Change Is the Only Constant? Seriously?

Depending on how you look at it, the Chicago Bears are either swathed in—or suffocated by—history.

Just one of a handful of NFL franchises owned by descendants of their founders, the Bears make a great story insofar as tradition and lineage are concerned. What could be better for a franchise and its legacy than to have a tangible link to perhaps the most pivotal man in NFL history?

On the surface, not much. Pretty cool, right?

Wrong.

George Halas, Sr. died on Halloween, 1983. The last great thing Bears' leadership did for the franchise was Halas' hiring of GM Jim Finks in the mid-seventies. Already credited with turning two franchises into contenders, Finks was the perfect candidate to resurrect the Bears.

And resurrect he did. While no longer with the franchise by the time the 1985 Bears laid waste to the NFL, that team had Finks' fingerprints all over it. But the ascent and the championship obscured an emerging problem within the organization: in the aftermath of Halas' death, who would lead them?

Heirs by marriage, various members of the McCaskey family assumed control. They were now responsible for hiring the people best-suited to sustain the Bears' recent success.

But as teams do, the Bears grew old. Got injured. And got traded. With the conveyor belt Finks built no longer in service, the supply of savvy draft picks and prescient free-agent signings which earmarked his stay in Chicago disappeared.

And suddenly the Bears weren't so good anymore.

Looking at the ensuing decades, the Bears have mostly been mediocre (if not downright awful). While fans and the media debate incessantly this GM or that coach or trades and free-agent signings, there is but a single common denominator that stretches across three decades of futility: the McCaskeys.

They don't know what they're doing.

They're in charge of hiring the people who evaluate, develop and assemble talent. And for thirty long years they have failed. Their hand-picked executives have produced a long string of ineffectual quarterbacks. Forgettable receivers and tight ends. Anonymous offensive linemen. All of it leading to a moribund tradition of hapless and inept offenses.

Their coaches are over-matched and out-witted.

Yes, the Bears can still uncover defensive talent like the New York Mets once did pitching. But in a game constantly being tweaked and massaged to favor offense, this is only a minor advantage. 

There are aberrations. Like 2001 and 2006 and, most-recently, 2018. But these vanish as quickly as they appear, returning Bears football to its natural state of being.

Which isn't to infer the McCaskeys are clueless. On the contrary, they have developed the Bears assets to the point where the Bears are the eighth most-valuable franchise in the NFL, worth 2.45 billion-dollars. Which I think we all can agree is a pretty heady return on Papa Bear's original investment.

And with a billion-dollar monument to their legacy soon to be erected in the suburb of Arlington Heights, that valuation will increase still further. But the red wine stain on this pristine linen tablecloth of good fortune remains the McCaskeys.

If it even needs to be said, football is measured in championships, not valuations.

Oh, the McCaskeys and Ted Phillips still deign to descend from their ivory towers and mingle with the great unwashed once a year, polishing their brand as they advise exasperated fans and a befuddled media they understand what's going on and are going to act on it immediately.

All that's missing are results.

But with a string of sold-out games stretching back to 1984, you have to wonder why the Bears would bother. Like the fans of the baseball team that plays on the north side of town, Bears fans will bitch up a storm on Monday morning talk radio and then dash off checks for season tickets with eager and unquestioning obedience.

And with more seats to sell in their new stadium, money will roll in in even greater quantities.

3 - 13? 12 - 4? It matters not, people. Bears' fans have demonstrated they will buy whatever the McCaskeys are selling. And until the tickets and the merch remain unsold and the games unwatched, rest assured Matt Nagy and Ryan Pace's successors will be more of the same.

Again: the McCaskeys are the sole common denominator across thirty-years of crappy football and questionable football decisions. What does that say to you?

A long time ago, an Englishman sang “Meet the new boss/Same as the old boss.” Is it possible he was a Bears' fan?

Random Thoughts, Vol. 14

Yes, you are correct. Previous editions of 'Random Thoughts' contained ten items, while this installment contains only seven.

Unfortunately, the ripple of shortages washing over the world is now lapping upon the shores of 'The Square Peg', and as a consequence we have but seven items to offer.

Thank you for your understanding.

My dad was a nuclear physicist. So I'm thinking it's not that surprising that he'd wake me with the words up and atom?

I suffer from low self-esteem. I blame this on the fact I was born and raised in the Lesser Antilles.

The only people in my neck of the woods who drive with a sense of urgency are the people behind me.

Is it true that language-app Babbel is developing a new program based on Bears' coach Matt Nagy?

If I get the message “We are experiencing an unusually high call volume” every time I call a business, is their call volume really unusually high?

Now that strike-outs frequently outnumber hits in a given month in Major League Baseball, is it fair to question when single 'A' ball got so expensive?

So, let me get this straight. in direct opposition to their cult leader's repeated cries for deregulation and lessened governmental oversight, Trumpers are concerned the COVID-19 vaccines didn't receive enough?

Resisting Quantification

I will admit that more NFL Hall-of-Famers were drafted in the first-round than any other. And that this probably applies to MLB, the NBA and the NHL as well.

But judging by the rampant hysteria surrounding the value of first-round picks, nothing so much as a reliable starter was ever drafted afterwards. The all-or-nothing premium placed on them borders on mental illness.

Anyone out there remember JaMarcus Russell? Brian Bosworth? Tony Mandarich? All had a yellow-brick road paved to Canton, OH. They merely had to show up.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the Hall of Fame. None of them made it. Career-wise, none of them even made it out of the driveway.

So. Fasten your seat belts: first-round picks are a crap shoot. Yep. With odds only marginally better than the rounds that follow. Humans continue to resist the most detailed and intrusive examination. We flower when no one thought us capable. And granted, we sometimes fail when—again—no one thought us capable.

We are difficult. Unquantifiable.

In a sport ruled by “experts”, I relish the fact that so many of the best quarterbacks I ever saw were drafted well outside of the first-round: Johnny Unitas, Bart Starr, Roger Staubach, Joe Montana, Brett Favre and (drumroll, please) Tom Brady.

If the “can't miss” tag overlooked so many of the all-time greats at the sport's most-scrutinized position, what does that say about our scrutiny? Our evaluation?

Not a whole lot, I'm afraid. Is anyone asking “What are we missing?”

Given the time, I'm confident I could assemble an All-NFL squad of third rounders every bit as potent as one crafted from first rounders. As I could in every other sport.

And yet our belief in this delusion persists and carries with it powerful consequences. For instance, the salaries enjoyed by first-round picks versus those picked in subsequent rounds.

For an NFL prospect, simply falling out of the first-round and into the second translates into a financial hit of 20%.

Without doing a survey on the relative success of first-round picks versus second-round picks, this is a startling difference. Is there really that much difference between number thirty-two and number thirty-three?

Alas, we are a society heavily invested in name brands and image and reputation. “How can you miss with a __________________ from Alabama versus a __________________ from Black Hills State University? You can't!”

Right?

It goes without saying I was delighted by the 2016 Major League Baseball Hall of Fame class, which featured Ken Griffey, Jr. and Mike Piazza. One was a can't-miss prospect lauded from the day he spouted pubic hair. The other was an afterthought.

Without enlisting the services of Google, can you tell me which was which?

Didn't think so.

If we are going to be utterly and completely honest, we need to admit the only thing drafts accurately predict are the sizes of signing bonuses and rookie contracts. Everything else is, like I said, a crap shoot.

 

A Little Bit of Light

It is ugly. It is a billion-dollar behemoth that rolls, unimpeded, over everything. A cash spigot that seemingly will not be turned off. It fills cup after cup of generational wealth for all who can crowd close enough.

Those lucky souls consume multi-million-dollar homes and Lamborghini SUVs like you and I do water and bagels. In this exalted income bracket, vast, unimaginable amounts of money become de rigueur, their new normal.

Money can buy anything. And everything.

With the exception of happiness.

We have only to consider the parade of misshapen personalities that have emerged in the first half of this NFL season: Jon Gruden, Henry Ruggs III, Aaron Rodgers, Odell Beckham, Jr. and now, Dalvin Cook. Despite the ocean of riches offered them and the bounty of benefits that accompanies being rich and famous, it's just not enough.

Beauty, it is said, is skin-deep. But ugly goes all the way to the bone.

The riches aren't enough to wash away their hatred or their arrogance. Ditto their selfishness. The immersion course in entitlement and impunity works so very, very well.

But there is a break in the display of racism, sexism, battery and the flaunting of privilege. There are people who, despite the mountains of cash and (in this case at least) less-than-ideal professional circumstances, manage to act like grown-ups.

I speak of former Detroit Lions quarterback Matthew Stafford.

I don't know him. I don't even live in Detroit. But even without close-in access to either the team or Detroit's media, will hazard the opinion that Stafford is an okay guy. He persevered for a dozen years with mostly not-so-great Lion teams, rarely throwing an undue number of interceptions much less petulant, trade-me-now tantrums.

In a sea of ineptness and futility, Stafford was a island of ability. A player who produced at a high level regardless of whomever he was surrounded with.

So I was happy when I learned he'd been traded to the Los Angeles Rams. If anyone deserved a shot with a contender, it was (and is) Stafford. And even with my moderate interest in professional football, can see he is making the most of it.

As of this writing, Stafford stands as the highest-rated quarterback in the NFL. Not Patrick Mahomes. Not Tom Brady. Not (eyeroll) Aaron Rodgers. Nope. It's the dude from Detroit. Playing with actual NFL-quality personnel, Stafford has the Rams in the thick of the highly-competitive race for the NFC bye.

I'm no Rams fan, but am thrilled that Stafford has at last been given a platform from which to shine. With a multitude of character-free personalities being handed a disproportionate amount of life's riches, it is a relief to see a fully-developed, mature human being get some.

Rock it, Matthew.

Kyle Rittenhouse

What follows is a conversation that might have taken place in the Rittenhouse home on the night of August 25^th, 2020. Not knowing Kyle Rittenhouse or his mom, it is extremely unlikely I was there to record the conversation verbatim.

Kyle: “Mom?”

Mom: “Yes?”

Kyle: “I'm going out.”

Mom: “Oh. Where're you going?”

Kyle: “Kenosha.”

Mom: “Okay. What's going on up there?”

Kyle: “People are rioting after a recent police shooting. I thought I'd grab my AR-15 and assist in bringing law and order to a troubled community and in so doing, protect America.”

Mom: “Okay, honey. You know where it is?”

Kyle: “No.”

Mom: “That's because you never put it back where it belongs. Can you start to work on that?”

Kyle: (sighs) “Yeeesssss.”

Mom: “It's in the hall closet. You have ammunition?”

Kyle: (pause) “No.”

Mom: (sighs) “How old are you?”

Kyle: (exasperatedly) “Moommm...”

Mom: “There's a new carton of shells on the workbench in the garage. You know where that is?”

(Kyle sighs)

A door slams.

Mom: (under her breath) “The world was gonna end if he didn't get that dad-gum gun for Christmas. And now that he has it, he doesn't know where it is half the time. Lord almighty.”

A door opens and closes. Kyle re-enters the room.

Kyle: “Okay, mom. I'm going.”

Mom: “Okay, honey. You all set?”

Kyle: “Locked and loaded.”

Mom: “Be careful! Home by midnight!”

Kyle: (resignedly) “Okay.”

 

And so it was that seventeen year-old Kyle Rittenhouse set out and made the drive from Antioch, Illinois to Kenosha, Wisconsin. Stuffed with right-wing propaganda, young Rittenhouse (the very definition of a cop wanna-be) was going to patrol the streets of Kenosha just like a real, live cop.

Except he wasn't one.

If you're keeping score at home, Rittenhouse was prohibited from possessing a firearm in the state of Wisconsin, much less parading down the street with one in an urban fire zone. In the most unassailable example of white privilege I can imagine, Rittenhouse was reportedly welcomed by the law enforcement on-site.

Can you imagine had he been Black?

Strolling through that socioeconomic divide, Rittenhouse attracted the consternation of various onlookers. Despite Rittenhouse's claims that he was there in a quote-unquote medical capacity, the sight of a white guy carrying an assault rifle sent an unmistakable message to those around him.

Can you say vigilante?

As they always do, the presence of a gun exacerbated the situation. Inflamed it. Escalated it. If you're even a moderately-literate person, you know none of those words are good things in the middle of an already-volatile civic uprising.

Rightly concerned that Rittenhouse was there to administer right-wing justice, several onlookers attempted to take his gun away. Rittenhouse reacted to this self-created drama by killing two of them.

Naturally, he claimed self-defense.

“They were trying to take away my assault rifle which had no business being there in the first place!” remains the fullest, most-complete version of his would-be testimony.

With conspiracy and pre-meditation difficult to prove, I'm hoping Rittenhouse gets hit with two counts of second-degree murder. Whatever pity I feel for him is in having a mom as clueless as she was spineless, and existing in a void of sound parental guidance. 

Consequently, he fell prey to propaganda that led him to believe he could achieve the status he craved by possessing a gun. Guess you know better now, don't you Kyle? And if you don't—all the more reason to keep you behind bars for a long, long time.

You took two things that night you can't ever give back.

But that really isn't important, is it? What's really important is that a gun could be put into your hands—above all else. Because if one couldn't, we would be a lawless, heathen civilization at the mercy of bad guys with guns. (Not to mention naive, not-so-bright guys that think they're cops.)

Yeah. 

God bless America.

 

Election Day

I have mostly resisted writing about politics these past months because I can't handle it. Not only have Republicans stymied Democrats (whose inexplicable razor-thin margins in the House and Senate make them vulnerable), they have benefited from a rogue, opportunist senator from West Virginia.

(Gosh, Joe. So relived the nation can suffer the effects of climate change so that the good citizens of West Virginia may remain employed. The greatest good for the greatest number, right?)

So yeah, the Republicans are winning the battle. Mitch McConnell, with an healthy assist from Manchin, has effectively blocked Biden's forward-thinking legislation addressing our nation's badly-neglected infrastructure, climate change and so much else.

Yay!

So I resist clawing my eyes out by ignoring it. By watching the local WNBA franchise take a title. By driving Porsche 911s on a race track. By taking a two-week road trip I can't afford.

But reality is like having kids. It's always there. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. There are no off days. And our current generation of Americans, not exactly suited to enduring things like COVID lockdowns and shortages and inflation, are angry and impatient. They want it to go away.

As do I.

But instead of reacting, we need to understand. Yes, the resumption of the normal we crave has been very slow in coming. But ask yourself why. Is it Joe Biden and his agenda or Republican resistance?

Again, Republicans have resisted virtually every public health measure intended to curb the COVID virus and eventually eliminate it. By delaying its containment and preventing its elimination, how is our economy ever to recover? How are we ever to resume our normal?

But Republicans don't really want our economy to recover. Not with a Democrat in the White House, anyway. They will stop at nothing to make Biden look weak, ineffective and clueless. And if you and yours suffer, well too fucking bad.

Sadly, many of the folks participating in polls that measure Biden's approval rating don't seem to realize this. In their ignorant, short-sighted opinion, Biden is screwing up and that's all there is to it.

He isn't struggling with in-house DINOS or wafer-thin majorities or a minority Speaker of the House eager to drive the car off the cliff to prove to his former high-school classmates that all these years later, he is a bad ass.

Can I be prom king? Will you invite me to your parties? Can I eat lunch with the cool kids?

Like his Democratic predecessor, Biden inherited a steaming heap of shit from the candidate he defeated. President forty-five did little but cultivate a bromance with Kim Jong-un and give billionaires and their corporations a big, giant tax cut.

It couldn't be more-obvious Biden has been tasked with a bit more.

So before we assign him and his party a single star on Yelp, can we please make the effort to appreciate the context? I'm aware the cost is our Instagram and YouTube time, but it might be really, really worthwhile going forward.

With solid Democratic majorities, we can at last begin to move forward. 

Vote Democratic, my friends. What's left of your futures depends on it.