So was the Chicago Bears victory this past Sunday on par with that achievement? No, not exactly (the Bears were favored, after all ...).But the feeling was similar. And that's what counts.
The last time the Bears made the Super Bowl, I was 7 years old and assumed that this was the way it would be every year. So, the following year, when Chicago got smacked by those bitchy Redskins, I broke into tears and Mom told me to go take a bath. When my sister tried to turn on the TV after I submissively turned it off, I fought with her about leaving the power off so I could deny the pain. And then I sat in the tub, weeping and realizing you can't win every year.
For right now, however—two days later, I'm still in a state of extreme joy. Win or lose in the Super Bowl, rooting for a team I love hasn't felt this joyous since Kenny Rogers threw the bases-loaded ball four that sent the Braves to the World Series in 1999 (We almost let that one get away, too—being up in the NLCS 3-0 and being up in the final game something like 6-0 or such).
Anyway, the day is something you cannot erase from one's memory. For now, I can't stop thinking about how the entire day unfolded. Let's indulge ourselves and relive the glorious ass-beating Chicago delivered (All times are approximate ... and likely inaccurate):
8:45 a.m.: I arrive at work, 15 minutes late. For the second day in a row, I write the phrase "Go Rexy Go" on the styrofoam cup I will consume coffee out of for approximately the next five hours.
2:00 p.m.: Game coverage begins and patronage dwindles. What tables I am still serving usually have to grab their plates from my hand as I stand tableside, staring at the television and failing to complete my own pass. "I'll take that for you," a woman says. "Take it out of my tip," I think.
2:30 p.m.: Virtually nobody in the restaurant other than carryovers who are sitting around and waiting for the wives, older relatives, or children to stop yapping. The Bears are up 9-0 on three field goals, leaving me nervous that the Bears are unable to convert in the red zone.
3:15 p.m.: I'm driving in the snow, realizing the car's traction isn't all that great. Shortly after leaving work, Thomas Jones runs into the end zone on his eighth straight carry. The Bears lead 16-0 as I wait outside the White Hen before buying cigarettes. It's the NFC Championship and our opponent hasn't scored yet. This can't be happening.
3:25 p.m.: Drew Brees seemingly orchestrates an effortless drive downfield with less than two minutes left to put the Saints on the board. Suddenly, 16-7 isn't as comforting. Three plays later, the half ends and I'm still uncertain whether I should be overconfident or needlessly worried.
3:30 p.m.: The cabbie says he will be at my house at 4:00 to give me a ride to my buddy's house, where the game is paused at halftime so he, his wife, and two of my other friends can play Wii.
3:45 p.m.: On the second play of their first drive of the half, Reggie Bush blows past the Bears defense and makes it a two-point game. My mother—as she typically does during sporting competitions involving Chicago teams—either mutters "Shit" when something bad happens or says "Yes!" when there is a positive result. I pray for the cab to arrive soon ... (although the Illini rallied past Arizona when I watched that classic with my parents).3:55 p.m.: Cabbie calls. He needs to go and switch cars ... tires are bald ... can't drive in this. Ten more minutes. Please don't make me have to watch this entire game with my mother, I'm thinking.
4:05 p.m.: Saints are lining up to take a field goal that would put them in the lead. My father and I shout that it's no good, falling short. Bears have great field position.
4:15 p.m.: Another three-and-out results in a Bears punt. I'm getting nervous. Where did that fucking momentum go? On the plus side, Brad Maynard delivers another nice punt that pins New Orleans within their own five.
4:18 p.m.: Drew Brees, caught in his own end zone and facing a deadly pass rush, throws the ball away. With no receiver anywhere nearby, I shout, "Intentional grounding!" Actually, it's a safety. Turning a two-point lead to a four-point is huge.
4:25 p.m.: Bernard Berrian makes an incredible adjustment to catch a Grossman pass that is somehow beyond the Saints' defenders fingertips, rolling into the endzone and making the score 25-14. Suddenly life is good.
4:29 p.m.: Brees is sacked ... and the football apparently came out on the replay ... but the whistle wasn't blown—or was it? To the replay booth when—the cabbie honks the horn. Time to go.
4:30 p.m.: I immediately turn on the radio upon taking my seat in the cabbie's minivan. "The Bears might've just gotten the ball back," I say. Sure enough, it's Bears ball on the Saints' 26.
4:35 p.m.: Snow is making the roads a bitch. My buddy texts me to let me know I'm a "fag" for showing up late and they're about to resume second-half viewing. Go ahead, I think. I tell the cabbie that my fellow fans at the destination are way behind in game time and he makes a motion towards the radio, saying, "Well you probably don't want to hear this ..." I stop him and say I can keep a secret.
4:40 p.m.: Cedric Benson runs 12 yards into the endzone to make it a three-score game. The cabbie begins to say how exciting it is to have the Bears going into the Super Bowl. Pessimist I am, I remind him there's still a lot of time left. I've seen crazier shit happen before.
4:45 p.m.: Brees is intercepted by Nathan Vasher and I feel speechless as we arrive at my buddy's house. I shake my cabbie's hand and remark how pleasant it will be to actually once again be in the Super Bowl. Slamming the door shut and thanking him for his efforts, I now have to keep a secret.
4:46 p.m.: I ring the doorbell and enter my buddy's "mansion," immediately asking if I have to go downstairs to smoke. Indeed I do. When he follows me, I can tell from the audio that they aren't too long after watching Reggie Bush somersault into the endzone and dance for the only time that day. We're smoking in the basement when he begins prodding me about what I know. "So, did the Saints score at least two touchdowns since you last heard the score?" I try to refuse to answer—"I don't want to ruin it for you," I say—but eventually shake my head "no." He asks if the Bears have scored since, at which point another friend comes down. The audio on the television is so loud that I can hear the fans booing when Brees throws his incompletion out of the end zone. As my friend repeats his question, Joe Buck can be heard saying how the Bears want a flag on the call and Troy Aikman is saying how he thinks Chicago will get it. I point at the ceiling and say, "Safety." The friend who has just entered the room is clueless to what I'm talking about and doubts me, but sure enough, another friend watching the game shouts from the top of the stairwell: "SAFETY!"
5:10 p.m.: I'm amazed at how drunk my friend and his wife are—I haven't seen them drunk at the same time in quite some time ... if ever. Joe Buck is talking about how this could be a definitive drive for Rex Grossman when I realize what's coming up next. Sure enough, seeing the Berrian miracle catch is even sweeter when I can be the first to say that it counts. The friend who doubted my safety call asks if I knew that was coming and I say that it was the last play right before I got around the house.5:12 p.m.: "There's still one more big play coming," I admit to that friend, right before seeing Vasher's pick. My friends are practically shitting themselves with excitement as they jump around the spacious room.
5:15 p.m.: Perhaps Cedric Benson's best run of the season is accentuated by the hop through would-be tacklers around the five-yard-line as the Bears cement their appearance in the Super Bowl. The Soldier Field crowd has never looked so alive as these playoffs, and my favorite sign is still the well-cut "XLI" in a sea of jumping fans.
5:40 p.m.: The nail was in the coffin long ago, but just to remind the team why he merits being rehired, Thomas Jones runs to the bottom of the television screen and then runs back up to the top of it before going into the endzone and finishing a 15-yard TD run.
And all this was before we continued getting drunk, watching the Colts go down 21-3, played a lot of Wii, and then watched Peyton Manning and Indianapolis fight its own way into the Super Bowl.
Friends: There are days ... and then there are days. And this will be one I shall not forget.
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