Neal Pollack

So I hit the books harder than Ray Nitschke. Dad’d find me sitting at the kitchen table at 2:00 in the morning and pat my head. When he saw my report cards he’d hit me so hard on the shoulder I'’d bruise; we’d smile at each other while I tried to rub away the pain and not squirt a tear. I wanted to be tough. I kept at it through high school and as I pursued my business degree at Marquette University. That’s where I met Natalie, who got me with the blond patch in her dark-brown hair and her ability to talk for hours about something called “branding.” She needed less sleep than I did. A consulting business hired me after graduation and she went to work for a cheese company. Not long after that we went for our MBAs at Kellogg. She went to one of the world’s biggest packaged-goods companies, I went to a well-known consulting firm with offices in every major city around the globe. She now spent her every waking hour trying to give personalities to frozen foods; I was the reason my boss issued a no-poaching order to the partners. Nat was looking on the Web for homes in Winnetka.

I can say without being at all reductionist or overly schematic that my dad’s words that dismal morning set me on the path I took. But I couldn'’t say those words to Andy. My dad was a guy who carried beer barrels under his arm at block parties. I was a guy who got knocked out the only two times he ever suited up.

Andy’s head bounced when we hit the toll both speed bump. As I fished some change out of my pocket, I saw an empty toll gate. I hit the gas.

In the mirror, Andy was still looking out the window. He had missed the best part—Majikowski throwing what looked like a touchdown pass and the place going crazy. Then the flag; Majikowski was over the line of scrimmage when he threw it. This time the fans howled. As if to soothe their rage, the top ref went to his tape player to review the play. For nearly five minutes.

“Is Parkinson done looking at the tape?” I knew the answer.

“Yes.”

I slowed down to drop the coins in the change basket. The gate lifted. I looked at the clock, counted to five, and started by imitating the ref: “Upon further review

” And then I repeated the roar that had filled the bar before Parkinson could explain himself: “THE BEARS STILL SUCK!” I could see the look on Bears kicker Kevin Butler’s face. Ditka’s face so red I'’d hoped the heart attack would hit him then. After four years of losing to the Bears, the Packers pulled one out. After watching the 1985 Bears go to the Super Bowl, the Packers had humbled them. It was all the sweeter because of the way the Bears showed their loser mentality: In later team guides, an asterisk hung over the score. “Instant replay game.” The game they could never admit they lost.

“Can we stop at Wendy’s?”

“Sure.”

The lot was a third full. I spotted marks of road-tripping Bears fans. A weathered flag mounted on a window of a minivan. A dozen bumper stickers seemingly holding together the disintegrating rear bumper of an Aspire. A Bears helmet in the back window of an Audi. I grabbed my hat from the passenger seat.

“All right, let’s put our gear on. Got to hold our heads high, win or lose, right? Otherwise, we might as well be Bears fans.”

I turned to Andy. He stared back at me. He made a face and put his hat on.

Listening to Andy order three double burgers with bacon, I wondered if he didn'’t have a growth spurt ahead of him. He asked for barbecue sauce for his fries. Nat never let him eat like this even though he was bony. But after the loss and knowing what tomorrow would bring, I wasn'’t going to stop him. Maybe Nat wouldn'’t have either.

We passed a family with two boys younger than Andy as we looked for a place to sit. All of them were wearing growling Bears sweaters. The older boy smirked at us. The minivan, I figured. I didn'’t look around for the drivers of the Audi or the Aspire. We took a table by the window.

“They should be able to take the Lions and the Niners,” I announced. Andy was halfway through his second burger. It was the first thing I said to interrupt our watching headlights pass beneath us. “But after the bye, man, it gets tough. Miami. The Vikes. The Bucs. Ugh. If they don’t start looking better, they'’re not going to make the playoffs.”

“Yeah, but do we want to limp into the postseason anyway? I mean, why not just get the draft pick?”

“But you can’t play like that. The guys won’t play like that. They have to look good if they want to get the big money, you know?” I took a drink from my soda. “And the coaches would get run out of town if they did that. You know that. The fans own them; they wouldn'’t like that.”

“The McCaskeys don’t seem to mind losing.”

“As they say: ‘McCaskey has no Ditka.’” I tapped my cup against his as he swallowed the last of his burger. He didn'’t reciprocate. “Just as long as they beat the Bears at Soldier, huh?”

“Could we go?”