The '85 Bears: We Were the Greatest (33 page)

The circus packed its tents, herded the giraffes and tigers onto the flatcars, rousted up the fat man and the bearded ladies and the jugglers and the strongmen, and headed down to New Orleans. There had been other eccentric and entertaining, even evil or nearly sanctified, teams in the 19 previous Super Bowls, but there had never been a carnival like the Chicago Bears. You had dark Raiders and sanctified Cowboys in the past. But here was something for everyone all on the same train.

From the riveting talent of Walter Payton to the intensity of the defensive line to the pulpit frenzy of Mike Singletary to the splendor of William “The Refrigerator” Perry to the antisocial unpredictability of Jim McMahon, there was everything on the Bears—you could observe it for hours and still have room for popcorn. And in the end it was all because there had never been a head coach like Mike Ditka.

Ditka’s zeal was renowned, but whoever thought the wild man from western Pennsylvania would lead a band of disparate souls to the pinnacle of team sports? It was fascinating to all to know that Ditka was behind this thing, not as a player but as a coach. See how people could change? Or maybe change wasn’t necessary, only tweaking, only passion. Ditka seemed so unlike Hank Stram or Chuck Noll or Bill Walsh or, of course, Tom Landry, as to be another species. But maybe not.

“Back then, Chicago teams always seemed to crumble when they were close to winning it all. The 1969 Cubs had done it, then the 1984 Cubs did. The White Sox blew the Series in 1959.”

—Ditka

McMahon’s butt was still sore, of course, and he wanted his acupuncturist, a fellow named Hiroshi Shiriashi, to be flown to New Orleans to stick pins in his posterior. This created a minor brouhaha and much debate in the media and rowdy sports bars about the benefits of and philosophy behind Eastern healing processes. Ditka didn’t care if somebody stuck a bazooka up McMahon’s ass. If it calmed the quarterback down, eased his discomfort, and helped him play, do it. Willie Gault, ever the avant garde health savant, wanted the acupuncturist brought in, too, to work on him.

Shortly after the ruckus began, Bears president Michael McCaskey, who had barred the acupuncturist from flying on the team’s charter plane, said fine, enough, I give. “We’re going to welcome him with a brass band,” McCaskey, the foppish chief, said sarcastically. Shiriashi and another specialist were flown to the bayou by the Illinois State Acupuncture Association—hey, this was where the publicity was!—and the needles came out.

McMahon himself was peeved with the press, generally, telling the assembled masses on Media Monday at the Superdome that the stupid scrutiny “comes with winning. I don’t think too many of you guys are up in Green Bay right now.” He may have casually stuffed another gob of tobacco into his lower lip as he said this.

Back in Chicago Mayor Harold Washington declared that the Daley Center Plaza was now “Bears Plaza,” and had workers erect an electronically complex 600-square-foot television screen, consisting of 28,000 tiny tubes, that showed—what else?—the “Super Bowl Shuffle” on a continual loop. Folks everywhere lapped up the midwinter zaniness.

William Perry was asked about women fans, whether they wrote to him, maybe sent photos? “I don’t get no letters from no ladies,” Fridge declared sternly. Steve McMichael told the media about clearing out biker bars with Dan Hampton, about whatever deranged things came to his crafty mind. Asked by reporters about his snake-hunting hobby, how he lured the snakes, McMichael drawled for their amusement, “You throw a reporter out there, and when the rat
tlesnake bites, you just grab it behind the neck.”

Pete Rozelle declared of the Bears, speaking for the universe, or at least the TV-aware NFL, “We love them. They got a 75 rating for the Rams game.”

The Bears were on the cover of
Time
magazine.

They were officially the rage.

The truth is we were nervous and concerned,
but we also were confident as hell. As Dennis McKinnon told the media, if we don’t make mistakes, there’s no way in hell the Patriots can beat us. That was just the plain truth. Hampton said we didn’t want to squeak by, we wanted to beat them soundly. And we did want to. We were favored by 10 points or something, but I thought that if we did what we were capable of, we could win big, really make a statement.

Otis Wilson even said we wanted a shutout. Fine. We did. But let’s not talk too much. Their guy Raymond Clayborn said he thought Wilson “was crazy,” and he added, “Obviously, it will be an incentive for our offense to prove them wrong. And I know they will.” Clayborn played defensive back. I don’t think he knew much about our defense. He’d never played against it. I think he should have asked, oh, let’s say the Giants or Rams about it. But that was fine. Who cared about Raymond Clayborn? It was all just talk.

There was a flu bug going around down in New Orleans, and I don’t just mean from Bourbon Street hangovers. Tony Eason had a case of it, Kevin Butler missed Friday’s practice and was hospitalized because of it, and some coaches and other people didn’t feel too hot. But this was the biggest game of most people’s lives, so, I mean, are you going to miss it because of a virus?

There were people coming and telling me they saw McMahon out on Bourbon Street at 2:30 in the morning. And, no, I didn’t have a curfew until Saturday, the night before the game. But we had wakeup calls at 6:30 in the morning, and if the guys didn’t know what was really important just now, they were pretty messed up.

Back then, Chicago teams always seemed to crumble when they were close to winning it all. The 1969 Cubs had done it, then the 1984 Cubs did. The White Sox blew the Series in 1959. The Bears had that 1963 NFL championship, the one I played on, but that was 22 years previous, and it wasn’t the Super Bowl. Getting close didn’t mean jack to me. You practice and work so you can get close. Then you take close and you kick its carcass to hell. You want the top, the championship. You smell it, you taste it. You get it. That’s all there is.

McMahon’s acupuncture guy showed up, and Jim and Willie got worked on. Got stuck with more pins than a voodoo doll, I guess. The press asked me about McMahon’s butt on Wednesday, and I
said it was 200 percent better. Was it? I don’t know. Jesus, I was supposed to be monitoring his ass?

I just knew he was going to play. I mean, McMahon even wore a headband that said, “ACUPUNCTURE” on it. I just hoped everyone would make it to game time. McMahon supposedly had pushed a photographer who was trying to take his picture in the French Quarter. Now that I think about it, maybe I did impose a curfew after that. But I wasn’t going around and knocking on guys’ doors.

Myself, I wasn’t partying. I got a touch of the flu and took it easy at night. I really didn’t feel too well the whole week. My parents were in town, and we went out to dinner one night, Diana and my folks, but that was about it. My kids were there, too. I waited in the Hilton Hotel is all I did. Otis, meanwhile, was still talking, but that’s because the press kept asking questions. I think they’d ask dumb-ass questions until they took their last little breath. “The Rams are better than the Patriots,” Otis told them. “I don’t think there’s any comparison.” There probably wasn’t.

“I was thinking constantly that two teams get to these championships and nobody remembers the team that loses.”

—Ditka

People were asking about the weather, and if it might affect us. We’re playing in a freaking dome! Honest to God, that happened. Then on Wednesday a helicopter flies over when we’re practicing outdoors at the New Orleans Saints’ practice field in Metairie, Louisiana. It hovers overhead, taking photos or whatever, and next thing you know, McMahon has dropped his shorts and is mooning the camera crew, showing them his hurt butt cheeks. Next day in the papers, there he is, doing his thing. What can I say?
Shame on you?
Yes, I cared, because I thought it was an embarrassment to the organization. People would look at us and say we’re idiots. Maybe we were to a degree. But I wouldn’t call attention to the fact. Jim was wrong there. A little discretion might be in order. I wasn’t thrilled. But would I go to the wall for him as my starting quarterback? Absolutely.

For us as a team, the main thing was we never changed our philosophy in New Orleans. It started in Platteville, and we believed in what we were doing. You don’t take risks if you don’t have to, but if you don’t risk something, you have no chance. We risked being aggressive. That’s what we were. That’s what we would remain.

The night before the game we had meetings. Basically, that’s it. I met with the whole team, and I told them you’re not winning this game for me or for Halas or McCaskey or anybody else. You’re winning it for yourselves, for the guy sitting next to you. It’s not about anything I’ve ever said. You have this wonderful moment in time, and you can answer to each other forever.

I had some of the guys stand up and say what the game meant to them. We broke it up then and I talked to the offense, and Buddy talked to the defense in another room. I guess their part got pretty crazy. They might have gone nuts. There was a lot of noise, and I think maybe a film projector got smashed and maybe there were some holes in the wall. I think Buddy told the players he loved them and he was leaving, taking that Eagles job. I don’t know for sure. But that’s what he told me later. And they knew something was over, this was it. Their general had one more battle. The defense had its bayonettes fixed. I know that.

I went to bed early. Sunday was a blur. With a game starting so late, it was like a
Monday Night
game, and that just messes with you. All day long you have to wait around. And here we are so close to the Superdome that we can walk there. No need to leave early or anything. I know I got up around
5 A
M
or earlier, and we had Mass for the Catholics and devotionals for the Protestants, and we got the position coaches together for a while. But it was really nothing. We try to eat our pregame meal three or four hours before game time, so we did that, but I don’t remember many details. It’s all such a cloud of anticipation. I do know I was thinking constantly that two teams get to these championships, and nobody remembers the team that loses.

That’s crazy, if you think about it.

We’re 17–1, but if we finish 17–2, it’s nothing. I had too much time to think. You get too much time, you get pregnant with ideas. But I had watched so much film of the Patriots, I knew the whole defense would key on Payton, and why not? So what a great weapon that was. And what a great decoy he could be.