There is a legend along the mighty Des Plaines River. A fish. A mystical one. Old. Slippery. Arrogant. It swims just below the surface, flashing silver, always visible, never reachable. For years I hunted it. I tried patience. I tried strategy. I tried breathing exercises learned during a particularly rough Bears season. Nothing worked. The fish mocked me. Slipped past my claws. Vanished into murky water just when I thought I had it.

Season’s Beatings to all Cleveland Browns. Temperatures at Soldier Field will be arctic come Sunday afternoon. This is not weather. This is a spiritual test. Cicero has survived winters in the forest preserves of Cook County when the river froze, the wind howled, and the only warmth came from patience, layers, and questionable Old Style decisions.

Close your eyes, inhale deeply, and picture the swirling snow over Lambeau Field. Listen to the distant echo of a bear roar carried on a cold Wisconsin wind. Feel your heart rate rise, your spirit tighten, and your chakras immediately clench in the presence of Packer energy.

We gather here today to remember last year’s devastating Thanksgiving loss as coach Eberflus watched the clock run out against the Lions with timeouts in his pocket. The collapse brought us salvation, and for that, we are truly thankful. Now let us feast on some Philly bird.

If the football gods are listening, and they always listen to Cicero, let this be the day Rodgers realizes he no longer owns anything in Chicago except a deep spiritual debt and whatever strain of ayahuasca he scored in Wicker Park.

More than anything, this is now a watchable team. The slam-the-remote, living-room-storm-out, Sunday lawn-mowing and house-choring has been held at bay. Gratitude is called for. Monastic zen is required. Meditate on it. Appreciate it. The path is uneven, but it is ours.

Dear students of Bear Down Society, gather your hearts and stretch your hamstrings. We return to Soldier Field, the sacred stone mat where we breathe, scream, and sometimes watch our soul leave our body. Last week against the Bengals, we died. Then lived. Then died again. Then lived once more. A cycle of emotional reincarnation. But today, we inhale confidence, exhale trauma, and prepare for the New York Giants.

Last week was not real. I refuse to accept that the Chicago Bears lost to the Baltimore Ravens and a quarterback pulled straight from a Costco sample table. These Bears need another win streak. The vibes must be reset.

The Ravens await after their bye week, desperate and dangerous. Lamar Jackson is out (questionable practice reporting btw), but Derrick Henry lurks in the backfield, snorting steam like a freight train full of fumble regret. This is the kind of game that tests your composure, Bears fans. Because a wounded animal does not limp away quietly. It thrashes. It bites. It drags you into the mud. And if anyone knows how to deal with that, it’s me.

As we welcome the New Orleans Saints to town, the ghosts of old Bears teams whisper in the wind. In the past, this would be a letdown game, the kind that followed a big win with heartbreak and radio call-in hysteria. Not this year. Not under Ben Johnson.

The bye week is over. The healing is supposed to begin. Our chakras are aligned, our bodies rested, our hamstrings allegedly mended. But now, the Chicago Bears must return to the scene of last year’s psychological crime (horribly named Northwest Stadium) where the infamous Fail Mary turned a brief promising season into a downward spiral of doom.

Brothers, sisters, and sunburnt superfans of the Bear Down Society… last week we tapped into our controlled rage, unleashed the claws, and smacked the Cowboys back to Jerry Jones’ irrelevant oil fields. Next up - the Las Vegas Raiders. Another must-win for our playoff hopes. Another team that must be punished.

Fellow Bears, gather around the fire pit of despair. The Des Plaines River has turned from a gentle current into a raging torrent, carrying away our serenity, our meditation mats, and maybe Ryan Poles’ career.

Fellow Bears faithful, inhale deep through the nose… exhale slow through the mouth… and cast last week’s “loss” against the Vikings into the Des Plaines River where all bad energy flows downstream into oblivion.

This Monday night, our Chicago Bears host the Viking. And yes, I previously predicted a 63–0 masterpiece. Let’s build on that prophecy, with the realism of a bear who’s sniffed every threat (and hauled it back to camp for breakfast).

Reggie White to Green Bay in ’93? That was transformative. Herschel Walker to Minnesota in ’89? That built a Cowboys dynasty. The Parsons trade? It’s two clowns juggling chainsaws in a burning circus tent. It’s not history-making. It’s lipstick on a cheesehead.

Welcome, Bear Down faithful. Today, we embark on a five-step meditation to align our inner fan energy with the universal gridiron forces guiding the Chicago Bears toward glorious victory.

This practice can be revisited every week—before kickoff, after a rough loss, or whenever you feel the creeping doubt of Packers propaganda poisoning your soul.

This week, the air hums differently. The stillness before game three carries a heavier weight. Why? Because this isn’t another exercise in depth-chart experiments and anonymous roster cuts. This is starters vs. starters. Well, at least for a series or two.

The Chicago Bears. The Kansas City Chiefs. Destiny meeting dynasty, in the preseason temple of a late August night.

Deep in the forest preserves along the mighty Des Plaines River, I, Cicero, have awoken from a long slumber. Fueled by hot dogs, beer, and broadcasting from a satellite dish made of discarded Packers helmets., I come bearing the truth:

2025 isn’t just a season. It’s The Year of the Bear.

Let’s dive into our completely unbiased, totally realistic, absolutely ferocious 2025 Chicago Bears season preview.

Meet Cicero. Born and bred under the shade of oaks along the mighty Des Plaines River, nourished on a steady diet of Gene & Jude’s hot dogs (no ketchup or I’ll maul you), Old Style beer (straight from the can, cold as January at Soldier Field), and the occasional lost Packers fan who thought “north of O’Hare” was safe territory. Spoiler: it isn’t.