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Friday, September 9, 2011
The Chicago Bears Are Terrible
You can see it in their faces. This team just doesn't want to win.
On the sidelines, Jay Cutler pouts. He frowns. He mopes.
Cutler is and always will be a bad leader that's right; he's not not a leader; he's a bad leader. Mopiness is contagious.
The longer the Bears team leave Cutler in the starting position, the more they risk Brian Urlacher and Johnny Knox (the greatest wide receiver since Jerry Rice) will catch the mopiness and diabetes and before we can say Sweetness fives time the Chicago Bears will be last in the division again.
And what about Mr. Lovie Smith? He looks as checked-out as a boyfriend watching a chick-flick. He's holding a purse short of a shopping spree. He stares emotionless at the field, waiting for his whimper of a career to melt away into the soupy oblivion of NFL history.
Do you know how you can tell Lovie Smith doesn't prepare for games? That he doesn't care about what happens? That he doesn't meticulously plan each week to make the Bears defense a top-five domination machine of pure offense-frustration?
You. Can. See. It. In. His. Face.
A real coach one who puts the time and effort into making a winning team rants and raves on the sidelines. Every time his players walk instead of jog to the huddle, he throws down his headset, screams until his face turns Ditka-red, and pisses his pants in uncontrollable rage.
A real coach doesn't talk in normal tones to a ref; he yells at them mercilessly, belittles their physical appearance, calls their children "disappoint," and smashes the gravestones of their ancestors, howling wildly and drunkenly at glistening full moon'd night.
A real quarterback doesn't get sacked. He doesn't just mamby-pamby around the backfield for one or two full seconds so that a hulking defensive lineman can pulverize him. A real quarterback punches defensive ends in the face, smashing both their opponent's face mask and the metacarpals in their non-throwing hand. A real quarterback, like Ben Roethlisberger, takes charge in the backfield and in life he pushes around defenders, throws passes so hard they kill birds in flight, and then celebrates in a dance club's men's stall and threatens to throw a slant route at the judge's face if he doesn't call mistrial.
A real quarterback doesn't sulk; a real coach doesn't sigh.