Happy?

I call them Justinites. Have since spring. They're the folk who have alternately clamored, begged, whined and demanded that Justin Fields start as quarterback for the Chicago Bears since the day he was drafted.

They are the folk who ran roughshod over the considered acquisition of respected veteran quarterback Andy Dalton, treating him like sewage in the process.

What they lack in things like perspective and understanding they make up for in volume and persistence. Without a shred of evidence to back their perspective, they relentlessly push their witless agenda.

They remind me of the folk who back a certain ex-president: noisy and stupid.

This shouldn't be construed as a rip in any way, shape or form of Justin Fields. Hell, I feel sorry for the guy. He's a young man forced to shoulder the unconsidered expectations of a delusional and desperate fanbase thirsting for a messiah.

And Fields is their mirage. A mirage of NFL contention and Super Bowl trophies.

Amidst their delusions, the Justinites ignore the realities of the unproven coach. The pathetic offensive line. And this weird sense of voodoo that hovers over the team and prevents them from ever enjoying a functional offense.

Building a football team is tough. I get it. Whereas other major sports field teams ranging from five to nine players, football has eleven—just on offense. There's another eleven on defense. Plus kickers. And holders. And punt returners and kick-off returners and special teams and....

That's a lot of personnel to assemble. And manage. Contracts to juggle. And beyond that, one has to make sure they're fairly compatible, healthy and, of course, talented. What's more, ideally the offense and the defense are being constructed simultaneously.

Whew. Can I take a break now?

Via Dalton's banged-up knee, the Justinites got their wish yesterday. Their savior would start an NFL game. Can we just skip the rest of the season and anoint the Bears as Super Bowl champions please?

There were just a few problems. The offensive line still sucked. (You saw Myles Garrett and Jadeveon Clowney objectify the Bears' line and turn them into turnstiles, right?)

And Matt Nagy was still calling plays. Hired as an offensive whiz kid, he continually bungled the play-calling and failed to make any useful adjustments, piloting this creaking, wheezing car into a swamp of ineptness.

Overlooked in the carnage is that young Fields, effectively playing behind a sheet of Kleenex, wasn't injured in any of the nine sacks he endured.

(It's a minor miracle, really.)

He may one day be a fine NFL quarterback. Fine as in Ryan Tannehill or fine as in Patrick Mahomes. No one knows for sure.

What is known is that the Bears aren't getting any better. Yeah, they've had some bad luck. But gifted with a fourth season as coach, it's becoming increasingly clear Nagy is merely the Bears' latest example of the Peter Principle.

And you Justinites? A quarterback does not a team make. 

 

A Peek at the NFL Post-Season

This is a satisfying end to the NFL season. Best of all, there isn't a team from Los Angeles in serious contention for a title. I mean, watching the Lakers and the Dodgers clinch within sixteen days of each other was a bit much.

Yeah, the Rams are in the playoffs. But despite a fine defense, no one expects them to do much—if any—damage.

Far more heartening are the returns of the Cleveland Browns and the Buffalo Bills to the post-season.

As a Cub fan, I can relate mightily with Clevelanders and their sports-based suffering. And both editions of the Browns have contributed more than their fair share to that suffering.

Who can forget the 1987 and 1988 AFC Championship games? Or the heroic 1981 effort in the Divisional round against the then-Oakland Raiders, played in four-degree temperatures with wind chills of twenty-below?

Or the ignomy of Red Right 88?

Do I dare remind all concerned the Browns lost these three games by a total of ten points? Perhaps not.

The Browns declined not long after those consecutive championship games and a very messy relocation to Baltimore followed after the 1995 season.

The expansion Browns have suffered (there's that word again) a difficult childhood. With just two random winning seasons in their first twenty-one, weary Clevelanders have again had their faith tested.

And just as the forlorn franchise has finally bundled a functional front office, strong coaching and the on-field talent to win, they get smacked by COVID-19. It's not hard to imagine the city's sports fans beseeching an uncaring God, arms extended and palms turned up in supplication, with “What did we ever do?”

It takes a heartless soul, indeed, to root against them.

Which brings me to the Buffalo Bills.

I never had any feelings for them one way or another until they made it to four consecutive Super Bowls in the early-nineties—and lost all four.

I was old-enough to appreciate the special kind of grit it took to return to the stage where they'd repeatedly lost. And when I learned via an ESPN documentary the city had turned out and cheered kicker Scott Norwood (he of the 'wide right' infamy), I recognized Buffalo and its fans as people with very big hearts.

Like their soulmates in Cleveland, Bills fans have suffered ever since. Rebuilds have come and gone with the only common denominator being they failed to bear fruit. (The Bills haven't won a playoff game in a quarter-century.)

But a winning combination of front office executives, coaches and players has finally been assembled, and the Bills are surging and represent a serious threat to virtually every other team in the AFC.

In fact, given the just-good-enough play of the defending-champion Kansas City Chiefs over the second half of the season, I would only be mildly surprised to see them defeated by Buffalo at some point.

The good news for fans of my hometown Chicago Bears is that tomorrow afternoon's game versus the New Orleans Saints will be the final game of the season.

This awkward assemblage of talent sputtered and lurched through another season, routinely failing to realize expectations heightened by their performance in 2018. It should be clear to all concerned by now that season was an aberration, not a trend.

In its wake, warmed-over kudos to GM Ryan Pace and head coach Matt Nagy.

Pace for mostly having done a pretty solid job on draft day. The primary exception being the selection of Mitchell Trubisky with the second-pick in the 2017 draft—after surrendering draft picks to move up a spot and paying a king's ransom to sign a career back-up QB.

In a league dominated by quarterback play, Pace whiffed spectacularly on the biggest pick of his career. Kindly ignore that two young quarterbacks by the name of Patrick Mahomes and Deshaun Watson were also on the board.

Historically, it's a given that the Bears screw-up at quarterback. It's practically congenital. But choosing Trubisky over Mahomes and Watson was a fatal error. One magnified both by a promising defense and the thin talent surrounding him on 'O'.

Nagy was hired from the Chiefs as an offense-oriented whiz-kid. One able to create dynamic squads capable of lighting up the scoreboard in an era where offense clearly dominates.

Granted, he hasn't been given much to work with. But I am struck by the fact the Bears' offense was on life-support until Nagy handed play-calling duties off to offensive coordinator Bill Lazor.

While that brief resurgence was against the 98-pound weaklings of the NFL, it was something.

You have to ask yourself: if Nagy failed at what was reputedly his strength, what about the areas that weren't?

To his credit, he kept the team focused and upbeat. But that only goes so far. And with the Bears obvious strength (defense) seemingly in a premature decline, this is a franchise with many, many questions to answer.

I distinctly remember as the twentieth anniversary of the Bears' 1963 championship was approaching, the intensity of the widespread irritation at how the Bears had failed to mount even a single credible threat in the ensuing years.

With the twentieth anniversary of their 1985 championship now fifteen-years old, you have to wonder what the future holds.

It may only be a matter of time before empty seats at Soldier Field aren't the byproduct of a pandemic.

 

Slick Move, Johnny Football!

I gotta hand it to you, Johnny. You're sly like a fox, aren't you?

You played the dumb-ass ADHD concussion-addled party boy to perfection. And now you don't have to play for the Cleveland Browns no more.

Bonus points for putting the onus of your departure on your boss, and shedding it like you once did defenders at Texas A&M.

And speaking of Texas, where are you headed for next?

Were I a gambling man, I'd wager you have your sights locked on the Dallas Cowboys and their thirty-five year-old quarterback, Tony Romo, he of the brittle and underachieving collarbones.

Yeah, you and Jerry Jones would make a helluva pair. He never met a high profile athlete he didn't offer a contract to, and you'd get to return to your adoring fans in Texas. 

That's some kinda win-win, huh?

Granted, I might have this all wrong. But this feels as accidental as sunrise.