And so it has come to pass that in the 75th year of the most rugged rivalry in professional football, the big-city bullies are national nosewipes of the Titletown Packers.
They are no more than demographic props, TV tidbits, laundry lint, table condiments, kitty litter, afterthoughts, tackling dummies, and very little of those against the run.
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They are, you know, Da Bears.
Well, somebody had to oppose the Packers in their Monday night reward for winning the Super Bowl, and the Bears are used to it. The Bears could find Lambeau Field with their eyes closed, and have been suspected of playing that way lately.
“Monday Night Football,” my foot. This is Monday Night Fodder.
Get the Bears on early, and only once, before they really begin to stink. Ought to be worth a quarter and a half of suspense.
Just in case, have the video library ready to roll.
Easy sell, big audience, good graphics. All that history, George Halas’ fedora, Vince Lombardi’s gap teeth, William Perry’s touchdown, Don Majkowski’s illegal forward pass, the Halloween monsoon. They could play this game from film clips alone and it would be better than anything that is likely to happen live.
When in doubt, find a feud, and this is a longer running quarrel than boxers or briefs.
Sure, the Packers could have been rematched with the Patriots, and they will later, but that game will require actual football to be played, mean something in the big picture, serve as prologue to the playoffs.
In this one, nostalgia stands in for doubt, rivalry replaces wonder. And, by the way, who is the quarterback for the Bears again?
Not that anyone will notice. Erik Kramer. Rick Mirer. Curly. Shemp. Pick a stooge.
Throw an interception, muff a handoff, fall underneath Reggie White, hurry to the punter. The job of the Bears’ quarterback is to get Brett Favre on the field as soon and as often as possible.
I mean, does Cuba Gooding Jr. keep Tom Cruise off screen?
This is Green Bay’s night, and there are larger things to be decided than whether Rashaan Salaam has four thumbs or five, if Curtis Conway will be missed or secretly grateful, if Bryan Cox can use his tongue for good, like wrapping it around a ball carrier for a change.
These are concerns limited to the ever-diminishing world of the post-Ditka Bears, a team so without image that it answers to “Hey, you.” The head coach accepts all mail marked “Occupant.” The Packers get the cereal box, the Bears get the milk carton.
Or, to put it another way, the Bears may have Chicago, but the Packers once again have the world.
On the night when the devoted Cheeseheads finally get to applaud their returning heroes in person, a little gratitude might be saved for Dave Wannstedt, whose tenure as the Bears’ coach has accompanied the rise of the Packers, maybe only a coincidence but nonetheless worthy of a little harmless appreciation.
The Bears have lost six in a row to the Packers, and seven of eight during the Wannstedt interlude. This would be insignificant except that it was the Bears that the Packers had to get past to get the chance at the Cowboys and 49ers.
The Bears’ modest contribution to the return of the Packers to glory has been to lie down in a large enough pile for Green Bay to see over the top.
And now the Bears have been left behind like broken footstools. Whatever happens next has nothing to do with the Bears, only with the Packers.
The world wants to know. Are the Packers a dynasty or a delusion? Is Favre the new Troy Aikman or the old Terry Bradshaw? Does Gilbert Brown outweigh Australia? How many hairnets does it take to make a summer sausage?
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Answers at 8.