Matthew, be wary.
Kirk, they are scary,
this pass rushing pair.
Quinn off your left flank,
Mack off the right.
“The roni cup, also known as “cup and char” pepperoni, has long been a hallmark of pizza in Buffalo…”
by J. Hughes
While you’re watching Chicago play offense (I think),
I’ll be in Buffalo, at the Old Pink.
While the quarterbacks (plural) are doing their thing
I’ll be in Buffalo, having a wing.
You’ll get to see defense, Chicago does that,
But I’ll be in Buffalo, drinkin’ Labatt.
Maybe you’ll watch from your fav-o-rite bar?
I’ll be in Buffalo, for the cup and the char.
What happens from here, not sure anyone cares.
The title won’t be ours, it will always be theirs.
I’ll still be in Buffalo,
Yes even in Buffalo,
I’ll be in Buffalo, watching the Bears.
We come to November,
we come to the cold.
And still we remember,
predictions too bold.
We all put our trust
in a fella called Mitch
But the QB’s a bust,
And the O’s in a ditch.
Yet Sunday proposes
a chance to get square.
Where Heston played Moses,
And Caan played a Bear.
December’s before us
With games left to play
The league won’t ignore us
if we win in L.A.
by J. Hughes
As a child, I was lost at the zoo,
and found myself looking into the sad eyes of an old, lady lion.
I was not afraid of the lion, but of being lost. Of being somewhere unknown.
She seemed to know that fear, the lion.
As if she had once been somewhere she didn’t belong, somewhere she didn’t know.
Her eyes had once been filled with those same tears that now filled mine.
Maybe she was still there.
Maybe that’s why her eyes remained sad.
David Montgomery takes the pressure of Mitch Trubisky for a week and the Bears finally get back in the win column. (This is the only way the Bears win. Trubisky isn’t beating anyone.)
Chicago Bears 24, Detroit Lions 18
He chose to believe,
He chose to dream,
of feeling what those other folks feel.
Of tears dripping into his cold pint glass.
Of knowing, contented arms around his shoulders.
Of a parade.
But now he’s just another patron in Harry Hope’s Saloon,
where the poet said “the lie of the pipe dream is what gives life to the whole misbegotten
mad lot of us, drunk or sober”.
He chose to believe in the lie.
He chose to dream the dream of the misbegotten lot.
And he would surely choose both again.
Chicago Bears 20, Los Angeles Chargers 19
(Touchdowns: Tarik Cohen punt return, Leonard Floyd pick-six.)
They named the prize Lombardi.
A seemingly unreachable reminder of treasure not discovered and glory achieved so often in a nearby kingdom.
Oh, to win it all.
To see Soldier Field’s anguished sod coated with confetti not earned on a different highway in another part of town.
To hear echoes of Hallelujah dance off frozen slabs of concrete.
To see the memory of former fame politely shuffled further back in the stacks.
I remember being trapped in a New York City elevator, caught between the first and second floors because I was too lazy to take the stairs.
Six hours before the Super Bowl.
I’ll never get out of here.
I’m going to miss it.
Oh, to feel that way again.
The complete misery of everything on the line.