74 CHICAGO | SEPTEMBER 2019
PHOTOGRAPHY: (NIKE CAMP) CAMERON GOOD; (DITKA) COURTESY OF CHICAGO BEARS; (GAME) BRIAN CASSELLA/CHICAGO TRIBUNETHERE’S A MISCOMMUNICATION ON
the route. The receiver is supposed to
stop and face the quarterback, but he
keeps running and the ball hits him on
the side. The pass was a light toss — a real
lollipop — but it lands with a smack. The
wideout twists his face into a grimace,
and the crowd holds its collective breath.
Oh no, is he about to cry?
Chicago Bears quarterback Mitch
Trubisky has been throwing passes for
much of the morning with varying suc-
cess. In his defense, the receivers have
been all over the place. In their defense,
they are children.
Trubisky is at Pilsen’s Harrison Park
for Go Play Day, which isn’t a charity
event per se but rather a branded Nike
promotion encouraging kids to stay
active. Trubisky is the center of atten-
tion. It’s hard for him not to be. He’s a
massive dude, thick as a tractor tire and
broad enough to shade a huddle of chil-
dren from the mid-July sun.
The last time Chicago saw Trubisky
was January’s wild-card game against
the Eagles, when the second-year quar-
terback led the Bears into field goal range
with a miraculous last-minute drive.
Well, nearly miraculous. The infamous
“double-doink” kick ended the team’s
season, but the playoff beard Trubisky
started growing remains. The effect is
striking in an Amish sort of way. It’s as
if he spent Rumspringa lifting weights
and drinking protein shakes.
Trubisky is pushed and pulled
around Harrison Park from the time he
gets there. A burly Bears security offi-
cial does his best to keep people away,
but the pocket is easily breached and
the quarterback is beset by requests
for autographs and selfies. Trubisky
obliges, remaining unflinchingly polite;
I think I even hear him call a young teen
“sir.” Meanwhile, two police officers
are brought in to clear space around
him — whoops, now they’re asking to take
a photo, too.
The kids have been as patient and
polite as Trubisky, though the same
can’t be said for all of the adults. “Hecould sign autographs for everyone,” an
exasperated man holding a football says
to two children. “It would only take him
10 minutes.” The man paces around and
returns to the kids. “That’s the funny
t h ing. He cou ld sig n ever y t h ing in under
five minutes.” He groans when the event
MC announces that Trubisky has time for
just one more throw.
On his way out, as he walks to a wait-
ing SUV, Trubisky passes a T-ball game,
and a smattering of parents yell from the
stands: “Mitch!” “Super Bowl!” “Mitchell!”
A man wearing a Bears shirt bellows,
bizarrely, “Go Packers! Let’s go Packers!”
This is just a taste of what it’s like
to play quarterback for a franchise that
has been more or less wretched at the
position for the overwhelming major-
ity of its century-long history. The