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?

Mourning Mr. Hibbert

You've probably heard by now of the death of Toots Hibbert, lead vocalist of the seminal reggae band Toots & the Maytals. The Maytals weren't the most-famous or most-lauded reggae artists, but they were instrumental in getting reggae known beyond the confines of Jamaica.

As was the case in the early-to-mid-seventies, reggae spread first to England, or more specifically, London, owing to its large Jamaican population. The indelible material the Maytals were recording at the time was too good to stay bottled up within in a single community and soon the word was out: you needed to hear the Maytals. Now.

“Funky Kingston”, “Pomp and Pride”, “Time Tough”, “Pressure Drop” and amazing covers of the Kingmen's “Louie Louie” and John Denver's “County Roads” brought universal acclaim to Mr. Hibbert and his band. It wasn't long before a reconstructed version of Funky Kingston featuring that material was released on Island Records.

Reggae was white hot, driven by the first three Wailers' LPs, the soundtrack to The Harder They Come and, of course, Funky Kingston.

Those were glorious days.

One of the most tragic moments of my youth was missing the Who's 1975 appearances in Chicago. Not only because the first of their two dates actually featured an encore, but because they had handpicked Toots & the Maytals to open.

Predictably, the Maytals were not well-received. (I wonder how many rock fans of the day realized how narrow-minded their taste in music would have appeared to their heroes? It's a wonder more musicians didn't rail at their fan's suffocating expectations.)

At any rate, the Maytals continued to record, if not always with the stunning results found on Kingston. But their output through the nineteen-eighties was always worth hearing, and live they remained a unit capable of inducing joy and wonder.

I was fortunate to see the Maytals twice on their tour to support Knock Out!, and not even a Rolling Stones show three days later could dim the memory of that November, 1981 performance.

And another show the following April was just as good.

Despite the often political orientation of their material, Hibbert performed with warmth and radiated good vibes. He was authentic, passionate and obviously enjoyed his craft.

This openness was reflected in the fact that the Maytals never followed the strict Rastafarian orthodoxy of, say, a Bob Marley. The Maytals from day one embraced their gospel and rhythm and blues influences to the point where Mr. Hibbert recorded an album of R&B chestnuts in 1988. 

Amidst the embarrassment of reggaefied riches available in the mid-seventies, the Maytals were the first reggae band I embraced. And they remained my favorite. Even as the name 'Marley' became a brand-name for an entire genre of music, too often crowding out all else.

The Maytals' recordings always lifted me, and hearing Hibbert sing was like hearing from an old friend.

That voice is still now. And life just got a little more grim because of it.