Stories of the '87 Off-Season 4: Much Solemn Reflection

The Bears dramatic season over, a hard partying Jim McMahon did what any Red Blooded American trying to combat the new wave of “Morenovism” did in early ‘87, and reflected on a return to tradition. For all the good Reagan had done, many of the flock had fallen into over excitement, a brush with general wickedness while pursuing the higher, nuanced path of individualism for the benefit of all. A contradiction, sure, but remember—there was no society, only, individuals; and those individuals established a complex web of socially contracted friends, families, and teammates. If your pursuits kept your bounds together (winning an NFC title in ‘85, coming back to win a division title on the last day in ‘86), the Natural System maintained Harmony. If your exuberance led to contract violation (101 yards and 2 picks against an aging Rams secondary), then the behavior must be corrected.

Both Big Jim and Ditka would be constantly harassed in the local media for the decision to start the former in the divisional playoff. The toll of injuries—both from ‘85 and in his brief appearances late in ‘86—had left the bad boy suffering from severe neck pain and migraines. Golf and Old Style and cigars hadn’t been helping like in the past. McMahon was feeling his mortality though he didn’t quite know it was that. Dude was getting a little old, man.

Just a few weeks after the season, McMahon receives a vision while on the 9th green at an exclusive club in Lake Forest—the weather had gotten mild enough to get in a game, though it was still in the mid-40s; that’s why you got the Old Style, to keep warm.

As Keith Ortego prepared for his first drive, McMahon saw the sand trap just a little up there to the left starts to sink into itself, forming a hole. You never disrupt a man mid-drive so McMahon tried to keep his “Oh shits!” at a low volume. Ortego still shanked—he always shanked—and as his playing partner walked slowly down into the grass, McMahon began his drive. He shanked left, straight into the hole.

He thought Keith was a little insensitive when he informed him to “go fucking get it, chief.” McMahon, for all his brashness, was still a Good Catholic Boy and complied.

A man in a black rubber suit, only his eyes visible through his green visor (he looked familiar, McMahon had dozed off to a laserdisc screening of Dune as a team building exercise at Payton’s house the previous weekend) grabbed Jim by the hand and pulled him down into the pit.

It was really fucking hot, McMahon informed Mother Angelica on EWTN a few months later. Fire, brimstone, the whole shebang. A big beast like a cyclops but with 3 eyes just tearing into folks, one of each type—yellow, red, black, and even white!—and there was this dude in a suit and fedora barking orders to an absolute train of chained up demons, who looked a little like the great George Halas. But everyone knew Papa Bear was in heaven, not here, which confused Jim. “What are you doing kid?” Halas asked him in a way that he knew was bigger than the particular moment. He pointed to the man in black rubber, “talk to him.” The sojourner-starter had been there the whole time, standing on a hill of crushed skulls. The man removed his rubber helmet. It was Jesus! With his blue eyes and perfect blond beard and hair and everything! Jim knew this was serious.

Christ recognized and admired Jim’s talents and sacrifices on the field. He understood the inherent contradiction of human nature—what was it? Work Hard, Play Hard. He almost admired McMahon’s revulsion to pre-destination, a greater, deeper contradiction to the trinity and his own sacrifice for humanity. But he had still strayed, though, but only a little. For if he wanted to reach the apex mountain, though still just a hill in relation to the Eternal Kingdom, he had to do true penitence of his own accord, not just those handed to him beyond himself.

Then The Christ unveiled a sword of a bright blue light but didn’t use it. Rather he held it high, just like Conan on the poster, and hummed a prayer, which sent an even greater light out that split the river of fire and turned the skull hill into dust that floated into the air and turned into flower pedals; Hallas ripped the demon flesh from the skulls of his absolute train of demons to reveal balls of light that he said were the actual angels—The Old Testament got that part right, kid. And Jim? Jim was lifted back up from the pit by those angel balls and found himself kneeling on the green, Keith just finishing par, the caddy wiping McMahon’s forehead with a damp cloth.

Ortego was moved by Jim’s vision. You could tell because his eyes watered, and the wide receiver directed him to speak to his third cousin Dale. He was a Priest, right, but then he wasn’t, but now he was. Explained the whole thing; that the Church hasn’t had a legitimate pope since 1958 but now they got one named Mike, just like coach. He was real good with this stuff, Jesus reaching out to folks, he would really help him out.

Dale Ortego had declined admittance to the Sedvacantist College of Cardinals based out of Natchitoches, Louisiana, to continue the more profitable and fulfilling job of bringing those back to the flock. Bobby Hebert declined Ortego’s advances—the Pope is the Pope, that was God’s decision—but he felt McMahon had been an even greater vessel. And if he could be the one who breaks the Bears’ dreaded curse, think of the revelation. Many, many more would see JPII—who was anti-communist but just came from a “very productive” talk with Vasily—as the stooge he was. A great awakening would finally begin.

But the vessel had to be re-fired, fortified, made stronger. He put Jim on “penitence training” starting in March to prepare for training camp. Football, while a noble endeavor, still built toxic humors within the spine, all the way up to the brain. To flush them, Father Dale had McMahon run along and up the sand dunes of Michigan City while flogging himself.

Jim was hesitant at first, but vaguely remembered his old Saint stories of guys doing that so it checked out to him. Father Dale explained that the concoction of vigorous exercise, stimulation of the spine via flagellation, and controlled flow of blood from the wounds would flush out the toxic fluids and relieve pressure on his brain and spinal column. This would allow for the clearing of the mind both physically and emotionally, allowing his trademark ballsy-intuition, on full display in ’85, to return to him. McMahon abstained from spirits and tobacco, and only consumed leavened bread, water, and steak—the only approved hooved animal, as it represented the eating of Gold Idols. Father Dale also directed him to eat only the vegetables listed in the Brian Wilson song, for he—like McMahon—was a tortured artist, the rare type, who lived a holier life than any modern Catholic. Sweetness, known for his herculean workouts, found all it all extreme, and pointed out Christ saying something like his true believers shunned such old things because this was supposed to be a new way, to celebrate and be in community with your friends. Father Dale responded that Luke, while still one of the Gospels, was “the most political” and shouldn’t be taken as seriously as the others.

For as bizarre as all this was, it was McMahon’s new dedication that endeared him with Chicago’s frustrated fan base. It was a classic, great hook: the Prodigal son hath returned! The young American clergy of the Church had found value in men like Father Dale and the Sedvacantists anyway.

Ditka was also moved—for all their prickliness, Ditka really loved Jim as a son and didn’t want to cut him loose or deal him to Indianapolis or some other godforsaken place (Irsay, in his New Vision for the Colts gave a harried call while under medical influence). Flutie was pretty good but not that good and the Bears were going to draft one of the other quarterbacks in the first round anyway (RIP Kelly Stouffer). The feel-good McMahon story made it easy for Ditka to deal. He pulled off a good narrative: a week before the draft, Ditka would send Flutie “back home” to New England for three late rounders (6, 9, and 10). Ditka tried to also offer Ortego too in exchange for Stephen Starring, but latter had too good of an ‘86 as a kick returner (1,407 yards, an average return of 18.2) to justify that move.