My Dad, Bear Fan, Husband, Bear Fan, Father, Bear Fan...He was Da' Bears!

In the previous chapters I have written about my dad and his passion for the Chicago Bears. They were his Juliet. They were the very oxygen he breathed. Quite literally, my dad could wear something with a Bear logo on it daily for months without repeating an outfit. He bled orange and blue. To Joseph Robert Connolly the Bears were the one thing that always gave him happiness. Sometimes to a point of distraction to life itself. I say that with understanding, not resentment.

Through frustrating losses and pathetic seasons my dad was a Homer, a loyalist! If the team didn't win a game for an entire season he would be there to cheer them on.To an Irishman, loyalty and commitment to a cause is as thick as blood itself. He took that loyalty to heaven with him. While he was here he taught me that loyalty to friends is unshakable and unbreakable. I live with that loyalty to those I love, almost to a fault.

I may repeat some bits and pieces about my dad here, but forgive me if I do. He is heavy on my heart today. The game against the Seattle Seahawks is more than just a playoff game in my world. It is part of the final act of the season he lived and died in. He is also a permanent part of the Bear's legacy and Soldier Field itself, as you soon will know. The Bears were a part of our last conversation before he went to meet Walter, Halas, Piccolo and all the other great Bears that have long since past.

My dad was a season ticket holder from the days when they played on Pulaski Street, Wrigley Field and Soldier Field. I started going when I was a wee boy. It was a frigid day at my first game and we ate bologna sandwiches in the parking lot. We always had great parking at the games. My dad always "knew a guy." The Bears were no exception. It was Porky, a city of Chicago event employee, who would bend the rules and move a sawhorse to allow my Dad to park right next to the stadium. As a kid I was amazed as Porky let us drive right through. My pops gave him a special "handshake" to thank him for the favor he had done.

Our seats were in the north end zone in the 130's section, straight between the goal post and about 30 rows underneath the giant scoreboard. I would be dressed in a snow mobile suit provided by my dad that was packed with about 12 beers. I was a mule, a runner at the tender age of 6. I would waddle up to our seats, heavy laden and lumpy. I was a miniature beer Michelin Man. As I approached our section the cat calls would begin. "Oh No! It's the kiss of death!" This was a nickname I held for years because every time I went to the game the Bears would lose! After the first few losses I really began to think I WAS A CURSE! They were right! I was too young to realize they just plain stunk.

It was at these early games that I tasted pepperoni for the first time. An Italian buddy named Lou always brought a huge bag of the stuff and I couldn't get enough of it. When I would come to games in my young days, Lou would shout out to me as I climbed the stairs, "Hey Tommy, I brought you some pepperonis!" After I plunked myself down in my seat the beer stash would be unloaded from my overfilled winter wear and distributed to the "crew." In those early days the seats were wooden planks, scaffolding actually, and if you dropped something it fell 3 stories to the gravel below. This was perfect for cleaning up the evidence of our smuggled contraband.

Transistor radio tucked in pocket, and ear piece shoved in ear, my dad would escape into football heaven. I was just learning the game. I would watch my dad during the game and see his face light up at a rare touchdown or turn beet red at a fumble or interception. I enjoyed just staring at his contentment at where he was in the moment. His love for the team transferred over to me easily and we enjoyed many, many games together.

By the time I got older, tailgating was a ritual my dad reveled in. There were multi-grill cooking stations and a seemingly endless variety of meats and snacks for all to enjoy prior to the game. He would later be known for the "Bobby Burger", a hamburger mixture that was accented with a ring of pineapple on top. He would invite brother fans into our camp to enjoy a burger or beer at will. He loved anyone who loved his team.

When he was nearing the end of his season here, I told him that I would take some of his ashes back to Ireland and also sprinkle him on Soldier Field. He cried at the thought. They were endearing tears, filled with the love of his team and thanks for the permanent gesture. He passed on July 21, 2010. His last intelligible words to me were "Don't forget the Bears game is on tonight..." They were not playing but I just kissed him on the cheek and said, "I will Dad." It hurt thinking about his words for awhile after he passed. Now I hold the deepest gratitude that those simple words were his last to me and a testament to his love for me and his team.

On November 17, 2010 the Bears faced off against the Seahawks. I had 2 vials of my dad's ashes with me. One was to be sprinkled where we tailgated, the other on the field. I knew that it was against the law to sprinkle ashes on the field, but a night in county jail was the price I was more than willing to pay for making my Dad a permanent part of the place he loved so much. That Irish loyalty to my dather would not be broken, no matter what the consequences. He laid his ass on the line for me a million times. A night in jail was not foreign to me and his final tribute would be completed at any cost.

My uncle Bob took his seat inside while I made my way to the museum parking lot where so many memories live. A bus staging area now inhabits our original tailgating land claim. Over the years we sometimes had to move to another spot if an earlier bird staked claim to our spot before our arrival. A small row of trees lines McFetridge at Lake Shore Drive. I went over to a spot we once used for our pregame party and introduced myself to the revelers there, announcing my intentions. They found the tribute poignant and held hands around the tree as I gingerly poured my father's dusty remains under it. I said a prayer. They took a picture and cheered in my father's honor. Now for the complicated part, the field mission.

I made my way into the stadium and down to the field. Security staff lined the sidelines and end zones, spaced out about every 30 yards. I told a gentleman my plan and he said I should work my way down the aisle centered between 2 of the field security agents. I was shaking and knew arrest was possible, if not likely. As I made my way through the front row, honing in on my drop point, I kicked over the beer of an already drunken fan. I apologized and explained my intent. His reply was, "That's illegal you know." I was shocked and angered by his insensitivity and shot back, "So is drinking and driving!" I gave his buddy 10 bucks to cover damages to his friend and continued on.

Now situated between the two field watchdogs I was thrilled to feel the wind at my back coming off the lake. God was lending me a hand. I darted my eyes back and forth between the two gentleman and uncapped the second vial. When they were both looking away I tossed my father's ashes, letting the lake breeze do the rest. My mission completed, I said an I love you to my dad and ran up the aisle into the crowd. Certain that I may have been seen, I removed my coat and put on a cap to change my look. Irish cunning at it's finest. I slipped into the masses and made my way back to my uncle Bob and sat in my dad's seat. I was overcome with elation and adrenalin.

As the F-15's roared overhead my uncle Bob and I hugged. My dad was a proud Vet. I looked around for security closing in but they never arrived. I remember little of the game, beyond the fact that we lost by a few points. I spent the game reliving the many memories I had shared with my dad in the beautiful stadium and pictured him smiling down from heaven at a job well done.

I knew we would make the playoffs this year. It was the year for my dad. Many FB friends can recollect the predictions my dad was sending me from beyond during the regular season. He was right most of the time. The game tomorrow against the Seahawks will be won by the Bears. It is as simple as that. They may not make it to the Superbowl but in my heart I truly think they will. The line from my Pop on the game: Bears 24, Seahawks 17.

As I finish up here I am sitting in my dad's favorite robe, wearing a pair of his many Bear pajama pants. He is with me always. The tears have spilled out and give me relief. I don't cry often and when I do it seems to relieve a mountain of pent up stress. Win or lose, I know my Dad is enjoying his new life above and hanging with the "Bear Crew". Remember, I said this is HIS season.

On one last note always remember that we really only have today. Our family and friends can be gone in an instant. So can we. If there is a family member or friend who you are on the outs with CALL THEM. It may be your last conversation. Life is too short for anger and resentment. The years of not talking to a friend or loved one can most likely be traced back to a silly or insignificant disagreement. You may have even forgotten what the disagreement was about. Don't leave this earth with "I shoulda's and coulda's!" Forgive! Live! Living life free of enemies and resentments is liberating and contenting. Pick up the phone now! Remember today is a gift, that's why it's called the present! Go Bears! Dad, I love you! Thanks for taking me to all those games and sharing your passion with me. I am a proud Bear fan and your grateful son!

New Years Eve 1997, Some Drinks, Some Tears and a Popsicle!

I don't remember the 90's. It seems like such a simple sentence when it rolls off the tongue. When it rolls off of mine it stings. By the end of the Nineties I was nearly dead and in a 10 year blackout. I missed a lot of Bill Clinton, who I liked, and a lot more of Nirvana, whom I thought were overrated. Mother Love Bone, Pearl Jam, Alice-in-Chains and Soundgarden were the true pioneers of the "Seattle Sound," or "Grunge" as far as I'm concerned. Nirvana was at the right place at the right time. Sorry to my Seattle area mates, Ian McLennon Shipp and Angela Kirby, if you disagree. A Mick has an opinion or several of them on any subject.

One of the things I do to deflect feelings of discomfort is to tell a joke to redirect a conversation. When my emotions take a turn I don't like, or that create fear in me, a quick witted comeback or smart ass comment is immediate relief. It works great as a comedian and actor, but not so well when I am in a serious conversation with a friend or loved one. I use it as a defense mechanism. I would rather feel laughter than "feel" others pain because I get frustrated when I can't help solve their problem. By making them laugh I have given them a moment of relief...but I digress.

At the end of the 90's I was in my third failed marriage. Although married a year we never spent more than a few days together before my booze and her temper broke up the bliss. I was living in my car part time and in sleazy hotels the other half. New Year's Eve was on a Wednesday in 1997. My on and off wife and I went to a prepackaged dinner party. I drank, she yelled and the night was over before the prerequisite confetti, horns and warm hearted kisses.

I dropped her off at her apartment and should not have been driving. I headed back toward the strip of transient hotels on Lagrange Road in Stone Park. As I approached the corner of Grand Avenue to turn onto Lagrange I could see a police road block set up in the middle of the street about a quarter mile from where I had just turned. I was absolutely over the legal limit and switched into survival mode. Spotting a familiar dumpy motel I had stayed at before on my left, I pulled into the drive smooth as silk. I had out smarted the law and savored the familiar adrenalin rush one experiences knowing catastrophe had been averted.

I had little money but not enough for the innkeeper. He knew me well and in a pathetic nod said it was okay for me to sleep in the parking lot. I assured him I was going to get paid Friday and would check in respectably. I was instantly taken back to Wimpy from Popeye. "Can I borrow a quarter for a hamburger, for which I will gladly repay you on Tuesday?" I navigated my car into an empty spot, or two, and set out for the liquor store across the street. An addict always makes sure, that when choosing a place to rest his head, that there is liquor, an ATM, a laundry mat and fast food within stumbling distance. All of the necessities a gentleman of my station needed.

I bought enough booze to help me pass out quickly. It was well below zero and my car had no heat. I was dressed in a business suit with no coat. I recrossed the busy roadway laughing at the suckers getting hauled away by the coppers a few blocks down. Not me! It was party time. I had a pair of sweat pants in my car and a blue U-Haul blanket. I was cock sure that I wasn't a drunk. I was a SURVIVOR! I wasn't homeless. I was just camping in my car.

I guzzled the pint of Vodka in a few deep, burning gulps. I chased it with a grape soda for sophistication. The late night radio talk show host, who talks about aliens and UFOs, was a familiar companion. I slipped my sweat pants over my now wrinkly tailored suit pants, wrapped myself in the greasy blue blanket and wept in desperation that I couldn't take much more. I always thought I would die before 40. Now the horrifying realization that my madhouse life could continue infinitum was seeping into my fragile psyche.

As the windows frosted up inside, the warmth of my flammable breath was the only source of heat the car provided. I passed out for an hour, waking to more UFO talk. I slept another hour and awoke to a new voice. The third time I woke up the sun was cracking its way through the New Year dawn. It was now 1998 and I was sure things would be different.

1998 did begin a new twist in my alcohol abuse and chaotic existence. As I flipped the driver seat back to upright I scratched at the heavy frost to peer out at the New Year. My crotch was so cold. I felt as if I was naked. I leaned into the door to nudge it open and immediately discovered why I felt so naked. During the course of the night I had unknowingly pissed all over myself and it had frozen! As my head pounded I shivered uncontrollably I picked the yellow ice chunks from my once lovely suit. I tried to exit the car but was also frozen to the seat and couldn't move.

I had reached a new low in wetting myself. I would do it hundreds of times later. This first time horrified me. I hadn't peed myself since I was a kid! As I worked myself back and forth I could hear the sounds of carpet tearing, but it was my pantsicle unpeeling from my portable home. I was demoralized, broken and the Mr. Freeze of Piss! I had a solution though! It worked for me many times before and after that. I slithered back across the street and bought a bottle of booze and got some quarters for the laundry.

After downing my liquid potato breakfast I was ready for the new day. I slipped into a pair of gym shorts I had in the back seat and set my sails for the laundry mat. The disgust of my new bottom was gone. Denial was a welcomed mate. I had escaped the police and me again. I sat in the filthy laundry mat watching my clothes go around and around. My life was like that. I was just going around and around, but a dryer shuts off after a few minutes demanding another quarter. My body kept the cycle going and going, around and around. It didn't stop because I kept feeding it the booze it demanded.