A friend from northern California phoned to chortle in advance about the coming game between his ruthlessly powerful 49ers and our hopelessly outclassed Bears.
“It almost seems wrong to let them play,” he laughed, “when the outcome cannot be in doubt. It might be the most one-sided thrashing in history.”
He was surprised when I said: “Ah, but from a Chicagoan’s perspective, that is what makes it such a great game.”
“What, do you like being crushed?” he asked.
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“Not at all, but since every alleged expert in America predicts our resounding defeat, we have no great or even mild expectations. Therefore, we will be more relaxed and serene than we ever have been for a big playoff game. If we lose, so what? We were expected to lose. Ah, but if we should win. . . .”
Sounding incredulous, he said: “If you . . . what?”
“Win. You know, score more points, that sort of thing.”
He laughed wildly, then said: “You don’t actually think the Bears have even a prayer, the slightest hope, the most unrealistic. . . .”
I cut in and said: “I have done some research and found fascinating data. Do you want to hear about it?”
He laughed again. “Sure, data, give me your data.”
So I did. My research shows that for every 290-pound mass of muscle that the 49ers have, the Bears have a 290-pound mass of muscle.
For every 49er with a 22-inch neck and melon-sized biceps, the Bears have someone with a 22-inch neck and melon-sized biceps.
And for every 49er who is eager to crash headfirst into a brick wall, there is a Bear equally eager to gallop on a suicide mission.
In other words, while these Bears are unknowns, they are not Dorothy’s cute little Munchkin friends. They are very large, strong and mean professional football players, as capable as any at knocking people down, twisting spinal discs, crushing cartilage, popping tendons and other subtleties of the sport. And with so many large people bashing each other, anything is possible.
And that’s what makes this so enjoyable for Chicagoans. Never before has a Chicago team had the potential to inflict this much genuine heartache, pain and suffering on so many.
Think of it. Of all the major cities in the United States, which one is the most sensitive, delicate, self-absorbed and least equipped to deal with great emotional trauma?
Detroit, a city of arsonists? New York, where they take pride in their suffering? New Orleans, which laughs off any grief by eating another big, spicy insect? Meat-chomping Chicago, macho Dallas or shockproof L.A.?
No, by any measure of sensitivity, San Francisco stands alone.
Just think back to when Mike Ditka tossed a wad of chewing gum at a taunting 49ers fan.
In Cleveland, the fan would have happily rechewed the gum and then had it mounted on the back bar of his favorite tavern, right there with the bowling trophies.
But the way unnerved San Franciscans shrieked, you would have thought Ditka had flung a live grenade. They howled that he was a big brute, a thug, a terribly crude and uncivilized beast of a fellow who probably drank red wine with fish and beer with his souffle. Which was and is true. That’s why Chicagoans find him lovable.
A California prosecutor actually looked into the possibility of bringing charges against Ditka for assault with Juicy Fruit or some such crime against humanity.
And to this day, they still talk about Ditka’s gum with the grimness of oldtime Londoners recalling the German buzz bombs of World War II.
As one San Francisco commentator put it: “Thank goodness it wasn’t chewing tobacco. Not only would his victims have been emotionally scarred for life but the dry cleaners would never get the stains out.”
So if these Bears can pull off what we’re told is the impossible, although it really isn’t, the melancholia that will settle on San Francisco will be thicker than any fog.
When I finished outlining this happy scenario, my California friend said: “You don’t care about the game. You just take pleasure in someone else’s misfortune.”
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Of course. That’s half of what winning is all about.
“Well, it won’t happen,” he said. “You are outmatched, outclassed and will be outplayed.”
Maybe, until the fat lady sings, it isn’t over. And in San Francisco, he has yet to sing.