I know the truth. I'm a realistic person. Rarely will you find me in a delusional state. But last night, while watching the Bears game, I found myself acting (reacting) with such emotional fervor you would've thought it was a playoff game.
Granted, it sort of was: If the Bears want any sort of chance of winning their division they can ill afford to lose any more games. But the reality is even if they do manage to pull a playoff berth out of their frozen, chapped asses they don't stand a chance against some of these contending teams in the NFL.
But there I was, standing, grunting, yelling. (Kyle Orton, I want to thwack you with a rolled up newspaper, dammit.) They won. In overtime. Barely.
You know, in this gigantic world of sports, there are only two teams I care about: Both from Chicago, both turning my hair gray. Technically, I am no longer a resident of the state of Illinois and no longer have any geographic obligations to these two teams. I'm sure the Redskins would welcome me with open arms. And the Nats have a wonderful new ballpark... But my love is unconditional unfortunately. My heart belongs to the Bears and the Cubs. For love, I shall suffer.
And suffer I do. Lynette can testify to that. She does her best to console me.
*Yes, I know it's just a game blah blah blah, but to me the Bears represent home. The Bears represent my childhood. It represents my dad. Every time I get an opportunity to watch the Bears, I get a little of that back.
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