I intended to catch the Patriots-Jets Monday Night Football game, but I was busy. When I finally got a glimpse at a TV screen, the score was 24-3. "Wow," I thought. Patriots are looking good.
Then came the second half.
45-3. Game over. Insert lump in throat.
Ask Jets fans how they feel this morning. They're 9-3. Sure to make the playoffs. Stout on defense. Conservative on offense. Sound like anyone you know?
But this morning, the bloom is off the Jets' rose. They're waking from a fever dream where they just got served on national television. Even if they shake it off, they may have to face the Patriots again in the playoffs. What will the game film tell them other than, "Do the exact opposite of everything you did and pray to God that Tom Brady is eaten by wolves."
This morning, Bears fans resemble those guys in "Independence Day" watching the giant ball of flame roll down the street, consuming cars and melting buildings. It's this look of, "Oh. Hey. There's no way I'm going to be able to outrun that. And I'm gonna die."
That rolling fireball is headed toward Soldier Field. And all the warm fuzzies of a solid year may be worth nothing if the Pats expose a gaping hole in our team.
The Patriots are a team that dropped Randy Moss and found production from a bunch of nobodies. You get the impression they could yank a hot dog vendor from the stands and turn him into a Pro Bowler.
Who are the Bears supposed to game plan for? Which one of these sentences sounds least ridiculous?
You might as well say we have to stop Zebulon Marbargarbargar. Because if I know the Patriots, they have a guy named Zebulon Marbargarbargar waiting in the wings. He will score 47 touchdowns, then vanish as if he never existed. And next Monday, Chicagoans will scratch their heads and wonder what happened.
Or maybe the Bears will find a way to win. But right now, New England looks like a tornado in a knife factory. Run for your lives.