The '85 Bears: We Were the Greatest (12 page)

As we wrote this book, Ditka and I referred frequently to the loose-leaf 500-page binder that contained photocopied pages of Chicago newspaper sports reports from late 1984 all the way into early 1986. Sometimes Ditka would drift off, becoming so intent in his reading that his wife, Diana, and I would sit at the table in the restaurant, facing him, and talk about him almost as if he were not in the room. One time Mike borrowed his wife’s reading glasses to see some particularly fine print, and Diana cracked up watching this huge, oblivious man with the big, ruddy, circular, mustachioed face, studying newsprint while wearing tiny, rhinestone-encrusted glasses.

Invariably Ditka would look up from his reading and say something about the craziness of that 1985 season, marveling at the whirlwind of gossip and excitement and anticipation and drama that surrounded the team and himself and how he was basically unaware of that sideshow element to the quest.

“I almost never read the papers,” he said. “I never realized what was going on unless somebody told me. I guess we were a little different, huh?”

He did have a weekly TV show on CBS during the season—hosted by former Bears teammate Johnny Morris—that became something of a local legend, with fans going crazy during the tapings and nobody ever quite sure how any episode would end.

“McMahon doesn’t practice. Now he’s saying he thinks he hurt his back sleeping on his waterbed a week earlier. His waterbed. And he says he doesn’t need to practice at all, all he needs is to know the game plan and different formations.”

—Ditka on McMahon

At 2–0 the frenzy knob was slowly being turned up for Ditka’s boys, especially because there would be a third game in the first 17 days of the season—on a non-Thanksgiving Thursday, for goodness’ sake—and the Bears were playing their third undefeated team in a row. (Yes, technically, Tampa Bay was unbeaten in the season opener.) Moreover, the Minnesota Vikings were a perennial spear in the side of the Bears, much like the Packers were. The Vikings had dignified history on their side with their icily stoic icon of a coach, Bud Grant, at the helm once again, after a year off. And the Vikes had been to four Super Bowls in the 19 years since the “ultimate game” began. The Bears, of course, had been to none.

Playing on a Thursday night, with one day being needed mostly for travel, was a tough chore for the Bears. But it was nothing compared to the distracting excitement after the Patriots game. For Ditka this was becoming a short week from hell. And the national media was starting to pay full attention to every tiny thing that came from the Bears camp, every word, every gesture, every bit of nonsense.

I didn’t get crazy excited
after the New England win, but I guess I shouldn’t even have smiled. I thought McMahon had made it through in good shape. But there he was on Monday at Lake Forest Hospital, in traction.

I couldn’t believe it.

I don’t know when he hurt his back. And he didn’t know for sure, either. It could have been from as far back as the Tuesday before the game. It could have been on the first play of the game. It could have been while opening beer cans. But there he was, again, hurt. The year before he missed seven regular-season games, plus the playoffs because of injuries. This uncertainty, I knew by now, would probably be a theme for Jim’s whole career. It would probably make me check into a mental facility.

By Tuesday he was wearing a big immobilizing collar around his neck, but he couldn’t practice, and I knew I was going to have to use Fuller, with Mike Tomczak as the backup quarterback. I mean, if you don’t practice, how in the hell can you play? But right away Jim started yapping about how there was “no possibility” he wouldn’t play. There were camera crews around. Joe Namath, Jim’s old childhood hero, I guess, had come to town to do something for TV about Mac. This was a big national game we were playing, and I knew everybody was fired up. But I’d let McMahon play four games in 1984 with a broken hand, and we’d lost two and been trailing when he came out of another. If he was hurt now, he was out. This was my new rule. Jesus, the guy was too sore even for his chiropractor to work on him!

Other guys were banged up a little, too. Walter had bad ribs, maybe they were busted. But he never said anything, so I knew he was playing. Hell, he only missed one game in his entire career. And that was before I was coach, and he cried because they wouldn’t let him in. He would never ask out of a game. You would have to cut his leg off for that to happen. Kurt Becker, one of our offensive linemen, was bruised pretty bad. Covert had no feeling in his right arm. Maybe a pinched nerve, who knew? Dennis McKinnon had a hip pointer, and he was still recovering from that off-season knee surgery. But he was a tough son of a bitch, too. He never said anything about pain, but I knew what a hip pointer was. I had one in college, and I played with it, and the muscle slipped off the edge and down into my abdomen. You keep playing with it, and you get injections, and when the painkillers wear off, it hurts so much you can’t cough, you can’t fart, you can barely sit.

The weird thing Dennis did, though, was he started talking about the Vikings. “I don’t think they’re as good as their record says,” he said. Bulletin-board crap. Now I don’t advocate stuff like that. But if you can back it up, I guess it’s okay. And I wouldn’t change anything about Dennis. I loved him.

We go up to Minneapolis on Wednesday because of the league’s rule about being at the opposing site 24 hours in advance. This is a place I don’t like, especially just three days after our last game. Guys are definitely sore and hurting. McMahon doesn’t practice. Now he’s saying he thinks he hurt his back sleeping on his waterbed a week earlier. His waterbed. And he says he doesn’t need to practice at all, all he needs is to know the game plan and different formations. The media keeps asking me if McMahon is going to start. And I’m getting pissed off, and now I realize I actually want Fuller in there. He beat the Vikings the year before 34–3 when we clinched the division. He threw for two
touchdowns. I’d like to show that he, Steve Fuller—and we—can do it again without McMahon at quarterback. So everybody shut up and sit down. Steve Fuller is my guy.

The game started, and the noise in that damn roller rink was out of control. I hate the Metrodome. But the hell with it. There was a bigger problem. We were getting our asses handed to us.

The offense was sputtering along, doing nothing. I could see that Walter was not himself. And all of the time we were falling behind, McMahon was bugging the shit out of me. He was pouting down on the bench, then he was standing behind me, then he was following me around like a puppy. I turned around and almost stepped on top of him. “Put me in,” he was saying. “I can play. I’m fine.”

He was driving me crazy! We hadn’t practiced on Monday, then on Tuesday we were in shorts, no pads. We hadn’t changed much in our game plan, because there was no time. This is what we do, and the coaches can’t get pregnant with ideas. And Jim knew this. Get away from me! I’m thinking. But he’s right there like a mosquito, just pestering me to death.

At halftime we’re down 10–6. Then in the third quarter we close it to 10–9 on another Butler field goal, but Vikings quarterback Tommy Kramer throws a TD pass, and they’re up, 17–9. All we’ve gotten after seven drives into their territory are three Butthead field goals. It isn’t Fuller’s fault, but things just aren’t clicking.

“I can do it,” McMahon is saying. He’s driving me absolutely nuts.

“You can’t throw the ball!” I say to him. “And you know you can’t.”

“You gotta put me in,” he keeps saying. “I can throw.”

“How can I put you in? You haven’t practiced.”

But he did go through warmups. I don’t know how. But he did. That much was true.

“Put me in.”

“I don’t want you getting hurt all over again.”

I wanted to win with Fuller. I thought about how we’d had to do it without McMahon before, and we’d probably have to again. I wanted to show we could do it for me, too. To prove to myself I didn’t need him, that as a team, we really didn’t need anybody.

Jim keeps standing beside me, then in front of me. Yapping away. The game’s going on, and I’m trying to coach.

“Shut up!” I say. “We’re trying to win!”

Then the third quarter’s half over, and our ass is up against the wall. He’s like a little rat terrier, this McMahon guy, biting my ankle.

“Okay,” I say. “You’re in.”

I call a play, and I don’t remember what it was, but McMahon gets to the line and I can tell he’s calling an audible. Jesus. Lord help me, he’s calling out “Blue-69,” which is a weak-side takeoff for Willie Gault, a fly route.

“Get away from me! I’m thinking. But he’s right there like a mosquito, just pestering me to death.”

—Ditka on McMahon

Now the thing about McMahon is he has the uncanny ability to recognize a blitz just by reading the defense. He could look at a safety and know what was coming just from the safety’s alignment, just from his eyes, just from his attitude and body language. So Willie takes off on the left side, and here comes the blitz. There was no way we could pick it up with our blocking. So Payton nails one guy really good and then takes just a piece out of the other guy. It was like bumper pool. McMahon’s falling back, and at the last second he heaves the ball and, my God, it’s a perfect pass, and Willie catches it for a 70-yard touchdown.