And as the final drop of Old Style beer left the rusty tap from whence it came at Alary’s bar in downtown Saint Paul, Minnesota, a football delivered from the foot of Cody Parkey, clanged against a field goal post for the second time and then fell to the abysmally contaminated Chicago ground from whence it began its flight.
Although the game was over, as well as the 2018-2019 for the Chicago Bears, quarterback Mitch Trubisky still looked on to the field goal as if the ball would magically levitate itself through the uprights to reverse the game’s outcome.
Dumbfound by the loss, Trubisky harkened back to his initial visit to the Chi, making an appearance at a Chicago Bulls basketball game just after he was drafted by the Bears. Upon that visit, he was booed tremendously by the fans from the bottom of their diaphragms, as hard as they could, and as long as their voices could sustain. They wanted him to know, that like the Vikings and anything representing honor, he was not welcome, and never would be in the dusty, disheveled empire of Illinois. And at this moment, staring at the uprights, Trubisky understood why they booed him: For he attempted to make it right again, and they knew he sought to bring honor to a city without any.
Somewhere, upon a deep dark sunless federal prison cell, Rob Blagojevich murmured, “Look away, boy. Look away, and run to Detroit as fast as you can.”
Alas, the words never reached Trubisky, as he paralytically freeze-stared at the uprights. Hours passed, Soldier Field was now empty. The football terrain cleared, seats only attended with cold, and Parkey having now built a makeshift raft to sail across Lake Michigan, Trubisky now risked hypothermia. Had he spent any more time outside before a gust of wind woke him up, poetically the last thing to freeze on him would have been his adolescent-like, Paul-Pierce, beard that took him all season to grow. And in a strange fashion, the freezing all began with Cody Parkey.
How now, Trubisky snapped from his daze with the sight of a silhouette that formed beneath the winter air. The mysterious silhouette turned to a figure, but still too far away to make out who, or what, it was. The figure seemed to be donning a parka, Bears uniform and all, dressed for game day as if waiting on the sidelines to be called in on the next play… as well as brandishing a tall boy of Old Style. Trubisky covered his mouth and nose at the slight scent of the creature that had just appeared before him.
“Whoa, alas! Who goes there before my better senses?” Trubisky announced.
“Better senses? The boy disillusions himself”, vaunted the figure.
The scent now increasing in heartiness almost repulsing Trubisky to a backstep. Eyes now stinging from the stench of the ghost before him, Trubisky demanded an answer, “I say! Who be you on my field?”
The figure, now closer and more fragrant than ever, popped the tab on the tallboy of Old Style and began to imbibe. Just when it appeared it was finished with the can, it held steady in the long dastardly pull of beer even the drunkest man dare not sip. After finishing the tallboy, the phantasm crushed the can with ease and pulled a glass container from his coat. Trubisky’s eyes grew. Although the figure presented a scent beyond the fragrance of the Cleveland Zoo, Trubisky never wished upon his worst enemies what the figure now held… a Costco size bottle of Jeppson’s Malört.
“Old Spirit detain thyself! Although a season hath ended, thou hath no right to end morality in it of itself!” Trubisky shrieked as he reached to knock the bottle from the figure’s hand.
The figure, at 2015-Jordy-Nelson speed, vamped from Trubisky’s hands and teleported at 2014-Jordy-Nelson speed to the other side of him.
“Rest, boy, for this town changes anyman. Ask Congressman Jesse Jackson Jr. and Representative Aaron Schock. The air here compounds upon thy better judgement, just as it has your eyes.” explained the figure.
“What of Parkey, dammit! Would you blame the air on his befouled kick?” said Trubisky.
“nay”, whispered the figure. “Blame the hand of Treyvan Hester, Eagle of Philadelphia. He blocked the damned kick, you detestable-bearded boy. Have you paid any attention to anything? You hired a 150 million dollar defensive end, and rested your shabby laurels on ill-fitted special teams… Although the city will tantrum and pout of a lone kicker, Cody Parkey is not to blame.
Alas, child… they couldn’t even make it with Alshon and Brandon, and now you bicker of kickers.
All I’ve given this town…
asked of it…
demanded greatness of it…
…all to be caught in its sullied attempts of delivering victory upon a town that ultimately grimaces at goodness.
Christ, man. A 150 million dollar defensive end, and what of Robbie Gould?” the figure conceded.
Now, opening the bottle, and pulling back against his dark complexion, Trubisky paid witness to a being consume an entire bottle of Jeppson’s Malört… in person.
As the bottle thinned, Trubisky’s small mind racked of who the ghostly figure could be. Although Mitch be a big man of many physical talents, his left-brain troubled in processing logic. Suddenly, already as obvious as day to the average human, Trubisky found the answer. His eyes widened. He removed his helmet, and as the facemask lifted before his eyes, the figure was gone.”
“CUTLER!” he screamed into the night. “JAY CUTLERRRRRR!”, he curdled like white-collar crime upon the northside of Chicago.
The sound echoed off the tainted pestilent walls of Soldier Field.
“welcome to the offseason, boy. Welcome… to the… offseasssssooonnnnn”, echoed the faint whisper of the voice of the figure now vanished into thin, cold air.
Distraught more than ever, Trubisky turned his sight round and round the stadium, in hopes of catching sight of the figure that once stood before him. Revolving about like a child lost in the rain, he almost imagined his efforts would maybe attain some unearthed wisdom of George Halas. The boy was lost… as he was the entire season, masked by an ungodly defense. And so her turned… and he turned.. and turned…