I was a Bears baby, too

The other day, we saw the story of Chicagoan Colleen Pavelka, who had her child's birth induced so it wouldn't conflict with her husband's enjoyment of the Bears-Saints game. She was hailed as wife of the year. Unique. Well, that wasn't the first time something like this happened.

My mother did it, too. I was born Dec. 29, 1963, and the night before labor was to be induced, my parents called the doctor and put off my birth until after the Bears game. They beat the Giants that day to win the championship. Then I was born, and Chicago's long sports slide began.

To me, it was some sort of cruel joke from the gods, born hours after a title and not seeing another one for 22 years. Life as the Chicago sports jinx.

Twenty-two years old. Zero major championships, forcing myself to care about Karl-Heinz Granitza, the shootout and the Chicago Sting. The '85 Bears were the first champion.

Bears quarterback Rex Grossman complained that the Chicago media are a bunch of glass-half-empty people. Look, Rex: When I was a kid, having Chicago sports as a glass even half-empty would have been a dream come true. All that losing brought the city together in a strange way.

Chicago is a different place now, with mixed-and-matched expectations based on age. I looked up all the winners of the Super Bowl, World Series, NBA Finals and Stanley Cup, starting with Da Bears in January 1986. And guess what?

Chicago is the City of Champions.

Ha! One title from the Bears, six from the Bulls and one from the White Sox in that time. That's eight titles. No city has more, though New York is tied. If the Bears beat the Colts in the Super Bowl, then Chicago stands alone.

If you're 25 years old, then you are defined by championships (except from the Cubs, who are defined by goats). But Chicagoans from their mid-30s to early 50s can't put the words ''City of Champions'' and ''Chicago'' in the same sentence without adding ''Ha!'' on the end.

On average, Chicago has been winning a major title roughly every 2½ years. How can today's punk kids possibly appreciate this?

They figure that if the Bears lose, another title will come in a couple years. To me, you can't take championships lightly because another one might never come.

Put it this way: If the Bears beat the Colts, I'll feel bad for Chicago kids born that night.

Today's 25-year-olds grew up watching Michael Jordan fly. Their first memories are of the Fridge in the Super Bowl.

Mine are of my dad and a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. It was 1969, and by summer's end, my dad went to get a haircut, and his barber, a young man, was bald! He had lost his hair in a bet with a Mets fan.

Remember, Jordan hadn't made baldness stylish yet. This was pure horror to a kid.

The Cubs' collapse of 1969 turned a Norman Rockwell moment into this: Kid. Chicago sports. Losing. Horror.

It all equated back then.

Following Chicago sports was about the Cubs' collapse, about the South Side Hitmen not making it. It was sneaking a transistor radio under the covers to listen to the Hawks blow Game 7 to the Canadiens, or watching highlights of the Bulls blowing the final minutes of Game 7 to the Lakers. Turnover, turnover, turnover, and not being able to stop it.

By the time the Bears next made the playoffs, in 1977, they lost to the Cowboys 37-7. When they finally got their first first down, some Bear spiked the ball in celebration -- and was penalized. At least, that's the memory of a glass-half-empty guy.

Last week, Chicago historian Rich Lindberg said the 2005 champion Sox haven't surpassed the 1959 World Series-losing Sox in fans' hearts. That's because today's Chicagoans take championships for granted.

Advice: If the Bears win, don't do that. Today, baldness means MJ and the City of Champions. To some, baldness and Chicago sports means horror!