Chicago Bears: Bears-Patriots trip down misery lane

At least people had stopped believing in “Bear Weather” by this point. Any moron who still did was disabused of that notion quickly.

It was the kind of day you’d dream about as a kid. Blizzard, December, snow-covered field, and two first-place teams doing battle at 3 o’clock as the main game. It was kind of storybook. Until the teams took the field, that was.

The Patriots piled up 26 points in the second quarter, and 34 in the first half. The Bears managed two first downs and three turnovers in the same half. It was as thorough as an ass-kicking as could imagine.

And it was personal. This was and is the last football game I  have ever attended.

I should have known. Everyone tried to warn me. My older brother especially, who had sat through his own Patriots-Bears hellscape. But a promise was a promise, or so I thought. I told a friend I would go. I still wonder how we remain so.

Making it worse, one friend in the group lost his ticket not 20 feet from the gate in the wind. The father of the first friend refused to leave the concourse. His son spent the first half trying to solve the problem of the other dope whose ticket blew away.

So not only was I sitting in a blizzard with a pint of Jameson i snuck in watching the Bears get thrashed, but I was doing it sitting alone in a blizzard watching the Bears get thrashed. I can’t think of a better metaphor. I can’t tell if it was an experiment on me or a modern art installation. Either way, I headed for the train at halftime.

Did I mention that morning, in order to prepare, I ended up drinking Jameson and orange juice because it was all in the house? Mistakes were made. Ones I’ll never get back.