Just so you know...

...my other blog (The Bowler and Benny) is what I'm currently posting on these days. I've been writing here on So It Has Come To This for a little over a year and while I've enjoyed it, I think I'm done for the time being as I alluded to just a few inches south of here on this very page. Besides, the all-sports collaborative blog with a best friend is a much more appealing work in progress. If you've stumbled here in error, curiosity or were simply coerced by the threat of physical violence, please stick around for a little bit. I'm actually quite proud of some of the stuff on here and I'm told that the contents below has demolished the productivity of some very industrious people (at least for an hour or so). Some of the greatest hits include:

An heartfelt ode to the low times and the sometimes unexpected people who pick you up

A snippet from a short story I wrote in college about my brother, whom I admire most

Recounting one of those vacations that a couple glossy 8 x 10's could never quite capture

The honest words of a defeated yet resilient Bears fans hours after Superbowl XLI

Three of the biggest reasons why I'm a Chicago Sports fan

We all look like famous people. Sorta.

Godspeed and thanks for reading, you obviously have good taste.

-Donny boy (aka AK)

Please update your fantasy baseball magazines accordingly...

The Bay Area 4

Don King wrote
at 12:47am on October 30th, 2006

A year after the fact I still find this picture hilarious. I barely remember the moment just before it was snapped when I told myself to conjure up some fake soberness and look as composed as possible. Instead I look like Rodin's The Thinker had a glamour shot taken. Grant has gone completely insane with booze at this point having just spent the last three hours drunkenly wandering around the bleachers at SBC Park befriending small children and horrifying their parents. Shawn, you might say, looked like he blinked. But no, this was his expression for the majority of the night. And then Bauer comes over the top with, well, I'm not quite sure what he's doing here...

Great moment.

Kurt G. Bauer wrote
at 11:52am on November 2nd, 2006

it is understandable that you revisit this moment out of the weekend, because it is the only truly clear moment, preserved for posterity in film. we were in rare form. and, as you state, it's been just over a year since that fateful weekend when we blew into town on a stiff tailwind and tore apart the bayside confines with calculating jabs and verbal scuffles amidst the giants' apologists. after all that, what were we to do but formulate some semblance of memory from the evening.

this is the best we could do with whatever brain function remained after hours of abuse. varying poisons running through our blood stream conspired to create those drooling, nearly expressionless faces.

The Infinite Abyss: Chicago Basketball

Michael Jordan was my childhood. His highlights were the salve for whatever ailments arrived in my early life. You see, before I discovered MJ, I was a painfully shy kid with a speech impediment in elementary school who was an easy target for bullies. I wore my heart on my sleeve and that sensitivity only bred more ammunition for taunts, mostly from kids in the grade above me. I was, however, always a good athlete. I played flag football, baseball and soccer with a silent fury. I derived most of my self confidence from these activities. I'll never forget hitting a game winning home run off my biggest bully, Andy Schmeising, in little league. I remember his third grade fastball being intimidating on a level that seemed ungodly at the time. He struck me out my first time up and I went back behind the dugout and shed some quiet tears. My Dad found me and told me in a stern but loving way that toughness was something earned, that crying was not a productive way to combat disappointment. He was right. I popped out my second time up, but the contact felt good in my arms and hands. Then, in the final inning with the game tied and a runner on first, I belted one of those ungodly fastballs deep into the gap in right center. I rounded the bases like my demons were chasing me. When I crossed home, my teammates hoisted and carried me off the field. Someone later told me that Andy was crying when he left the field, I never looked back though, it didn't occur to me. My Dad drove me and my buddies home and we relived the moment with big toothy grins. The following Monday, I bumped into Andy at recess and he, surrounded by his friends, asked derisively, "What did you hit, a double?"

I quietly corrected him, "No, a home wun."

They all laughed at me and my inabilities to pronounce my R's.

I shrugged my shoulders, saw the masked pain in his eyes and walked away feeling ten feet tall. It was the ultimate affirmation that sports were my salvation from a world that I sometimes felt I didn't belong.

The Jordan legend firmly took hold of my imagination during 1990 when the Pistons had our number in the playoffs. I would watch those games and have these wildly unhealthy mood swings for a boy my age, but something clicked for me on those agonizing spring afternoons - THIS was my sport. The baseball mitt and shin-guards got tossed in the garage to collect dust and I resolved myself to shoot jumpshots until dusk every afternoon. I would also follow the Bulls wherever MJ would lead us. It was official. The artistry of his game transformed me during those first championship years. Bulls games were required viewing which everyone understood as bedrock. On those special occasions when you got to witness MJ in person at the Chicago Staduim, you treated it as a sacred journey to the hoops Mecca. A gift from the basketball Gods. Deafening decibel levels were expected and always delivered. The Knicks and Pistons were LOATHED. The Cavaliers were mocked. The entire aura of "Chicago hoops culture" gave us a civic pride that could not be understood unless you were a part of it. The identity of a Chicago Bulls fan carried with it a certain swagger that caused you to bound through the turnstiles, dripping in red, hungry for basketball and fully expecting a hoarse throat by the final buzzer. People throw the phrase "Glory Days" around, but I don't. The Chicago Bulls are the reason.

Around the time Jordan left and the Bulls started losing basketball games at a harrowing clip, you could hear two *thumps* around the city scape. The first was the ground shaking from all the casual fans jumping off the Bulls bandwagon. The second was the season tickets prices falling back to earth, opening up previously untouchable seats. My Dad, the shrewd and loyal business man that he is, went in on second row season tickets during the lean years (although there is technically nothing lean about Eddy Curry). As I mentioned in a previous post, the Bulls averaged 19 wins during the six year span following MJ's departure. It wasn't the same experience, but I think my Dad and I went out of habit. We had faith that things would turn around eventually. We mused to each other that Ron Artest would be a good NBA player if he could control his emotions. We felt bad for Elton Brand's nightly 20-10 going to waste. We read the newspapers when our second overall pick ran his motorcycle into a lightpost in Lakeview, effectively ending his career after one season. We watched Jalen Rose average nineteen field goal attempts per game during an entire season (which should NEVER happen under ANY circumstance). We sat in our seats for all of this, still rowdy, still optimistic, still engaged because in a strange way, we felt in debt to this team and all the wonderful memories.

Now, here we are in 2007. A new era with new faces, but the name on the front of the jersey remains the same. I went to the game last night, the biggest Bulls game since Jordan left. Hands down. The game itself was a major let down. Great energy in the first half, complete stagnation in the second half. The third quarter was PAINFUL to watch. Skiles should have brought Nocioni or Tyrus in for P.J.or Big Ben to cause more transitional offense, opportunities for run outs and at the very least some hustle plays. He kept the old guard in, who were giving up too many open jumpers and running a stand still offense where the ball would get passed around the perimeter for the entire possession before Gordon would be forced to drive it into the teeth of a stingy Pistons zone defense as the shot clock expired. That 16 point halftime lead we built evaporated to one point by the end of the 3rd quarter, after that the officiating was terrible in the fourth (not an excuse for losing) and we couldn't hit ANY crunch time free throws (getting closer!). Are the Pistons a better team that us? Probably. Could we beat them in a 7 game series? Absolutely. Just not this one.

Ok, so here's the main reason I really walked away from this game with such a sour taste in my mouth and the impetus for this post (well, I also wanted to tell you a little about my little league homer to be strictly honest). The crowd was bordering on docile at times when the Pistons would string some hoops together. The people in our section were especially reluctant to put their hands together and holler. Now, I know, I know, you aren't likely to bump into a painted face and mustached big belly on his tenth beer in the primo seats, but this isn't just any game. You gotta show some spirit! This is a MUST WIN in the conference semis against THE PISTONS! Now, the upper deck was raucous with their chants and towel waving, but by the time the sounds trickled down to the court, the madness seemed all too distant. Perhaps my expectations were too high, but the impassioned rally cries certainly didn't seem to align with the magnitude of the event. The people sitting in front of us in the first row, IN THE FIRST FUCKING ROW, were musing outloud if they should split during halftime with the Bulls up by so much (even in jest, this is completely inappropiate on a level I can't even begin to fathom). The people behind me (who thought I was drunker than I actually was) kept making snide remarks about my constant cheering, even asking me at one point if I minded taking a seat. IT'S THE PISTONS! WE NEED TO WIN THIS GAME! TAKE MY SEAT AND THROW IT IN THE INCINERATOR FOR ALL I CARE! I HAVE NO USE FOR IT, YOU ABSOLUTE JAGOFF! Well, that's what I should have said. Anyway, you get this little picture I'm trying to paint. I was disillusioned walking out of that building, but it was probably my fault for assuming a simple playoff run could recreate that lightning in a bottle from the Jordan years. The Sport's Guy wrote last week that the quintessential basketball crowd from yesteryear is virtually extinct due to league expansion diluting talent, high priced modern arenas relegating the diehards to the nosebleeds and the overall cultural shift towards fuzzy sideshows and kiss cams. The basketball is no longer THE reason you attend a game. I didn't buy that. Well, now I'm forced to nod, swallow hard and accept that painful reality. My boy Benny put it best on IM this morning, "The lack of passion and enthusiasm that are becoming commonplace in our sports venues is a malaise that appears to be eating at Americans in general...I think America is rotting from the inside from indifference...nothing is sacred...nothing really matters."

It's a sad day in Chicago for those who woke up this morning and finally realized that Michael Jordan is not walking through those doors again. There's not enough beer on Clark Street to drown that kind of sorrow, but I’ll give it a shot...

Go Cubs.

A Blog Interrupted

It's strangely wonderful how the mind works when it conjures up old memories on its own. Sometimes you hear a song and you are immediately transported back to a specific place in time while sharing a fond moment with a favorite person. You smile and with a simple closing of the eyes and a twist of the volume knob, you relive what was previously left for dead in the infinitesimal recesses of your brain. This unexpected sprouting of emotions creates a self-referential pathway, a subtle way to connect with the events that shaped you into the person you are today. Anything can flip the switch: an obscure movie that gave you nightmares, an intersection in a familiar city, an article of clothing that found its way back to you. It's quite cyclical in that respect. Everything we witness on a daily basis holds the potential to unlock forgotten memories if we allow our minds to wander far enough. Anything significant enough to be remembered, even the seemingly insignificant, will eventually be remembered if we wish them to be.

I thought about this as I watched the Bulls play the Heat yesterday in the first round of the NBA playoffs. I thought about my childhood and the intensity with which my love burned for this team. I thought about how I squeezed my Dad tight when he informed me that my grade school graduation present was going to Game One of the 1996 Finals against the Sonics with him. I thought about how my boiling contempt for Isaiah Thomas and John Starks sometimes made it difficult to breathe. I thought about watching Game Six of the 1993 Finals during a thunderstorm in rural Virginia, reception fading in and out, losing my mind as Johnny Paxson stroked the three-peat clinching shot. I thought about 72 wins and how impossible that seemed even as it was happening.

As the game went on, I thought about the last two seasons with the "Baby Bulls". Two years ago to the week is when they played the Wizards in their first playoff appearance since MJ graced the halls of the United Center. I was just arriving in San Francisco and settling in at this time and I remember the excitement I felt. I remember watching a Saturday game with Kane and Steveo (two gents I consider dearest of friends) and polishing off a case before the final buzzer. The Bulls ended up losing out, but I was just happy to be there. On the West Coast. On my own. Less than a year out of college. Life looming as this complete uncertainty over me.

A year later, when the Bulls were battling the Heat in the first round, I was preparing for a cross-country move from SF back to Chicago with my entire life meticulously stacked inside my Volvo. I also started writing this blog right around this time (I reference it in the earliest post). So, once again, a Bulls playoff run is neatly coinciding with more transition in my life. Well, it only seems appropriate that, with another Bulls playoff, comes more change...

As some of you may or may not know, I've made some big changes in my life recently. Some lifestyle decisions as well as some overall life direction choices. I just started a writing project within the past two weeks which will involve a tremendous amount of dedication. I would just say, "I'm writing a book," but that usually only earns incredulous tilts of the head and sarcastic pats on the back, so let's just call it a "year-long writing project" and leave it at that. I'm also enrolling in summer workshops to attack the entire writing process a little more wholeheartedly. I'm interested in elevating my writing from casual pastime to substantive pursuit, in whatever form that takes. Considering this new aim of mine, I've decided to put this blog on hiatus until future notice so as to dedicate the proper time needed to achieve my goals. I've really enjoyed the exercise of writing this blog as it has kept me always aware, always concerned with the world around me. I've been constantly interested in the content of my fleeting thoughts, from things that get scribbled on napkins in smokey bars to ideas that get dreamed up in the small hours of the morning. It's been a wonderful opportunity to express myself and I hope, for you, it provided some quality distraction. Thanks for looking out, I'll catch you guys on down the road...

In addition to my writing project, I also plan on submitting articles to webzines and other online literary journals as the summer goes on. I'll make sure to link to those on this blog once that happens so please check back every once in a while.

Mahalo,

Donny

Spring Training in Arizona

After spending the greater part of my life celebrating a dogged love affair with the game of baseball, it goes without saying that March is easily the most joyous month on my calendar. Most people identify March with the NCAA's and I think that's completely reasonable. The annual madness that is held on the hardwood splashes out of the sports section and into the cultural consciousness, riveting the most casual of fans. Saint Paddy's Day slowly becomes a greenish blur of drunken subway rides and busted brackets. "Kiss me, I'm Irish and I just took a leak in the alley" are the wobbly sentiments of a generation just trying to keep their balance until the next game starts in a crowded bar at noon. And don't get me wrong, I love March for those moments of purest drama, of clutch performances, of dare-to-be-great scenarios playing out above. However, I believe that the underscored sentimentality of Spring Training is the true anchor for sports fans. Those who spent their formative years kneading sweaty leather gloves and spitting sunflower seeds. This month marks the rebirth of the American year; the month when the snow retreats back up mountainsides and dusty sandlots across the nation once again capture the imagination of a new crop of lifetime practitioners. Simply put, basketball is what riles us up, baseball is what calms us down...

To me, Spring Training has always been an abstract idea. When I was in grade school, I could grasp the concept of a glorified try-out. So that's what it was. The stars show up, shag some fly balls, play 18 holes of golf and get ready for the season. The young guys are bundles of nerves in pinstripes, feeling the exquisite sting of every booted groundball and backwards K. I could understand this because I too knew the how it felt during Little League "talent assessments" to be backpedaling hopelessly for flyballs while rows of Dad's with clipboards looked on. When I reached high school, my cynical Cubs side overtook things. I toted my Sports Illustrated and Tribune Sports onto the EL and spoke with my fellow comrades about false hopes and dashed opportunity. Cursing names like Mel Rojas and Rodney "Don't Call Me Randy" Myers each Spring. However, now that I'm older (and presumably wiser) I've gained the clarity that can only accompany honest perspective: Spring Training is for the fans. The ultimate priming of the pump. The unmeasurable serenity that one can only find at a ballpark after a bleak winter. The immortal Harry Carey put it best, "It's the fans that need spring training. You gotta get 'em interested. Wake 'em up and let 'em know that their season is coming, the good times are gonna roll." And I know, I know, this ground has been treaded upon before, nothing new here, but I still think it's paramount when considering what makes baseball so timeless: the fanbases, young and old, in the sun, collecting outs on a scorecard, talking that one common denominator...

***

TK, Joey, Jay, Easy, Ryan and I arrive at Scottsdale Stadium while the National Anthem is playing. The Giants are hosting the Cubs on this 90 degree day, not a cloud in the sky. As a matter of introductions - Joey and Easy are Giants guys, Ryan and Jay like the A’s and TK and I hold down the Cub fort. All are TK's high school buddies from Marin, all around 31, all good sorts. I know them mostly from BORP’s weekly wheelchair basketball scrimmages in Berekley when I used to live out in the Bay Area. Each one of these guys posses that good-natured California wit that belies a group that, once assembled, is constantly on the verge of unabashed revelment. Tough to keep up with on a night out, tougher to legitimately crack up. Okay, enough about those clowns.

We make our way to the bleachers through the mezzanine, a sea of Cubbie blue and Giant orange move by us in the opposite direction. TK and I try to hide our overwhelming excitement, but that gives way when we pass this dry erase board:
The starters are playing, Zambrano is pitching and Barry is batting in the three hole. Perma-grins all around.

We settle into our "seats" on the grassy knoll in right-center. The TOP of the first inning lasts and lasts. Ten batters, six runs, a couple errors. You can't really blame Matt Morris, the ball is eating up some of his core defenders. Anyway, we already have some highlights: With two on and no outs (when things were still salvageable) a can-of-corn is lazily launched to left field. Barry settles under it, raises his glove and then... raises his elbows, covers his head and moves hesitantly to-and-fro... the ball drops a few yards behind him, another run scores. The crowd is an awkward blend of high fives and people crouched over with their head in their hands. Personally, I was excited about this play for a couple reasons. Obviously, it's funny to see an eight-figure 43-year-old losing a ball in the sun. That's intrinsically funny. But even more than that, it brings up something which I don't think gets enough attention. Bonds was an elite fielder in the 90's amassing 8 Gold Gloves while crashing into walls for third outs. He was a beast out there. Now? He can barely run, nor does he have any urge to. He's given his body's best years to this game (and most likely to synthetic substances) and there's nothing left but a record to chase. In Moneyball, the overall value of a player is determined by how many run shares that player helps produce in relation to how many runs they concede in the field. Unless the MLB institutes co-ed softball rules and lets the Giants stick a tenth player in left-center, that Chevron logo in the gap at Pac Bell park is getting peppered. Barry will break the record, but I think it will come at the price of a 70-win season. I'm worried for the sanity of my Giants friends at this point.

Ok, still in the TOP of the first inning. Zambrano comes up, two outs, two on. He takes his two big cuts, both misses. If this were four years ago, Chip Carey would pretend that Big Z is trying to corkscrew himself into the earth as Steve Stone would pretend that Chip was funny. The next pitch Zambrano unloads on an 0-2 curveball which would have landed in the centerfield basket in Wrigley. Instead, it smacks against the top of the wall and shoots away from Winn as our lumbering pitcher is rounding second base. He realizes this and kicks it into another gear, mentally preparing his "I can't believe I hit an inside-the-park homerun in Spring Training either" speech. Then, between second and third:

Never have I heard so much cheering instantly morph into gasps of horror. Every Cubs fan immediately thought, "Did our Ace just dislocate his shoulder while trying to stretch a triple into a homerun in Spring Training?". Flashbacks of Prior, Nomar and Lee going down danced in our heads. Luckly, he hopped up and sheepishly jogged into third. Jumping up and down on the base to let the crowd know he was okay. Once Soriano made the last out, I went directly to the beer stand. Just... Wow. Anyway, Big Z capped off the BOTTOM of the first inning with strike outs of Bonds and Feliz. He's in midseason form, pointing to the sky, foaming at the mouth, yelling at himself.

Since we had a six run cushion after one frame, I decided to roam around watching the game in different places. For the second inning, I stood next to a kindly old man standing by himself in full Giants regalia. We were right next to the rightfield foul pole and we talked about pitching staffs. He likes Lowry and Cain but is worried about Morris. "Gives up too many homeruns," he says. He thinks Zito will either be a resounding success or a colossal failure because of the contract. "There's no middle ground with money like that," as he pounds more water, eyes darting around the field like he a bench coach. I didn't talk much, just asked questions because I could tell he was a little put off by the first inning, but he was exceedingly warm and excited to dole out his information. I had the feeling this wasn't his first Spring Training. That's what I learned quickly in the Arizona sun, you don't understand March baseball unless you make the trip. The good vibes are almost disarming. I saw two sixty-year-old men walking by laughing at a joke, one wearing a Cardinals hat, the other a Tigers hat. Families rolling around amidst surprisingly restrained drunk Cubs fans; kids transfixed by their heroes while fathers wore broad smiles of satisfaction that the family trip wasn't to Disneyworld this year.

The generated mist started to rain down on the infield seats as the second inning concluded. I wiped the sweat from my brow and decided it's time for a stroll around the nice seats. I nod to the kindly old man and wish him luck. He tells me that my team could probably use it more (you know, in the cosmic sense). I think he's right.

The third inning starts with Zambrano doubling to left. He's the best. The requisite jokes begin from nearby fans, "Are they going to leave him in for the cycle?" and "He should be our DH for interleague games." I'm mildly amused. Only mildly.

The fourth inning starts and I have a moment of Zen. I've got my second beer and a pocketful of sunflower seeds. I've snuck into a seat on the 3rd base line and I'm taking notes while the game moves about before me. It doesn't seem like a big league baseball game psychologically at this point. There are hundreds of millions of dollars out on the field and all I can think about is the simplicity of it. The smaller, more intimate park coupled with the fact that these games don't count makes it almost seem like a neighborhood game. Men are walking around selling bottles of beer out of ice-filled buckets. Kids are gliding by on those gym shoes that have wheels on the heel. The stadium is bordered by endless earth tones, gorgeous outcroppings of desert rock. The euphoria of the game in the purest form. Damn, a couple is standing here giving me the ole stinkeye. I better move.

The fifth inning begins with the Cubs up 7-2. I decide to walk around the mezzanine to find TK and the gang. I get about halfway there and I hear over the loudspeakers, "Now batting, number 25, Barry Bonds". I scurry down an entranceway along with a handful of others. Cheers, Boos, everything inbetween. People on tippy-toes to see him swing the bat. I've got to give it to him, he still has "it". I used to think Bonds was such a polarizing figure and either you hated him or you were a Giants fan. However, whenever he's in the batters box, Barry Bonds has a galvanizing force on everyone. Watching history, greatness, whatever is still one of the most enthralling things in sports no matter what package it's in.

Jeff Samarja pitched the 5th and 6th innings giving up five baserunners but yielding no runs. I'm impressed with his fastball and quick motion towards the plate. He has a little trouble putting guys away after getting ahead of them in the count, but he's got plenty of time to work on that. Basically, he "looks" like a Major League pitcher, but then again, so did Todd Van Poppel. In all seriousness though, I hope they put him in Double-A ball and fast track him into the show. I think he has a chance of being a very capable middle reliever when all is said and done. Remember I said that. Anyways, the game ended in a Cubs 10-5 victory. I laughed, I cried (sunscreen in my eyes), I got drunk. It was better than ten Superbowl XLI's. Can't wait til next year... I mean, this year. Go Cubbies.

The Chicago River 5-0

Remembering Mr. Jones

Thomas Jones has gotten a bum rap during his three year stay in the city of Big Shoulders and now he's gone. For all the "good riddance" people out there, you're all idiots. You'll all feel the pinch of those words come fall. You have no idea what we just lost.

I know I'm a little biased here because of my Virginia ties, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. I remember the day in early 2004 when T.J. inked a deal with the Bears. I was excited because I thought we got a real, genuine piece of the puzzle. Jones came out of UVa a polished specimen, finishing 5th (I think) in Heisman voting and carrying the weight of gigantic expectations. He split carries in Arizona and had some gawd-awful blocking during his first three forgettable seasons. But he showed signs in Tampa Bay and I knew from watching him in college that this was the REAL Thomas Jones. Now, when we signed him after the 2003 season, we were a laughing stock. Kordell Stewart's swan song was so excruciating to watch that when an ancient Chris Chandler filled in for him it was a breath of fresh air. THAT'S how bad we were. Rex Grossman was on his first injury and our offense was the most unstable thing at Soldier Field since Bryan Cox used to stalk the sidelines, spewing sound bytes, angling for a sportstalk radio gig once his lackluster playing days were up.

So anyway, Jones came in and did exactly what was asked of him. Averaged 4.0-plus yards per carry in his first season, blocked, caught passes, kept his nose clean. He split carries with a fading Anthony Thomas but still managed to show his meddle, just missing 1,000 yards. Now, after this first year is when they released A-Train and drafted Cedric Benson. Considering the fact that Jones had more receptions than the Bears leading wideout (David Terrell, 42 rec, 699 yards, 1 TD), I thought it seemed logical to grab a bookend WR to compliment the offseason acquisition of Muhsin Mohamed. But Bears GM Jerry Angelo went ahead and nabbed Benson with the 4th overall pick. It would be one thing if T.J. was in the twilight of his effectiveness, but he was just rounding into his prime. How the fuck are you supposed to respond to that? Well, Jones responded by having two hard running seasons, eclipsing 1,200 yards for the first time in his career. All the while, his job was precariously balanced on the whim of an organization who hasn't drafted a worthwhile running back since Neal Anderson in 1986. It was a lose-lose situation from that point on. Concede carries to Benson and he does well, people will want you gone. Concede carries to Benson and he flounders, then we're spending too much on a back-up and Jones should be scaled back until Benson finds his groove. Don't believe me? Both those things happened. During Benson's first year in 2005, after the rookie holds out all of training camp and then injuries his leg, Jones picks up the slack. He runs for 1,335 yards and 9 Tds while defenses stack the box, tempting Kyle Orton to throw the ball. Fans wonder why we invested in Benson in the first place, Angelo implores us to give "the future" some time. What about our present? Well, that happened last season. Benson came on and many jumped on that bandwagon, completely forgetting the seasoned running back that moved aside to make a Super Bowl run not only feasible, but entirely possible.

Critics say he wasn't a team player because he sat out camp before the season claiming he wasn't happy about his contract, his role on the team. I say, damn right. We treated him (as an organization) without any loyalty or respect. We took him for granted. We made it difficult to keep him by the steps that were taken. On a related note, two time Pro-Bowler Lance Briggs said earlier this week, "The Chicago Bears team? The coaches, players, city and fans? Yeah, I could stay there forever. I love it. But the Chicago Bears organization? I don't want to be there anymore. I won't play for them and I'll do everything in my power to keep from playing there." The funny thing was, after the Superbowl, I was waiting to see what happened with these two guys because I was either going to get a Jones or Briggs jersey for next year.

Bottomline, Cedric Benson has big shoes to fill and I hope he’s up for it. This isn't open mic night at the Bryn Mawr student union, this is running back for the NFC Champion Chicago Bears. You leave your ego at the door and you tote that football with all the fury of a runaway locomotive because that's how it's been done here for decades. Defense and running the football. Running the football and defense. At this point last week, I was comfortable with that premise. Now? I'm hoping on hope. A place no fan wants to be.

We'll miss you Thomas Jones.

Go Hoos.