Meet the Bears' Secret Weapon - NBC Chicago
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Meet the Bears' Secret Weapon



    Meet the Bears' Secret Weapon

    As Bear and Packer fans alternately pace nervously and talk trash, there's not a lot left to analyze.  Both teams are great. Both teams hate each other. Blood will be spilled.

    But the media beast must be fed, which is why we suddenly care which person sings before the game. There is a bottomless appetite for news, but nothing is happening. No new injuries. No sudden illnesses. No players being held for ransom in some guy's basement (yet).

    What's left to cover is ... the playing surface. The grass at Soldier Field is a mess. It looks like the aftermath of a baby's diaper, but with worse footing. Urlacher hates it. Cutler hates it.

    But consider that a slower, defensive team like the Bears will benefit from having the swift Packer WRs wade through a cranberry bog en route to the end zone. And Devin Hester seems to have no problem finding his way to paydirt (or paysludge, as the case may be).

    NFL teams have a long history of maintaining ridiculous playing surfaces. Back in the day, the horrible carpet at Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia claimed dozens of careers. That turf had raised seams players would trip over. When their bodies slammed into the unforgiving turf, many simply burst into flames. By the end of the game, it looked like the scene where Luke Skywalker found Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru charred to death on Tatooine.

    That's a home field advantage. We want players to fear for their safety when they step on the field.  We want cleats to get sucked into the mud.  We want Green Bay linemen to find themselves knee-deep in slop before the ball gets snapped. Sure, the same problems would apply to the Bears, but they could always wear snowshoes.

    Rick Morrissey reports the groundskeepers were filling Soldier Field holes with green sand Sunday. Green sand. Hell, let's go all out and install some trapdoor spiders. If Greg Jennings is suddenly swallowed up and embalmed in a cocoon Sunday, we can hardly be blamed. 

    Home field, baby. Home field.