It was Caleb, kids.
Three hundred and forty yards.
We have one, at last.
This defensive group.
What is it that they do well?
The answer? Not much.
Flus will coach Thursday.
Detroit will blow their doors off.
Then comes Black Friday?
Haikuesday!
It was Caleb, kids.
Three hundred and forty yards.
We have one, at last.
This defensive group.
What is it that they do well?
The answer? Not much.
Flus will coach Thursday.
Detroit will blow their doors off.
Then comes Black Friday?
Mister Eberflus,
chills out in his jacuzzi.
Glass of red, in-hand.
Rookie of the year.
People say it is Jayden’s.
Caleb says, “Hold up.”
Hope in Chicago.
An uncommon emotion.
It ain’t leaving town.
Tomorrow: Predictions for the weekend’s bye week action.
Real coverage! Next week!
One must suffer pain
to relish budding pleasure.
This year is the pain.
Is Fields fully formed?
No. But the thrills he provides
are reason for hope.
Our expectations,
non-existent this season,
rise in September.
With Labor Day comes
hope for the football season.
Hope is dangerous.
Crack open a beer.
Grill up a few frankfurters.
Summer is waning.
We frolic in Fields
of quarterbacking promise.
Can he be the 1?
Undrafted, was he.
Signed by the Chicago Bears.
Now he runs their show.
Rented a sailboat,
with Katie, off Navy Pier.
“Will you marry me?”
If you play for Poles,
you pick up your quarterback.
Or go somewhere else.
Germanic spirit.
From Indianapolis.
He is Eberflus.
Put on your track shoes,
because you will be running.
And he’ll measure it.
He is Ryan’s choice
to stand in front of the room,
a leader of men.
Haiku One
He is forty-three,
with hair of a younger man.
A goat in all things.
Haiku Two
As his nerves jangle,
Bruce lifts a scotch to his lips.
“Calm down, baby. Calm.”
Haiku(s) Three
He came from Texas.
In a town known as Tyler,
Was the legend born.
In just his fourth year,
He seeks his second title,
Immortality.
The two quarterbacks
Dueled in the Chicago sun.
Anybody win?
Mack, motivated.
Fear is coming off the edge.
Hell follows with him.
His name is Bob Quinn.
Most people call him Robert.
Leonard Floyd, he ain’t.
Keep eyes on Kahlil.
He’s coming for you, Aaron.
But he’s not alone.
The Bears cut the check.
Eighteen point five million bucks.
Ten sacks, minimum.
