The '85 Bears: We Were the Greatest (18 page)

The Green Bay Packers and Bears have played, as of this writing, 179 times. The two teams are separated by about 175 miles, many different heroes, villains, successes, failures, and—as Wisconsinites will quickly remind those from down south—the Illinois state line. That border, their T-shirts will tell you, is the difference between “a Cheesehead and a--head.” Being in the NFC Central and vying for the same title year after year since George Halas and Curly Lambeau were young men have made the battles between Green Bay and Chicago especially spirited. If that’s the word.
Hate
comes to mind. Or at least it did when Ditka’s teams played.

“I never really disliked anybody up there. Respect is important, more than hatred.”

—Ditka on Green Bay

The Bears of 1985 were already a major success. They were undefeated, of course. But now they were becoming more of an attraction, a media fascination, R-rated variety show, so to speak. They were something new in the sports field, entertainment in and of themselves, complete and self-contained. All they needed was the random foe. Ditka would never put it that way. He worried as he coached. But this first Packers game of the season was in Chicago, on the shores of Lake Michigan, at artificial-turf-clad Soldier Field, and that soothed him some. It was a homecoming of sorts, because the Bears had been on the road the last two games. And it was the team’s first foray of the season into the fiery-hot glare of ABC’s monumentally rated
Monday Night Football.
The scene was set for something dramatic—or at least melodramatic—to happen. Ditka would never let folks down.

Now, you have to understand
I don’t hate the Packers. The Old Man had tried to instill that in me, the hatred—he tried to drum it in to me. But I never hated the Packers. I never wanted to kill them or see them as mortal enemies. I respected those players, because I knew that they were part of a great organization, one of the best, as far as I’m concerned. At least under Lombardi they sure were. I never really disliked anybody up there. Respect is important, more than hatred. I never even disliked the Green Bay fans. They always treated me pretty well, even with all of the booing. They could get on me at Lambeau Field pretty damn good, but this game was at Soldier Field, our home.

If there was an issue at all, it was that we wanted to go all the way this year, and Green Bay was a roadblock in our path. Also, their coach was Forrest Gregg, a guy I’d played against when he was with the Packers and I was with the Bears, and I knew him pretty well.

I liked Forrest Gregg. I mean I never disliked him. Didn’t hate him. But the year before, in the preseason, we were playing them up in Milwaukee at the Shriner’s Game thing, and they were going to win the game—I mean, it’s just August and we’re looking at different players—and he did some stuff at the end of the game I didn’t appreciate. The game was over, for all intents and purposes, and they were trying to score or something—why I don’t know—and I told the press afterward that it was stupid, that he was stupid, that all that could happen was somebody
would get hurt doing this stupid crap.

I know I was wrong to say anything. It was football. But he got pissed off at me, and then I got pissed off at him, and it lingered through all of 1984. But this game was important. Just to win, the hell with Forrest Gregg. Here was the thing. During the week I actually put in plays for William Perry at fullback, plays we practiced. I had already used him as a runner to kill the clock, and the world went nuts. Let’s see how the world liked having him block, too. And, hmm, what about this mammoth guy, the guy Hampton had nicknamed “Biscuit”—because he was a biscuit over 350 in training camp—actually scoring? Fridge, the touchdown-maker. I liked the concept.

We started out like crap, fumbling three times, and the Packers took the lead 7–0. It was the second quarter and we finally started to move, getting down to the Green Bay 2-yard line. I yelled, “William, get in there!” Out Perry rumbles, and the Monday Night crowd goes bananas. He lined up over right tackle and made the lead block for Walter. He hit Packers linebacker George Cumby and he just, I don’t know, absorbed the poor guy. Cumby weighed 90 pounds less than Fridge, and he took him on high and, my God, I thought they’d end up in Michigan. Walter scored like it was nothing, like he was eating an apple at a picnic.

Not long after that we got down to the goal line again, and I signaled for Fridge to get out there. He went out and lined up behind right tackle, as usual. But this time Jim handed him the ball. Fridge charged into the blockers and dove across the goal line like I guess he’d seen Walter do before. I thought the end zone would tilt. I mean this guy has a 22-inch neck, wears a size 58 coat. He could bench 465. Ray Sons wrote after the game in the
Sun-Times
that it was “the best use of fat since the invention of bacon.”

Now the crowd is truly nuts. I can tell the difference in the sound. Perry has turned the game around, and football fans everywhere are watching and enjoying this. Call it a sideshow. I called it beating their ass. Think about it. How would you stop a man that size coming directly at you?

With a little more than a minute left in the half, we get down to the goal line one more time. I fiddle around and send in a couple of other substitutes. Everybody is chanting, “Per-ree! Per-ree!” I know what they want, but let’s tease this for just a second. What the hell, it’s entertainment, isn’t it? Okay, Fridge, get on out there! Now McMahon is waving his arms in circles, getting the roaring crowd even more pumped up. Perry lines up on the other side this time, just for the variation, over left tackle, and I can see poor Cumby is across from him once again. He has to follow because of their defensive scheme or whatever. Mac gives the ball to Payton, who follows behind Fridge, who obliterates Cumby once more.

“I felt like I was stealing,” is what Walter said afterward about the touchdown. Cumby said something about how he thought about taking on one side of Perry, but it didn’t matter because “one side is as big as another.”

We were ahead 21–7, and a legend was being built. We went on to win 23–7 after Otis Wilson sacked their third quarterback, Jim Zorn, for a safety at the end. Naturally, we had beaten up all of their quarterbacks. Just abused them. Five sacks. That’s just the way the D was.

“Who would have guessed that in 25 years there would be 300-pounders everywhere in the NFL and people even bigger than Fridge just walking down the streets?”

—Ditka

It was a good show, and I think it helped get everybody’s mind off of the humbling week the head coach had had. Yeah, it had been a humiliating thing, and maybe it just showed I could make mistakes like anybody. Was I perfect? No. But we’re flying back from a huge win, we’re at 35,000 feet for four hours, there’s some wine, we have that good feeling you get from doing something well…. But in life, we learn and we move on.

Things changed. William Perry was booked to be on David Letterman, and he was getting offers to do ads, T-shirts, posters, endorsements, all kinds of things. I heard somebody was even talking about a toy robot of Fridgie. Maybe they could have called it by the other nickname Hampton gave him, “Mudslide.” And pretty soon Buddy started using him on defense, moving Hampton to end and sitting Mike Hartenstine more. I won’t say Buddy was surrendering. He would never use that word, never say it. But he backed off a little because he realized Perry deserved to be on the field and that his defensive line needed relief at times.

In fact, with a guy like Perry, the NFL was actually changing, moving to a new place. There were only a couple big guys back when I played, guys like Les Bingaman. But I hardly remember anybody being over 300 or even close to 300. In 1985 America liked this fat stuff. It appealed to the regular guy. It was a novelty. Who would have guessed that in 25 years there would be 300-pounders everywhere in the NFL and people even bigger than Fridge just walking down the streets?

My main concern was still injuries—injuries to Jim McMahon more than anybody else. Keeping him healthy was almost impossible. He practiced like a lineman. He showed little or no regard for his body. I really think he was trying to prove to his teammates that, “Hey, I am the toughest guy out here.” I think a lot of offensive players bought into what he was doing. Jesus, he’d do head butts with Van Horne, bad neck, bad back and all! Even the defensive players bought into it. This guy was crazy, in a football way, and they couldn’t help but appreciate that.

Whether you liked Jim McMahon or not, he was a tough football player and a good leader by example. He was kind of nuts, but I think ultimately he was respected by everybody on our team. He drove me insane and he pissed me off. I guarantee you he and Hampton didn’t get along. But he could lead, because deep down inside all that stuff, he had a brilliant football mind. He had a near photographic memory for downs, situations, blitzes, alignments, weaknesses, all of it. But I think he is wacky, and I think he didn’t cultivate it. His different drum beat was he had an authority problem—me, his dad, his head football coach in college, Lavelle Edwards. He was a Catholic and he went to BYU—all Mormons—and I heard BYU never forgot, either. I’ll bet he tested that program
more than anyone in history. He had his own problems, and he has worked on those throughout his life. And as I said, we all make mistakes. But he was what he was. And we rode it. When we could.

Coming into the week of the second Minnesota game, Jim had a bruised arm, a sprained ankle, and a sore butt cheek that was black and blue and hemorrhaging. Would he be able to play? Who knew?

As it turned out, he did play, and the O-line kept him off his posterior. Wally ran for over 100 yards, and Fridge played for the first time at nose tackle, on first downs, precisely why we drafted him. He got his first sack, too, when he nailed Tommy Kramer on their opening possession. I didn’t even use him on offense, because we never had a goal-line situation. See, Buddy? This guy wasn’t a wasted draft choice.

We beat the Vikings pretty easily 27–9. We were 8–0 and cooking.

Looking at the old papers, I see that really dumb-ass Dunkel thing. Even a stupid Dunkel can figure stuff out eventually. At last we were rated No. 1 in the NFL. Took them long enough to figure it out.