Sunday Night, December 28

I bought the tickets in February, early enough that the season still felt distant.

At the time, it was simple: the Bears were playing the 49ers again, and last year had been fun. Another Christmas present. Another afternoon game. Something familiar we could look forward to without having to think too hard about it.

By December, the season had rearranged itself.

The Bears were no longer the team they’d been last year—tentative, rebuilding, hopeful in theory. They were good now. Competitive in a way that showed up week after week. The 49ers, meanwhile, spent much of the season absorbing injuries, one after another, just enough to make things feel unstable. There were moments I wondered if buying the tickets so early had been optimistic. If the game would matter the way I’d imagined.

But both teams kept going.

Chicago surged.

San Francisco adjusted.

Somewhere in that tension, the game shifted. Afternoon turned into Sunday night. The flex felt like confirmation, not of hype, but of relevance. This matchup had earned its place.

By the time we arrived at Levi’s Stadium, the air was cold and clear, stadium lights already on. Everything felt sharper than last year, louder, brighter, more awake.

We looked exactly like ourselves.

Tom and the boys in Bears hoodies and jerseys, layered and committed.

Me in red, a 49ers sweatshirt, and a Kristin Juszczyk puffer, quietly aware of how cleanly we divided down team lines. Around us, other families mirrored the same negotiations, shared snacks, different colors, competing hopes.

Before kickoff, I heard that George Kittle wasn’t playing. An ankle injury from Monday's game. Official. Final.

He’s my favorite, not just for what he does on the field, but for how visibly he enjoys being there. I still looked for him anyway, scanning the sidelines between drives, unwilling to drop the habit.

It took a while, but I found him.

Not suited up. Just standing. Clapping. Leaning forward. Cheering for his teammates like presence still mattered. That settled something for me.

The game refused to calm down.

Not because of mistakes, but because both offenses kept finding ways through. Long drives. Clean execution. Answers that came quickly enough to keep anyone from settling. It felt less like momentum and more like endurance, who could stay sharp longer.

There were moments that stayed with me, not because they decided anything, but because of how they were played. McCaffrey pushing through contact. Purdy staying composed when protection broke down. Juszczyk appearing exactly where he was needed, doing the quiet work.

And the Bears answered. Confident drives that didn't rush or retreat, just kept showing up, possession after possession, like they expected to be taken seriously.

We were on our feet more than we were in our seats.

The boys cheered. I cheered back. Sometimes against them. Sometimes with them. No one softened it. No one needed to.

The Bears didn’t win.

But they didn’t fade either.

Walking out, no one was quiet, not from disappointment, not from celebration. Just tired in that good way, voices overlapping, replaying moments that already felt larger than the score.

I thought about February, about how little I knew then.

About how often we make plans based on a version of things that hasn’t yet been tested.

Some plans don’t unfold neatly.

They stretch. They change. They ask you to stay attentive.

This one did.