The Invocation: The Forest Is Under Attack
Friends, fellow warriors of the Midway, and parents who apparently believe candy wrappers biodegrade through the power of childhood imagination, CICERO HAS QUESTIONS. AND A RAKE.
It is November 1. Halloween is over. The tiny vampires have returned to school. The miniature superheroes are recovering from sugar poisoning. And the Cook County forest preserves look like a raccoon convention sponsored by Hershey's.
Candy wrappers litter the trails. Plastic bags choke the underbrush. Somewhere along the mighty Des Plaines River, a fun-size Snickers wrapper has achieved protected wetland status.
I was raised in these woods. I drink from the river. I meditate beneath the oaks. I occasionally consume an unattended hot dog. I have a sacred relationship with nature. Parents, teach your children to respect the forest. Pick up your trash. Protect the wildlife.
Also, whoever abandoned a half-eaten candy apple near my meditation rock has until sundown to explain themselves.
I know where you live. Probably. I have an excellent sense of smell.
The Number 99 Prophecy
Now for the news that has caused Cicero to levitate approximately four inches above the forest floor.
THE BEARS HAVE TRADED FOR JEFFERY SIMMONS.
A dominant defensive tackle. An interior pass-rushing menace. A man who can make a quarterback's pocket collapse faster than a folding chair at a Packers tailgate.
And he wears number 99. DAN HAMPTON'S NUMBER 99.
I imagine Hampton watching this development with satisfaction, perhaps while enjoying a sandwich and wondering whether today's defensive linemen understand the ancient art of making an opposing quarterback deeply uncomfortable.
Now Simmons gets the number and the opportunity to build his own legacy. Minus all the knee surgeries for the “Danimal.”
The pressure will be immense. The expectations will be unreasonable. Cicero has already ordered a ceremonial pinecone, three commemorative hot dogs, and a tasteful banner reading, "PLEASE DESTROY THE POCKET RESPONSIBLY."
Because the Bears have a problem. A delightful problem. A problem named Jeffery Simmons.
And suddenly the idea of a Bears defense that makes life miserable for opposing offenses no longer feels like a fever dream produced by consuming too much Old Style before meditation.
NUMBER 99 IS BACK IN CHICAGO.
The universe is aligning. The squirrels are nervous. The pinecones have spoken.
Monday Night: Fifty Points or Spiritual Bankruptcy
Now comes the small matter of the Seattle Seahawks. The defending Super Bowl champions. And, inconveniently, the Bears are playing on the road in Seattle. So, the Bears must travel to the Pacific Northwest and attempt to ruin the evening of an entire stadium full of Seahawks fans.
Excellent.
Seattle has a championship team, a home crowd, and presumably an abundance of artisanal coffee. We have Caleb Williams, a newly reinforced defensive line, and a grizzly bear who has been awake since Halloween and is now riding a sugar rush of ransacked candy the raccoons have provisioned for the forest.
The Seahawks may be champions, but I have studied their situation carefully. They are vulnerable to one thing:
FIFTY POINTS.
Not 24. Not 31. Not some respectable little 34-point effort that makes the television analysts nod thoughtfully. FIFTY.
I want touchdowns raining from the heavens like Halloween candy thrown from a parade float operated by a malfunctioning robot.
I want Caleb Williams throwing passes so beautiful that the Space Needle briefly rotates to face Chicago.
I want the offensive line to protect Caleb with the dedication of a mother bear defending her cubs, her den, and the last remaining Gene & Jude's hot dog.
I want D'Andre Swift running through gaps so large that the Washington State Department of Transportation investigates them as infrastructure failures.
I want Luther Burden III turning short receptions into interstate incidents..
And Jeffery Simmons, this is your moment. Go forth and collapse the pocket. Disrupt the run. Make the quarterback reconsider the concept of forward progress.
If Dan Hampton wants to watch, wonderful. If he wants to offer advice, even better. If he wants to show up and demonstrate a pass-rushing move, I will personally provide the knee pads.
But we must remember the sacred arithmetic of Bears football. Fifty points scored. Champions humbled. Cicero mildly inconvenienced by the need to develop new levels of excitement.
THAT IS THE MISSION.
The Emergency Meditation
Sit comfortably. Plant your feet. Imagine a peaceful forest. Now imagine every candy wrapper in that forest transforming into a tiny football.
Inhale deeply. Exhale the Seahawks.
Inhale the number 99. Exhale the phrase, "Let's just keep it close."
Visualize Caleb throwing touchdowns. Visualize Simmons collapsing the pocket. Visualize the scoreboard displaying 50 points for Chicago.
Now visualize the Seahawks head coach looking at the scoreboard, then looking at his wristwatch, then looking at the scoreboard again because surely the scoreboard is broken.
It is not broken. It is enlightenment. A wise bear understands that inner peace comes from accepting reality. A great bear understands that sometimes reality needs to score seven more touchdowns.
BEAR DOWN.
Excellent. Your breathing is irregular. You are ready for Monday Night Football.
The Oracle's Prediction
A wise bear knows that the forest must be protected, the quarterback must be pressured, and the candy wrappers must be collected before the next rainstorm.
Cicero has consulted the Des Plaines River, three squirrels, a suspiciously knowledgeable raccoon, and the spirit of every Bears fan who has ever said, "This is our year."
The verdict is unanimous.
BEARS 50, SEAHAWKS 27.
Caleb lights up the scoreboard. Simmons announces his arrival.
Will the Bears actually score 50? The universe is vast. The laws of physics are poorly understood. A raccoon once stole my lunch while making direct eye contact. Anything is possible.
