Rex's prettiest pass is one for memory banks
How far would the ball have traveled if its flight hadn't been interrupted by architecture and humanity?
Sixty, 70 yards? A thousand?
All the way to redemption?
The clock had ticked to zero, and the Bears had blown the Cinderella Saints back to reality with a 39-14 white-out.
The NFC championship belonged to Chicago for the first time in 21 years.
The Super Bowl beckoned.
And Grossman, the much-maligned Bears quarterback whose greatest quality is just winning, baby, was out of his mind with joy.
''I mean, it doesn't get any better than this,'' he babbled.
And redemption?
(Although exactly what does a guy whose record as a Bears starter, all games, is 20-8, need redemption from?)
''Redemption and all that,'' Grossman said, ''that's for you guys to write about.''
So we will.
The hype machine is now officially in two-week overdrive.
But if the Bears were, as a growing number of critics had written, the worst 14-3 team ever assembled, how about this yo-mama facial?
Sure, Saints quarterback Drew Brees threw the ball 49 times for 354 yards, and Bush caught a short, floating pass that he turned into a dazzling 88-yard touchdown.
But all this proved was that the Saints were behind all day, playing catch-up.
And that Bush is a freshly stuffed hot dog, mustard included.
The sauntering, finger-pointing last few yards of his run, followed by a cute somersault over the goal line, topped off by a shimmying, look-at-me dance in the end zone, may have been one of the stupidest shows in a while.
Do you really want to rile a nasty beast like Pro Bowl linebacker Brian Urlacher, who was trailing Bush?
The water bottle that flew out of the south stands in rage was indicative of the Bears' mind-set.
''That [ticked] me off,'' Bears defensive end Adewale Ogunleye said of Bush's antics. ''To turn around and taunt Brian, taunt basically this whole team, was a slap in the face.''
The slap would propel a fired-up Ogunleye to sack Brees shortly thereafter, forcing a fumble, which Ogunleye recovered.
And that change of possession led to perhaps the most delicious moment in Bears history since Mike Ditka and his 1985 lunatics ruled the earth.
It was early in the fourth quarter, and the Bears were leading 25-14.
Bernard Berrian had made his stupendous 33-yard touchdown catch, completing it by somersaulting backward on the turf at the 1-yard line (definitely not a hot-dog move), rising still untouched and darting into the end zone.
Tight end Desmond Clark had lifted Berrian up over his head like a doll in celebration.
''I was so excited,'' Clark said. ''He weighs like 160 pounds, and he just kept going up and up.''
But a 25-14 lead is just a touchdown, a two-point conversion and a field goal from a tie game.
Nothing was locked up.
Not even by the fact Urlacher was playing like a new hybrid defender, lining up as a 260-pound cornerback on one play, nearly decapitating running backs on others.
Of Bush's taunt, the middle linebacker said icily, ''I think we're going to the Super Bowl.''
But now it was second-and-seven on the Saints' 12-yard line, and the outcome was not guaranteed.
Little did Smith know he would be joined in history by Colts coach Tony Dungy -- his thinner, equally even-keeled clone -- in four hours.
But at this moment, the past seemed to be nearly replicating itself.
For those of us who were at Soldier Field 21 years ago, watching the Bears crush the Los Angeles Rams 24-0 for the NFC championship, the deja vu was in the atmosphere, in the dim skyline, in the uniforms, in the snow now sprinkling gently down like the specks inside a shaken glass Christmas ball.
Grossman, the quarterback who has cast all injury doubts aside while starting every game for the Bears this season, handed the ball to Benson.
Off left guard Benson bolted, and then the oft-doubted first-round draft pick (sound familiar, Rex?) broke clear and crashed into the end zone for a 12-yard touchdown that put the game out of reach, 32-14.
It was so much like the fumble that Wilber Marshall had run ecstatically upfield for the nail-driving score in the fourth quarter in that NFC title game on Jan. 12, 1986, that anyone who had seen each had to feel stunned.
''When I broke through, there were no defenders basically in front of me,'' said Benson, his arms covered with oddly green grass stains. ''They could hit me from the side all they wanted.''
Told that the snow was like a symbol from that olden, golden era, Benson nodded in thought.
''I didn't know that,'' he said. ''I was in the moment.''
A moment now frozen in equal beauty.
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