The Underdog

Five months after his wife died and a week before the Bears' first Super Bowl appearance since 1986, the doctors crack his sternum, extract three veins from his left thigh, and perform triple bypass, sewing up Bill’s chest like the laces of a football, which will slowly scab over and, if he doesn’t pick them, heal. He won't be discharged until Monday, so he'll watch the big game on the slanted TV in the corner of room 917, Lake Michigan out the window. He'll be one of 93.2 million people watching Super Bowl XLI, the fifth highest television rating to date, but the only person, he wagers in a flight of melodrama, watching it alone. Beer and wings are off the menu. Pudding cups are all the rage. How can he throw a party with a two-visitor limit? 

Sunday finally arrives. Hospital-time they call it, clinical quicksand. Valentine’s Day is in ten days and off his radar; the Super Bowl was a much bigger holiday for them as a couple. They met in college, an Anthropology course, where she noticed his blocky eighties glasses, his dimples, his stained overalls and thought: how nice of them to let the maintenance crew audit classes. They studied together in the smoking section of the Regenstein Library, Hogwarts before Hogwarts, and watched all the games at Woodlawn Tap, Jimmy’s to the locals.

Peyton Manning and the Colts are favored by seven points, but she always preferred an underdog. She married a middle child. Both teams are seeking to end long Super Bowl droughts. The Colts, who went 12-4 this year, won their last title in 1970, when they lived in Baltimore. They moved to Indianapolis in 1984, shortly before the best Bears' season in history. Bill and Olivia were 29 then. She always kept up with the guys or even set the pace, and she was drinking hard for the last time in nine months. He lies in the stiff hospital bed, uttering the names—Walter Payton, Mike Ditka, Mike Singletary, The Fridge, The Super Bowl Shuffle—conjuring their heart and hers. Liver cancer ripped her from the world at the ripe age of fifty, their kids on the cusp of adulthood. Mary, the oldest, an adult at heart even in her youth, recently turned 21 and toasted for the first time a pint of Smithwicks, her mom's favorite Irish red. Billy, the youngest, is maturing more slowly than Dorian Gray. He has his license now, so he must be sixteen. Bill worries for the other drivers and his son too. As a preventative measure, Olivia taught him to drive on the slow, curved roads of Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, pointing out the plot where she would soon be buried.

Olivia's mom lived well into her seventies, and Olivia, after her diagnosis, told Bill that she felt guilty for not missing her. Her dad, however, died when she was even younger than Billy, eighth grade, Christmas break. He had a heart attack shoveling snow. In those early days at the Regenstein and Jimmy's, she recalled riding the Metra with her dad and taking the Red Line the rest of the way to Wrigley to watch both the Cubs and the Bears, who played there until 1970, when the NFL forced them to move due to the lack of lights and adequate seating. She sounded matter of fact, but in fact those trips were all that mattered. The Bears were great in those days and left reluctantly. They went 221-89-22 in their five decades at Wrigley, winning almost 70 percent of their home games and eight NFL championships. Their last game at Wrigley was December 13, 1970, when they beat the Green Bay Packers 35-17. Haven't beaten them since, Bill muses. At least not until the first game of this season, when rookie Devin Hester returned a punt 84 yards for a touchdown to seal a 26-0 victory in Green Bay.

In those early days, Bill and Olivia recalled the heartbreak of the Cubs' 1969 collapse with painful detail that ultimately brought them closer together. The summer of '69 was heaven for two kids too young for Woodstock. Billy Williams hitting his spit in the on-deck circle. Ron Santo clicking his heels like a leprechaun after every win. Ernie Banks beaming: let's play two today! It wasn't just that the Cubs lost seventeen of their last twenty-five games; the Mets concurrently went 23-7, won the newly created NL East, and subsequently the World Series. She was anomalous, a Cubs fan from the South Side, South Holland to be exact, a Polish and Irish neighborhood back then. He's a North Sider, whose blood, thanks to the surgeons at Northwestern, still runs Cubbie blue. His chest feels like one of the collapsed caves he encountered as an archaeologist. The scene leaps to his mind: the horn honking outside his tent; the dust cloud behind Olivia's bright red 1975 Lotus Elan; the proposal. It wasn't like her to adhere to social norms or to let men lead. When they did, it was because she let them. She led as well with the last act of life, but he's not yet ready to follow.

The Bears win the toss and elect to receive. For the first time in Super Bowl history, it's raining. Colts kicker Adam Vinatieri wipes the rain from the ball and places it on the stand. He was acquired as a free agent from the Patriots, with whom he won two Super Bowls. The camera cuts from the blue and white Colts endzone to the navy and orange of the Bears, where Devin Hester bounces between the dashes at the seven yard line. Bill wiggles his toes beneath the blanket. Hester went to college nearby, at Miami, where he played offense, defense, and special teams. Beginning with the one against Green Bay, he's scored six touchdowns this year: three punt returns, two kick-off returns, and one ambitious return of a missed field goal. The Colts, the announcer says, have struggled covering kicks all season, but they've practiced special teams specifically for a disproportionate amount of time—over half an hour every day for the last two weeks, all due to Devin Hester. 

Vinatieri lets it fly. Hester drifts to his left and catches the ball on the number ten. His blockers engage at the twenty. He works back to the middle and passes the first wave untouched. Through the fuzzy speaker in the middle of the remote, the announcer yells: And here he goes! It's Hester! Inside the thirty! Bill musters the energy to imitate his favorite announcer, the charismatic Chris Berman, over the fuzzy speaker: He could…go…all…the…way! Touchdown! The score takes all of fourteen seconds, a record that will last until the Seahawks break it with a safety in twelve. Bill pumps his fist–a sharp pain–and looks to his left, her chair, an anvil on the new veins.

He’s terrified of responding like his father. When his wife died (Bill’s angel of a mother), Bill Sr drank himself into the earth. Developed cancer and turned down the chemo. For billions of dollars, he said, it’s incredibly crude. I picked my poison long ago. Bill Jr didn’t resent him for shrugging at the chance to see his grandchildren, but he frequently relived the moment on the eighteenth green, when he moved the flag and its shadow swept over the hole and his dad missed the putt. Bill Sr, on his deathbed, said, I’ll never forgive you for that.

Perhaps it was tongue-in-cheek, but forgiveness would’ve gone a long way for Bill Jr, who felt like he was perpetually falling short. He fell from a tree in middle school, his forearm snapping, piercing the skin, and shocking his younger sister, who ran home to tell their mom that Billy died. She fainted. Perhaps falling was genetic. Bill Jr’s wife was a stoic soldier all her life, and while his softness complimented her approach to parenting, they failed to communicate once the kids hit adolescence. She gave orders that felt patronizing. Had he been proactive, she wouldn’t have had to give them at all. He knew that. Instead, he was defensive, offended by her lack of tact, which hadn’t changed in decades. He could either accept it as a beautiful quirk or succumb to a knee-jerk reaction, a deep-seated insecurity. He thought at times of the former, but he’s picked every scab since kindergarten. Of course, he misses her orders now. 

On the ensuing drive, the Bears' defense contains the Colts, who, on third and twelve from their own forty-one, line up in the shotgun. Manning catches the snap, looks right, and pump fakes short to draw the corner off his target deeper down the sideline. The corner doesn't bite, and he has help from safety Chris Harris, who meets the receiver at the sideline and leaps—picked off! Again, Bill pumps his fist but keeps his eyes on the screen. Chris Harris spins away from one tackle and goes down at the thirty-five. Bill doesn't believe in heaven like Olivia did, but the Bears' brilliant start feels like her telling him not to give up. Though his habits may have gotten the better of him over the years, the one pattern he refuses to repeat is his father's self-destruction. After the surgery and the recovery, he’ll be able to bike again. He hasn’t cracked a beer in weeks, and he hasn’t chewed nicotine gum since emerging from surgery, but the painkillers here are practically hallucinogens, the seams in his sternum crawling like ants across his body.

The Bears fail to capitalize on the interception. In stark, almost laughable contrast to Peyton Manning, the Bears' quarterback is Rex Grossman, whose name is his most memorable attribute. But if Ditka's Bears could win with Jim McMahon, who's to say another title isn't possible? Manning takes over, converts on a third down, and faces another: third and ten from their own forty-eight, again in the shotgun. With pressure from both ends of the defensive line, Manning steps up through the pocket and, with a lineman yanking his jersey, truncates his footwork as he lets sail a thirty-five-yard rainbow that lands in the hands of Reggie Wayne, who, invisible to the Bears' defense, walks into the endzone. Tie game.

No. The Colts fumble the snap on the extra point, and the game remains 7-6 Bears. The nurse, who entered unbeknownst to Bill, lets out a groan of disappointment at the fumble, revealing her loyalties. 

I knew you were too good to be true, Bill says.

I'm from Indianapolis, she says, blushing. How are you feeling?

Same as before, he says. In pain.

And you're using the incentive spirometer?

Using is a stretch.

It's important.

But it doesn't make any sense.

What part doesn't make sense?

The incentive.

The incentive spirometer is a plastic breathing apparatus that fits in your palm and gives immediate visual feedback on the strength of the exhale, like the carnival game where you slam the mallet and the red light rises toward the bell. That's how Bill understands it, anyway. He loathes the incentive spirometer. It makes him feel like a chump. He doesn't win a prize if the bubble floats to the top, and he's not collecting any data. He's just blowing into a cheap piece of plastic plucked from the toy chest of the nearest dentist's office, while psychologists on the other side of a one-way window take copious notes on his response to authority in the absence of reason.

Vinatieri avoids Devin Hester with a squib kick, which the Bears immediately cough up. Back-to-back fumbles. 

Rachel, Bill says to the nurse. I have to ask you to leave now.

You think it's my juju and not the rain?

Can't take any chances.

She chuckles, hangs a fresh bag on the IV, and exits. On the very next play, Manning hands it off, and the ball is met immediately by the top of a Bears' helmet. Back-to-back-to-back fumbles. Bears recover. From their own forty-three, Rex Grossman hands it off to the running back, who cuts loose, shedding a defender as he high-steps à la Walter Payton. Down to the five. On third and goal, Grossman throws a bullet underneath for a touchdown, keeping pace with the great Peyton Manning. 14-6.

The air in the hospital is cold and stale. Frost clings like a second frame to the window. Through it, ice volcanoes line the lakeshore. On TV, the rain refuses to relent. The Colts score the next ten points and regain possession. After a completion, Bears' corner Peanut Tillman strips the ball, and Bill lurches from his despondence, chanting Peanut! at the screen until he coughs and they both cover. The Bears take over with 1:26 to play in the half, and Grossman fumbles the first snap. Back-to-back fumbles for the second time. Professional hot potato. 

And the music has yet to stop. The Colts chisel away at the clock and set up Adam Vinatieri for his first and only miss of the postseason. Both teams retreat to the locker rooms, grateful to concede the spotlight.

The rain in Miami turns purple. It's not the meds; it's Prince. In the mid-eighties, the newly married Bill Jr had a steady rotation of Pink Floyd, Van Halen, and Guns and Roses. He knew Purple Rain was a masterpiece, but it didn't fit his aesthetic. Nor did Bowie; that was his sisters' music. He appreciates it more now, as the entire stadium sings the hypnotic hook in unison. To the high-voltage wanderings of a guitar solo, in which Bill finds comfort, he drifts in and out of consciousness. I’m not long for this world, Olivia used to say, and when she stopped saying it, he knew it was true. He falls asleep and dreams of dropping a touchdown pass. He dreams of the ants consuming his skin. He dreams of their home for the last thirty years, his leather chair, the creak and thud of the access door from the garage to the mudroom, the heavy cedar that expanded beyond the frame, and awakes, ready to help with the groceries. Moments like these will be with him until the end—the beauty of her return, the agony of her absence.

The Colts start the second half with the ball. Don't ask him about the commercials; Bill mutes every one. Vinatieri drives redemption through the uprights to cushion the Colts' lead, 19-14.

On the ensuing drive, the Bears have second and one on the Colts' side of midfield. Grossman, as Bill puts it, feels ill at ease in a position of power. It's rare and precarious. Not at all natural. Grossman takes the snap, drops back, and scans the secondary. Then he slips and falls for a loss of eleven. The first sack of the game. On third and twelve, he bobbles the snap, stumbles into the backfield and falls again. The second sack of the game.

What did Lovie say at half time? Bill asks the TV.

Not that, Nurse Rachel says, checking his vitals.

Despite the embarrassment, the defense carries them. They trade field goals, and it's still a game (22-17) at the end of the third quarter. Bill mutes the commercial and Nurse Rachel inquires on his progress with the incentive spirometer. 

I'm not gonna lie to you, Rachel, Bill says, lifting it off the tray. This little dime-store toy seems about as useful as the Bears' offense.

Are you using it right?

It's not exactly high-tech.

How did Dr. Morris explain it to you?

Like that old carnival game with the sledgehammer and the bell.

Maybe this will help, she says, holding her hands before her, palms inward, like a quarterback about to yell hike. Instead of going for mere force and height, consider the duration of your breaths. She separates her hands to emulate the inflation of the lung. The longer you can hold that bubble at or near the top, she says, the longer your lungs can stay full, reclaiming the space from outside fluid.

Now you tell me.

On first down of their first possession of the fourth quarter, Grossman drops back to pass, and the running back dives at the knees of a charging defensive end, flipping him like a turnstile while Grossman floats a pass down the sideline, behind his receiver. The Colts' corner leaps, lands, and runs 55 yards into the corner of the endzone. Pick-six. The Bears challenge. 

As they should, Bill adds. 

Feel free, Nurse Rachel says. He was in bounds.

He may have come down in bounds, but he definitely stepped out after that.

Let's see the replay.

That's a bad angle, he says. The one we need is—here we go.

Ooh, that's close.

I'm callin it, Bill says. Colts possession at their own forty-four. Bears defense back to work.

Here comes the ref.

From the fuzzy speaker on the remote: After reviewing the play, the runner did not step out of bounds. The ruling on the field stands. Touchdown.

Bullshit, Bill says. If that were the Bears. . .

Down 29-17, with ten minutes to play in the game, Grossman fakes a hand-off, steps up like Manning, and bombs the ball confidently downfield, where the Colts safety undercuts the route, leaps, and clamps his hands around yet another interception, the fifth Bears' turnover of the day.

The clock is not on our side, Bill says.

But thanks to modern medicine, Rachel says.

I meant the game.

I know.

Thanks for keeping an old man company.

My pleasure, she says. Now don't let me see you in here again.

The clock winds down. Confetti begins to fall.

Spare me, Bill says, turning off the TV.

Rachel leaves so he can rest.

Bill looks down at the laces of his sternum, raises a hand to pick the scab in consolation, and, for the first time since kindergarten, stops himself.

ROB BAILEY earned his MFA from California College of the Arts. He has published stories, essays, and poetry in On The Premises (prize), The Write Launch, Allegory Ridge, Bridge Eight, and Wingless Dreamer, among others. He's been awarded residencies at NES in Iceland and Craigardan in the Adirondacks. He lives with his girlfriend and their two pets in Chicago, where he hopes the heirs of George Halas—who bought the Bears for $100 in 1920—sell the team to someone who wants to win.