The Bears are doing great and all but…

I can’t help but to think in the back of my mind - Fuck Soldier Field. It used to be where anyone could scrounge up enough cash to see a game. 60 bucks got you into the parthenon, even if the Bears got stomped. Even if you couldn’t pony up the 60 bucks, you could hang out on the lakefront and cheer for the losing franchise from the outskirts of the stadium while grilling brats and chugging Blatz.

These days, the very sight of Soldier Field makes me want to vomit. Sprawling steel skyboxes house pencil pushing assholes who are using the game to butter up clients for their multi million dollar deals. Then they cut out early and drive back up to their 2 million dollar home in Winetka while I’m sitting at home watching the goddamn game on TV because they’re charging 150-300 bucks JUST TO PARK YOUR GODDAMN CAR IN THE LOT. The thing I loved about the Bears is that it’s a blue-collar team in a blue-collar city.

You’re working 14 hour days at a rendering plant, hiding the fact you have a hernia because you need the hours, coming home to your brick walkup in Calumet City and find your wife sobbing because your son’s been carted to Joliet for soliciting sex and your daughter is nowhere to be seen. She’s off with her 32 year old boyfriend in Gary, IN and you haven’t seen her in 3 weeks. Your mother’s life insurance policy has lapsed because she can’t keep up the payments cause your old man kicked off years ago due to congenital heart disease (somethin else you’ve got ta look forward to). You’ve been trying to keep up the payments but your old lady needed 5 grand for her beauty school degree that she ain’t doing shit with now. Your buddy got transfered to a better paying job downstate at the Morton plant. Your glad he’s doing well for his own, but you can’t help but think, “that asshole probably thinks he’s better than me now.” You dip into your liquor stash, only to find out your son lifted all of it to pawn for his smack habit. As if the two seeds of your fuckin’ loins ain’t bad enough, your wife has a bun in the oven for number three. In bed, she’s colder than your living room (cause she missed the heating bill), so you’re figuring the kid ain’t yours. But don’t have the guts to call her out on it quite yet. The incinerator they just put up next door fucks with your reception, so there ain’t shit coming in on your TV no matter how long you fuck with the rabbit ears. Picking up the paper, you read that good ole Harry Washington pulled the plug on the minimum wage cap raise. Not to mention the zoning laws grinding the gears of the plant you work, trying to move it outta town cause the same rich fucks in Hammond that are shooting their noses up on you on the red line are complaining about the smell of the plant. You figure it’s only a matter of time before they follow suite of the Healy plant, pack it up, and head to Detroit. You jump back in your 77 Nissan Stanza and head up route 41 to the game and forget about your failed existence because Walter Payton’s about the break the record for rushing yards carried and (even though McMahon has a limper wrist than your son) your team is on their way to the Super Bowl.

Now times are just as tough, and the Bears are showing the moxie somewhat close to what they did 20 years ago. But it ain’t the same. Soldier Field ain’t the same. Fuck that stadium.