. It's that mistaken identity that throws people, the humor lies is the false perception. But here's the thing, there's really no way to tell your friend that he or she looks NOTHING LIKE the proposed star in question. The only true recourse to something like this is to immediately call other people who know your friend and inform them that the self-actualized celebrity comparisons are flying. Are you doing this to gauge reactions? To gain a third party perspective? Perhaps. But most likely you are already fully aware of the reaction. Unbridled laughter.

I also want to talk about the emergence of the "What Celebrity do I look like?"Wheel-O-Fun. It seems like these puppies are on every third Myspace page and I invariably end up looking at them going "Nope... nope... not even close... ugh-unh" inside my head. Now, I understand that the facial recognition software used here isn't from NASA and these findings are only really 60% accurate. But for me, I think we need to look a little deeper at what this seemingly trivial piece of web junk is trying to say:

"Look at my face. Do you see it? Are you sure? Have you looked hard enough? It's a good shot of me, don't you think? Do you think I look like these people? Cuz I got numbers here that support my claim! Okay, keeeeep looooking. Great! I'm fabulous. Let's do lunch.”

On a semi-related note: My ex-girlfriend used to tell me I looked like Mark Wahlberg. After informing me of this, I would often start doing the "New Kids Dance" wearing a confused brow and a well meaning smile. Then she would hit me and say no, not DONNIE Wahlberg. MARK Wahlberg. You KNOW! Marky Mark. The One with the FUNKY BUNCH. Then I'd pause and look at my abs (or where I’m told my abs are supposed to be) and then I'd look up at her and shake my head. But she persisted and made me believe she was completely sold on this fact. (Later I found out it was all just a ploy to get me to wear Calvin Klein boxer-briefs and not my usual standby of Homer Simpson boxers replete with memorable quotes. Long story.) Anyway, after enough confirmation that I looked like Mark Wahlberg, I started walking around my house with no shirt on, blue jeans sagging and a baseball hat on. I would play pool like this, I would watch Sportscenter like this, I would periodically excuse myself to use the powder room to do twenty push-ups like this. This went on in the King household for about a week when finally my Dad said to me,

"Son, what the hell are you doing? Put a damn shirt on! You're flexing at the dinner table now?"

I'll never forget that. He was right, I was posing. However, in retrospect, I think I was doing it all with a touch of irony. At least I hope so. If I wasn't, let's just chalk it up to high school and move on.

OK, so when you live in a society that values Cool like currency, I suppose it's somewhat understandable to try and link the ordinary with the fantastical. We do live in a very quotational place and time where our most viable social tool is having the information needed to be IN on the reference or joke. At the end of the day, we want to be able to walk into a room full of strangers and be able to hold their rapt attention while relating our interests and insights. By knowing what artist is playing on the stereo or by drawing the perfect comparison to a well documented story in the news, we begin to form a positive feeling about ourselves and our relevance within the surrounding world. Simply put, we want to be the guy with the finger on the pulse. Along with self-esteem maintenance, this is one of our primary motivators in almost every social exchange. So I suppose the forcing of a famous likeness with noble intentions is just a way of fitting in, of assimilating, which is completely understandable.

***

Well, after years of having "a familiar face" that hot girls "can never place in their minds" it appears that my possibility for a celebrity doppelganger may still have legs. In the past six months, three people have voluntarily informed me that I look like someone with a slight degree of celebrity. Now, the fact that these three people are completely unaware of each other and named a very esoteric person leads me to believe the comparisons are genuine and accurate. Now, I personally don't see the resemblance, but THREE PEOPLE CAN'T BE WRONG! Supposedly, I look like Jason Hervey. Don’t know him? How about Wayne Arnold? Kevin's older brother from Wonder Years?

Yeah. That's right. I guess I look like a fictional douchebag.

Good times.