Karl Klockars

We will lose.

Now that I’ve said that, I think it’s a given that the Bears will of course, dominate that other team from down the street named after horses. Before every game this year, The Girl turned to me and asked, “Are the Bears going to win this game?” To which I responded, “Of course not.”

I’m stuck in the post-John-Schoop hangover, where every play ends in a loss of two yards and you can predict the ball carrier running into a dozen people and then falling down. We used to call it “The Play” and then we’d order more High Life and eat more sausage.

It’s my schtick to be stuck in 2004 or so, where we lost and lost and lost and everything was terrible and we were happy, dammit! As sports fans go, you can follow the winners by who I bet against. I lost a lunch bet by picking the Cubs in the crosstown classic one year, and when it was 2000-4 in the second inning, I knew I wasn’t ever going to seriously bet on sports again. Some people just don’t have the calling. That was a rough trip to Arby’s.

As Chicagoans, I feel a certain sense of home in the whole doom-and-gloom mood that seems to wrap this Superbowl appearance. As far as sheer coin-flip odds go, we have to lose, don’t we? We won the last one, so it’ll come up tails this time and we’ll shit all over ourselves within the first quarter.

We have a terribly negative self-image in Chicago, and as such I think we’ve really focused all of our personal hatred of self on the football team that happens to be suckered down by the lake. Every single game that’s gone past this season, either I’ve had my emotional finger on the pulse of the city, or I’ve been stewing in my own winter juices and have been extending that feeling onto the entire 12 million people that surround me.

Either way, I think it’s safe to say that as a city, we haven’t been fair to the whole situation. We didn’t end up in this position on accident – in fact, as opposed to the last time we were in the playoffs, we almost did everything we could to not end up in the Superbowl. But here we are.

For better or for worse, we’re facing up to our own civic betrayal. We have to look ourselves in the mirror in less than a week, and come what may, tell ourselves that as long as we’re here, we might just as well hope that we win. For a change.

Bands across the tri-state area have either powered out their Bears-related tunes or have at this point, missed the boat. Restauranteurs have their Superbowl menus ready, or are putting the finishing touches on their bleu-cheese and orange-peel crab cakes.

And presumably, kids across the area are gearing up with their Bears gear for the oncoming chances of “Bears Day” at Catholic schools, where children can cast off the shackles of navy blue slacks and robin’s-egg polo shirts, where young’uns can cut loose with some jerseys, sweatshirts, hats, sweaters, sunglasses, tassle caps and for the daring, athletic shorts.

It was a cold day in January of 1986 when I was but a wee first grader at St. Mike’s Catholic School in the cold, dry suburbs of Chicago. On a Monday morning, I walked into class, looked around, and wondered why everyone but me was in navy-and-orange as opposed to the standard-jesus issue of uniformed repression.

I didn’t catch on until much later that it was because the Bears won the superbowl the night before. It was actually until a year afterwards that I was all ecstatic about the upcoming Bears Day at school, because I had a fuzzy hat. I think there were socks involved. All I recall at this late date is getting ready for BEARS DAY. I was gonna be cool, and not the left-out loser that didn’t get it.

And then either Mom or Dad had to clue me into the fact that no, there was going to be no Bears Day this year. Fucking team had failed in their second bid for Superbowl glory, and apparently my school wasn’t going to support a shit effort this year. All or nothing, much to my regret.

I still haven’t forgiven the ’85 Bears for that. Fucking football. Screw it. I hope we lose.

Flip the coin, Chicago. Last time, heads we won. This time, it’s still spinning. Best to go break Peyton Manning’s thumb in advance and leave him on the sidelines practicing his lines for the next commercial he’s scheduled to do in the off season. No Disney World commercial for someone this year. I don’t care who really gets it – as long as I get to yell at a television and eat some fried chicken.

Are you ready for some football? No, not really. But if someone could put in a memo to Hank Jr. to adjust it to “Do you care about football after all the headlines and frontpages and parody songs and merchandising and Superfans!” Still…

No.