The Descent of Man

September 16th happened in a different year, in a different season. And it feels like the game itself occurred long before then. Looking back on the highlights of that game is a revelation of the lifespan of a season and a tip of the cap to Darwinism in football. The remaining teams of the National Football Conference are a study in evolution by natural selection.

The three characteristics of Darwinian processes are self-replication, variation, and selection. Both the Giants and the Packers have demonstrated (i) an ability to reproduce the performances over a period of months that have won victory on the field, (ii) a sufficient range of traits over the course of the season as evidenced by the variety of ways in which each has been successful; and, most importantly (iii) that such consistency and such traits have allowed both teams to perpetuate their existence. They have done what 14 others have not. They have survived.

The Giants, who were up-and-down during the regular season, bring a crew of seasoned and battle-hardened (and battle-worn) veterans on defense, the reincarnation of Thunder and Lightning (or more appropriately, Ron Dayne and Tiki Barber as they should have been) in the offensive backfield, and Elisha Nelson Manning to Lambeau Field. The most important question in their admittedly shocking appearance in the Conference Championship Game this Sunday, can they achieve a third road playoff victory in three weeks?

In beating the Cowboys and Buccaneers, the Giants have run a conservative, but error-free, offense that relies on the run game and short-to-intermediate passes. The heart of these road upsets, however, has been a defense that has been riddled by injury over the course of the season. Their ability last weekend to pressure Romo, stop the run in 4th quarter, and to prevent T.O. from becoming a factor in the outcome were all impressive.

Please, however, spare me the Eli-coming-of-age story. The Giants' success has been predicated on Eli not losing games rather than Eli winning games. If not losing games is a sign of an individual fulfilling lofty expectations, somebody please squeeze my nipples and wake me up from this nightmare. The number one pick in the 2004 draft on whom the Giants hedged the future of their franchise is "maturing" and becoming a "leader" because he is no longer single-handedly giving away ballgames to the opponent.

In this, there seems to be an eerie resemblance to Peter Gibbons, the quintessential underachiever. In every game and in every press conference, the look in Eli's eyes seems to say, "that's my only real motivation is not to be hassled; that, and the fear of losing my job. But you know, Bob, that will only make someone work just hard enough not to get fired."

This, needless to say, is not sustainable. It means that the running backs and defense must be dominant in each game if they expect to win. Or they must rely on the mistakes of their opponent. We witnessed both of these occurrences in their two road playoff upsets, but it is unreasonable to believe that this will continue with a strong Packer run defense, a battered and bruised Giants' secondary, and a Super Bowl berth on the line. Eli must play the game of his life on the truly Frozen Tundra (the forecast calls for a crisp, clear 4 degrees around kickoff). 12-18 for 163 yards (almost a third of those yards, it is worth noting, coming on 50 YAC by Amani Toomer) will not do it this time and if past performance is any indicator of future success, Eli be fucked. Fucked in the sense that he will not lead his team to a victory and fucked because he will end this season having not proven much of anything. Fucked because the questions still remain.

The Packers on the other hand, benefitted from the bye week and Divisional Round win in which they controlled the ball and imposed their will on their opponent. Offensively and defensively, they simply must continue to perform as they have for the bulk of the season. They are solid against the run, solid against the pass, solid on the line, solid in execution, and solid (for the most part) in protecting and possessing the ball. It is their game to lose and a season is at stake.

For my part, I'm tired of all this. I started this entry on Tuesday. It is Thursday now, and there's not much I can tell you that you don't already know about the x-factors and the match-ups, about each team's journey to this point, and about predictions for the game. The difference in coverage since the last time the Packers played in the NFC Championship Game (in January of 1998) is astounding and disconcerting. It does weird things to your perspective.

My anxiety in waiting has slowly transformed into a dull weariness knowing that, for all the chatter, nothing will be settled until Sunday and that the emotions brought forth to the surface will be turbulent and extreme. Furniture may be broken in victory or defeat. As a football spirals downfield through the air, a stroke becomes that much more likely. Following the game, one's life may seem perfect and tranquil or miserable and troubled. A man far wiser than I once said, "Winning isn't everything, it's the only thing." The stark reality of those words is all-consuming. If victory is the only thing, then losing is the abyss, the vacuum, and nothingness.

The only thing is to live to fight on one more Sunday, one more battle…for survival.

This is therapeutic for me...deal with it

One play rarely alters the course of a team's history. This play, the one in question, is one that still salts my exposed and bleeding Packer heart. And from it have sprung both joy and grief.

A playoff loss to the Vikings at home during which Randy Moss celebrated a touchdown by offending Joe Buck's sensibilities. A 4-12 season. Months and months of multiple off-seasons spent living in fear and loathing of a Brett Favre retirement press conference. A too-good-to-be-true 13-3 2007 regular season.

The sequence receiving the most attention this week, and has been since the Jordan Babineaux sealed the Redskins-Seahawks game in the Wild Card Round, is Mr. We Want the Ball and We're Gonna Score quick cut to Al Harris's walk-off interception in overtime at Lambeau. You may have seen the clip several dozen times already this week.

The play about which I write occurred a week later.

To many, 4th and 26 means plenty. To Freddie Mitchell, a new nickname, "First Down Freddie" (Freddie Mitchell, if you are curious, used to be a wide receiver in the National Football League). To the city of Philadelphia, one of the greatest moments in Eagles' history. For Ed Donatell, it meant he was out of a job. It even has it's own MOTHERFUCKING Wikipedia entry.

I don't believe in teams of destiny anymore.

If ever there was a team that seemed to be one, it was the 2003-2004 Green Bay Packers. Beginning with Irv Favre's sudden and unexpected death and culminating with a 17-14 lead, 1:12 remaining in the 4th quarter, the Eagles on their own 25 with no timeouts, it seemed to the team, to the staff, and to the fans that the Packers were fated to be world champions. In between, there was the 399 yard-4 TD Monday night, the miracle victory by the Cardinals over the Vikings (without which the Packers don't even make the playoffs), and the epic battle against the Seahawks.

And then…the Rebs are on the right flank, headquarters is absorbing massive artillery fire, and it's Joe 'Fightin' Joe' Hooker all over again (OK, that was a thinly-veiled attempt to work the Army of the Potomac into the conversation).

It doesn't matter that the Packers blew a 14 point lead in the game. It doesn't matter that Mike Sherman's play-calling on 4th down was abhorrent. Nor does it matter that the Eagles, after that one play, still had to drive down the field to kick the game tying field goal, intercept a pass in overtime, and then drive again to kick the game winner. The only relevant fact about that game is that if the Packers hold the Eagles to 25 yards or less on that one play, the game is over and won.

How does this relate this week's Divisional Playoff against the Seahawks? Only in my head, apparently. Of the 22 starters and the coaching staff from that team, only 8 remain. Mike Sherman is blessedly gone. Darren Sharper, Ahman Green, Marco Rivera, and Mike Wahle have all left. Bubba Franks is on the bench.

But my demons need to be exorcised and the franchise needs put its post-Holmgren postseason ineptitude behind it. The woeful disappointments of the past 4 seasons have been somewhat assuaged by the Packers' performance during the regular season, however, a one-and-done performance this year would only serve to renew the agony with extreme vigor.

I need a confidence that belies the Packers' status as the youngest team in the league. I need a brilliant game plan from Mike McCarthy, who I hope will spend many years on the Packers' sidleline and have one of the streets surrounding Lambeau named after him. I need someone to put a body on Patrick Kerney. I need Matt Hasselbeck on the turf at least 10 times. And, I desperately need this not to be Brett Favre's last game.

Oh…and just for fun. Reprise, bitches.

The Quiet after the Storm: The 2006 Chicago Bears

I was watching the second half of the Bulls/Jazz game last night by myself when my eye wandered to the clock on the wall. The symmetry was too obvious not to note, for it was exactly 24 hours since the Bears had lost Superbowl XLI. I sunk down in my chair to take an inventory, to surmise the pain. It seemed strange because I still felt reasonably normal (save for some minor pangs of sadness that another NFL season was over, but I get that every year) and whatever emotional letdown I originally expected wasn't yet taking hold. It was an odd sensation because here I was treating this sub zero Chicago Monday like any other, when all other indicators pointed to it being the saddest day in recent memory. Sure, I was experiencing some denial and participating in some mild aversion therapy (I holler obscenities at myself every time I instinctually turn on ESPN when channel surfing ) but I didn't expect to be able to stave off the heavy heart a diehard is supposed to carry on "the day after". My presumptions led me to believe that a loss would send shocks through the body - an unholy alliance of bitterness, rage, sorrow, hopelessness and disappointment. However, that wasn't the case...

I watched the game with some of my best friends. We had deep dish pizzas and wings. We took shots of SoCo and lime. We listened to the Power and the Glory music from NFL Films. We were bundles of nervous drunken energy by the time the game started... before Devin Hester made our initial worries fade to black. Peyton threw a pick on third and long and we're slugging beers and smacking fives. Now, we all know what happened after that, so I'm not going to get into it... rather than what happened, I was more influenced by how I watched what happened. Having everything unfold the way it did with those very special people is what I will remember the most. The familiar banter. The outright booing at lame commercials. The optimistic women in the room trying to cheer up the devastated stone-faced men after another Grossman fumble/interception. The halftime show that had nothing to do with Prince. The knowing looks at a best friend when things started to slip away, finally retiring to the back porch to grab a quick smoke once the unfortunate became the inevitable, not commiserating but simply enjoying the buzz and the company and the night.

Am I only kidding myself? Downplaying the importance to save face? Hiding behind the "good friends, good times" rap when I should be drafting an open letter and finding a length of rope? Perhaps, but I’m not entirely sure that's how I feel right now, nor do I see it playing out that way around the bend. For some perspective, I was physically ill when the Cubbies got bounced in 1989 and 2003 (not so much 1998 for some reason). I cried when the Bulls broke up after the 1998 season. I'm used to extremely visceral reactions when it comes to these matters because that's what I think I choose to feel. It seems to somehow validate how I felt about it all along. For instance, when you break up with someone very important it can be a tremendously traumatic experience. You can mope around and beat yourself up and dig into that shoebox of photos OR you can take a few days get your act together before getting a head full of Jack Daniels and zeroing in on a rebound "encounter" that will surely find its way back to your ex. Either way, you deal with the pain in your own way. As time passes, you learn how to cope better and better once you've been through the wringer a few times. I think that's where I am right now. The way I see it, the seven-game series structure in baseball and basketball is a continual "on-edge" experience. If your team blazes a trail into the championship round, the playoffs are no longer enjoyable. It highjacks your life for weeks on end and turns you into a perpetual ball of worry, a bi-polar junkie for W's. Football is great because of its finality. One game. Sixty minutes. Heroes and goats are made in an afternoon. Then it's over. You can pick up the pieces much easier because there isn't as much to internalize...

This brings me back to the Bulls/Jazz game from last night. The CSN microphones were picking up EVERYTHING one Utah fan was saying. He was obnoxious, loud and consistently unfunny. "Hinrich! You gotta rash on your leg!" or "Deng sucks!" were heard over every lull in the action to the point where Red and Stinky Stace would sporadically acknowledge him during the broadcast. As the Jazz began to pull away in crunch time (we coulda really used Nocioni for matchup purposes down the stretch) I began to do my own fan profiling on this guy. He sounded around my age, probably Mormon (just kidding), obviously drunk (I hope for his sake) and somewhat diehard. Although the camera's never spotted him, I pictured him with a Jeff Hornacek jersey and matted hair. I'm guessing hygiene issues and verbal ticks kept him from meaningful relationships. He probably has a laundry list of phobias highlighted by, but not limited to, self-control and self-discovery. Then I started to think about what his likes and dislikes are... and things began to snap into focus. He HATES the Bulls. For me, this is just another game on a West coast roadtrip - Sonics, Trailblazers, Warriors, Jazz, etc. For this guy, it's probably much more. He certainly still remembers the sting of Jordan's Flu Game. His Airness and his Game 6 heroics. The tired pain of back-to-back basketball seasons ending on the ultimate stage to the same foe. Having two Hall of Famers submit to two better Hall of Famers. It's just the breaks sometimes. When it comes down to sports, I've had my joy and I keep it alive everytime I pop in a DVD. That's not to say I'm ever going to celebrate Peyton Manning (or Will Clark or Pudge Rodriguez for that matter), but I can take solace that the better team won. And that happens. Nothing will change.

So as long as I get to the point where I'm not choking on my own rage during a regular season Bears/Colts game in 2017, I think I will come out of this thing alright...

Swaying with the Cold

The weather in Chicago is bleak these days. Supposedly we're looking at single digit highs for the next week with a wind chill factor dropping to overnight lows beyond repair. I can't complain because it's been so unseasonably warm until this point, but the sting of winter never becomes comfortable no matter how hard-nosed you pride yourself in being. Previously short walks unravel into physical tests of fortitude. So with this cold settling in for the foreseeable future, I search out the warm spots in my mind. The Superbowl dream. I tug at my jacket as I breathe deep, chest swelling in and out, the lake effect howling through buildings smacking my rosy cheeks. Reasonable Doubt bumping through my ear buds as my pockets are the only sanctuary for my unsure hands. Walking down Michigan Ave past the Hancock, quick strides, Bears hat pulled low. I see the soul of a city on the brink. Chicago Bears mania has caught hold. I ride the EL and overhear three black gentlemen acting as if someone has spit in their respective faces. They're talking about the seven point spread for four stops before they get off. A father gives his Bears-clad son a piggyback ride down Rush Street. Office lights are strategically left on all night, breathing life into the skyline. Big, bushy, glorious mustaches are on every corner. Screenings of Superbowl XX have been happening all week at bars far and near. Cubs and White Sox fans hook arms around shoulders, forgetting subscribed summertime affiliations. Three days until Super Sunday...

...more to come.

The Day After...

Since there will be two weeks of non-stop coverage for Super Bowl XLI and it seems entirely possible that it could drive me absolutely insane, I figured I’d just say a couple things now and just do my best to put it out of mind until Feburary 4th. So this is all I’m going to write about the Bears until then. I’m obviously excited. I’m obviously grateful. I’m also obviously going to grow a mustache for the Big Game. These are givens. But what seems just out of reach, what I can’t really wrap my mind around is how everything went down the way it did. The sack on Brees as the fumble squirted down the field. Robbie Gould making things count. Reggie Bush taunting Urlacher before leaping into the endzone. The Safety. The snow falling as it began to sink in. Bernard Berrian rolling backwards into a touchdown. Everything about it is crystalized in my memory. The most complete Sunday afternoon of them all.

I decided to watch the game over at Bauer’s place a couple of blocks away. I figured in the event that we lost, I could just turn my phone off and sulk back to my place, turn off the lights and remain in the fetal position for a few days. On Sunday morning, I woke up at 7:30am and just watched the snow fall for about an hour. Silent. It was possibly the most anxious I’ve ever felt when I didn’t have something important I was actually going to be doing (after all, I’d just be sitting and drinking for the lion’s share of the day). So even though I only got 5 hours of sleep, I felt good. Ready. As I brushed my teeth, I turned on the radio and I’m informed of these three facts: The Bears have practiced all week outdoors. The Saints have practiced all week indoors. It’s going to be 20 degrees at kickoff with high probabilities for snow and freezing rain. I watched my Bears 85 tape and did some breathing exercises. I played Madden. Virtual Grossman looked ready. That was a good enough sign for me.

To be honest, the actual game felt like a lucid dream. It felt like it took 30 minutes to play even though my mind knows it took much longer, the same way a dream plays with your ability to accurately recall time once you wake up. I was emotionally drained after the final seconds ticked off the clock. I spent the next hour flipping between the Pats/Colts game and the Bears Postgame show. Nothing seemed real. I had a head full of good beer and bourbon and a couch to myself. I melted into the moment. After Asante Samuel did a pick-6 to put the Patriots up 21-3 before the end of the half I began to nod off. I dreamt about a Super Bowl XX rematch and how great it would be to vanquish New England again. To roll them up again, a lot to a little. To stamp out the dynasty once and for all. To put an end to the well documented Brady/Belichick big game genius party. I woke up in the 4th quarter to a tie ballgame, rubbed my eyes and then watched the Colts finish ‘em off.

So here I am, a day later. Still not sure what to do with myself. And now I gotta grow a healthy aversion for Peyton Manning out of a pre-existing casual indifference. It’s really too bad. He seems like such a nice fella in all those commercials. Such is life.
Go Bears.

America's Team lives in Chicago

Alright. Friday is finally here and I can't hold back any longer. I've spent that last five days pacing around my studio apartment slowly going insane. The Bears are about to play in their most important game since I was 8 years old and I've tried everything to distract myself. I wrote about the Seahawks game to take my mind off it. I've watched every Bulls game this week for good measure. I've surrounded myself with friends every night (when I'm usually most comfortable just relaxing by myself with a movie most nights). I promised myself I wouldn't listen to sportstalk radio, but found it decidedly impossible. Now, just 48 hours until "The Game"... I think I can finally talk about it.

I am so sick and tired of hearing about how shitty a quarterback Rex Grossman is. He's not shitty, he's INCONSISTENT. That's what happens when you're still green (one full season under his belt), have a great deep ball but not great decision making with underneath throws and you play in an icebox with swirling wind. He's not Joe Montana or John Elway, but he’s also not Rick Mirer or Jim Miller. But that's the beautiful thing about the media scrutiny facing NFL quarterbacks, it's unapologetic and mostly for shit. The media has an agenda of turning fresh faces into football royalty after only 4 or 5 games. Just this season we had Tony Romo, Phillip Rivers and Rex Grossman. Each have good-to-great defenses, strong running games and solid coaching staffs. Um, can we hold off on the Hall of Fame comparisons? You know, just until something happens.

I almost fell off my barstool when John Madden compared a Rex Grossman TD pass on Sunday Night Football against the Seahawks as, "Something a young Brett Farve woulda thrown". IT WAS WEEK FUCKING FOUR!!! STOP COMPARING HIM TO FUTURE HALL OF FAMERS!!! I'm a huge stickler for this when it comes to hoops. I'm OK with an announcer saying a play or performance was "Jordan-esque", but under no circumstance can you directly compare the two. It's reckless. It creates unnatural expectations. And it's exactly what happened to Rex this year.

I suppose I should be a little more game specific and not bitch and rehash old sentiments, but I think it ties in nicely with how I feel about the upcoming game. For as much attention as the Saints get on offense, what gets a little lost is their defense. They allowed 128.9 yards a game on the ground this year. In their division, only the Falcons had a decent running game (and I stress decent). They’re just numbers, I know. But here's what I feel. The Bears have gotten over that hump and finally won their first home playoff game since the Ditka years. They have a very formidable one-two punch of their own in the backfield and a quarterback that loves dropping the deep ball into the soft hands of speedy receivers on rushing downs. If the Bears can successfully establish a running game, I think the field opens up for Rex and that makes a huge difference for him. Spot the Bears defense a ten point lead in the second half and I’m supremely confident, no matter who they line up against.

So, after some reflection. I think Rex will have a good game (230 yards, 2 TDs, 1 INT) and Urlacher and Co. will do the rest. Bears 31, Saints 17.

Lovie-fest?

Others would have you believe that Chicago is the capital of the sports universe.

We haven't set foot outside of the Loop in the infancy of this blog. Honestly, it's hard to argue this when the Bears are hosting their first National Football Conference championship game since Springsteen's Born in the U.S.A. topped the Billboard charts. And no, I'm not gonna DOOO, what you think I'm gonna DOOO, and discuss what it felt like the last time the Packers hosted the game.

I can't blame the kid. There's nothing quite like carrying the knowledge that one home game separates the [insert your favorite here] from an immediate opportunity to compete for a prize as coveted as the Vince Lombardi Trophy. The first two days after the divisional round is still a time for accepting tangibility and reality of the damn thing. Then, more and more, you find yourself visiting that place in your conscious thought. You retreat to the depths of your mind, nurture those feelings. Caress them. Without knowing how, by the time Thursday evening, you've transformed from Smaegol to Gollum. The thoughts consume the entirety of your being. Your constant companion.

It is in the throes of this remarkable transformation that my counterpart communicated to me a phrase that crystallized what a Chicago Bears fan, any Chicago Bears fan, is sensing at 4:08 p.m. on Wednesday, the 17th day of January, 2007: "I meditate a lot to forget about the physical realm."

Where you must mentally prepare for any result, except a tie. "A tie," the AOL Instant Messenger prophesied "is unacceptable."

Cold reason alternatively competing with the essence of irrationality. Or maybe it is the other way around.

I envy completely such a football fan.

That said, Chicago, this Sunday the New Orleans Saints will be the Copernicus to your Aristotle. And you thought this blog was going to continue to be a strange combination of "Tuesdays with Morrie", "Field of Dreams", and "Fever Pitch" (the movie that sullied a World Series 86 years in the making).

He is the Walrus

I haven't always loathed the Seattle Seahawks. In fact, some of my earliest memories of watching football involved the gun slinging and entirely likable underdogs of the AFC West led by Dave Kreig, Steve Largent, and Curt Warner. My Pop Warner team was even nicknamed the Seahawks.

Notwithstanding any residual nostalgia of my youth, it's been personal since January 8, 1999.

It's not about the decision to transform their uniforms into something that is FUBAR. It's not about their post-realignment move to the NFC. It's not about pawning off one of the most cherished college football traditions as their own (in a stadium named after a horizontally integrated communications company in the Pacific Northwest, no less). It's certainly not about Matt Hasselbeck (bless his soul, the act isn't even comical anymore, its just irritating at this point).

The YouTube video featured in a previous post may actually have a little to do with it.

But mostly, the seminal event of my hatred is the day that Mike Holmgren resigned as head coach of the Green Bay Packers to accept a position as Head Coach/General Manager/Vice President of Football Operations with the Seahawks. I think they even threw in some canned sardines and a belly rub.

I know, I know. I'm well aware of the depth of my ingratitude. After all, the man put the "Title" back into Titletown, USA.

The one thing that I can't and won't ever forgive is the opportunity to make the Packers of the late 20th Century a historically significant team. Instead, we became the flock without a shepherd. He abandoned us. He abandoned Brett Favre at the peak of his remarkable career. He is directly responsible for the appointment of Mike Sherman as the Packers general manager (I have no doubt the Packers brass did this to spite Holmgren after his departure).

I remember his return to Lambeau Field the following season on a Monday Night in November. To see him on the opposing sideline, wearing another team's colors, is something that still, almost eight years later, induces mild nausea. The Packers were soundly beaten that night, 27-7, in a fitting summation of what it was like to have Ray Rhodes holding the clipboard.

"See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly."

It is for this that I delight in their failures (see: Holmgren's embarrassing post-Super Bowl tirade at the refs). I actively pull for their opponent every week of the season. Even this week, I back our oldest rivals, the Bears. This Sunday, I look forward to watching a wide-open Jerramy Stevens drop perfectly thrown passes. I will toast Brian Urlacher when he separates Matt Hasselbeck's helmet from his head. And I applaud any Bears fan that embarks to Soldier Field and brings with them fresh mackerel and chum. Mike might get hungry on the plane ride back to the aquarium...umm...Seattle.

Matt Hasselbeck and the Hawks: Assclowns on Parade

I chose to jump off with this clip (which I watch at least twice a day to pile on my contempt for the Seahawks) because Benny and I have some common ground here. We both think Matt Hasselbeck is a huge Sally. Now, as a quarterback, he's entirely adequate. He had a career year in 2005 because Shaun Alexander was stacking up touchdowns, kicking down doors and smacking babies at they Christening. But I feel like people forget this because LDT one-upped him this year for the season TD record and Alexander struggled with injuries. The point is, Hasselbeck was picking apart each secondary he faced because that's what they were giving him. Eight men in the box, stop the TD machine, make Hasselbeck beat us. And it happened to the tune of a 13-3 season.

Thing is, that was LAST YEAR. This is a hugely inferior team to the one they put on the field just 12 months ago. Honestly, they limp into the playoffs (losing 3 of 4 including a loss to division rival 49ers AT HOME) and win their Wild Card game on a flub. And while it's a wonderful story that they went to the Super Bowl last year, I seriously doubt running out two hobbled wideouts and handing the ball off to Alexander 50 times on Sunday is going to advance them down the road. In conclusion, Hasselbeck is wildly overrated even though he "wants the ball and he's gunna score".