Bears' Justin "Jet" Fields unlike anything we've ever seen

It was almost as exciting as any run I have ever seen in my 46-plus years on Planet Earth.

That's right. Seeing Chicago Bears second-year quarterback Justin Fields narrowly escape significant bodily harm for 39 breathtaking yards against NFC leader Philadelphia on Sunday, was like watching a magician make something vanish right before your eyes without logical explanation.

In this case, defenders, specifically. Lots of them.

Midway through the second quarter, the Bears and Fields were facing 2nd and 27 from the Philly 48, trailing, 3-0. 

Fields was under center in a three-wide receiver set. After the snap, two of the receivers, plus tight end Cole Kmet, lined up on the far left of the line, all ran routes that were an almost identical distance of about 8 to 10 yards, which pausing the replay shows. 

It also reveals, as a result, a slew of Eagles' defenders blanketing the field like an 1800s Civil War cavalry that same 8 to 10 yards from the line of scrimmage in the secondary. At the exact same time, a four-tentacled pass rush blows the Bears' offensive line apart, and the play is at Defcon 1 in the blink of an eye.

95 percent of the time this scenario is a sack. But no. Not when Justin Fields is your team's staring quarterback.

Even when he was grabbed with both hands from behind in the backfield by Eagles linebacker Haason Reddick - a 12-sack ravenous dog who looks like a young Khalil Mack - Fields somehow squirmed out of being crushed by slipping out of his grasp like a pressurized tube of toothpaste violently squirts out its contents when squeezed.

Then, all hell broke loose. It was off to the races. 

Trouble was, those pesky Eagles defenders I mentioned were all still lurking in front of him 15 yards downfield. To many, this would spell doom. To Fields, it looked like golden opportunity.

After escaping Reddick's sentence, Fields looks to his left, briefly scans for receivers, but finds none. Instead, he bolts past two Eagles defensive linemen breathing down his neck to his right. Then, he hits the afterburners. And when I say afterburners, it's not just for effect.

Fields has clocked the fastest run speed times of any NFL player numerous times this season, punching in at over 20 MPH on multiple occasions.

Don't think that's lazer-like? Go watch a car driving 20 MPH, and tell me if you've ever seen a human being on foot keeping up with it at that speed.No, you haven't. None of us have, or do, in our everyday lives. It's not something but a handful of human beings on this planet are even capable of, physically.

But I digress. Because the fun hasn't even begun, kids.

After sprinting from his own 48 past the aforementioned Eagles' linemen, Justin Jet (that's what I'm nicknaming him, feel free to "take off" with the suggestion) reaches the Philadelphia 31 before you can say "abracadabra." And when he does, he's absolutely flying.

Without warning, Justin Jet gives us all Top Gun movie flashbacks, because he slams on the brakes so violently and rapidly, any mere mortal's hamstrings would have blown up attempting the same thing.

This video game maneuver leads to Justin cutting to his left so fast, he posterizes Philly LB and Lake Villa, Illinois native and Lakes Eagles alum T.J. Edwards, who is crossed over so badly, he falls flat on his hands and knees.

My apologies for singling you out here, T.J. It's nothing personal. After all, this is a Supernatural story I'm telling right now.

Fields then tightropes the left sideline to the 16, at which point the ridiculousness looks like it's been cornered. He has nowhere else to go but into traffic, or out of bounds.

Instead, Justin Jet chooses Option #3. 

Fields juke-fakes going to his right, to the bigger open space, then inexplicably cuts right back to his left, still hugging the sideline, as he watches safety K'Von Wallace's ankles get literally twisted and metaphorically broken. A metaphor for what you ask?

Where would I even begin? Regardless, Wallace falls to the ground as if he was hit with an invisible force field, rendering him a non-factor at the 11.

He then escapes a diving Eagles defender who gets their fingertips on him, but spins Fields around 360-degrees, forcing the edge of his shoe to barely clip the out-of-bounds chalk at the 9. 

With the Bears' adrenaline still raging furiously moments later, RB David Montgomery scores on a 9-yard TD run on the very next play, giving the Bears a 6-3 lead. At that very moment, the crowd at Soldier Field was monumentally loud.

And dare I say, it may have been the loudest moment this city has ever witnessed (hey, more metaphors) in this franchise's history, from a team with a 3-10 record?

Best of all, Justin Jet's 10-carry, 82-yard ground game, made him the franchise's single-season rushing yardage leader by a QB, and we've still got three regular season contests left, folks. 

Bestest of all (Oxford Dictionary claims "bestest" is a word and I don't believe them, but who am I to argue?) is this:

Fields also finished with two passing TDs, a 119.5 passer rating, and completed 66.7 percent of his throws. It was the eighth time this season he posted a rating of 84.0 or above, and his fourth time above 100 this year.

He checked down magnificently, taking what was given to him rather than forcing the issue. And if not for a Velus Jones fumble late in the fourth quarter, this story may have had a happier ending than its 25-20 downer of a conclusion at the hands of the Eagles, who frankly, were lucky to have won this football game.

On social media, I have pointed out all season how this team will need to pass the ball eventually more frequently and consistently to win football games. At which point I am almost always attacked by others pointing out the blatantly obvious to me:

This is a football team with a terrible pass-blocking offensive line, one with largely college caliber WRs that are probably lucky to be in an NFL lineup, frankly ... and look, I get it.

We all see what's there and what isn't. Even me, in my sometimes snarky but nonetheless true observations, grasps what still needs to be done before we start dreaming way bigger dreams involving Justin Jet.

Even Justin knows the miraculous stuff he's been doing on the gridiron is not, by itself, the Yellow Brick Road to a Super Bowl title. And the fact he's mature enough to also realize this, is great news.

 “No, sir,” Fields said after the Bears' 25-20 loss. “I don’t plan on rushing for 1,000 yards every year.”

If you do nothing else in this lifetime, Bears ... please, we all beg of you. Someone get this kid some real receiving weapons and an offensive line. 

Because he's already the most exciting Bears QB in team history. 

You can't blow this once-in-a lifetime Golden Ticket you've been handed, McCaskey family, and Ryan Poles.  

You just can't. 

It's not 1985 anymore. We don't need Doc and Marty's DeLorean revising the Super Bowl Shuffle anymore, which was 37 seasons ago.

Welcome to the Future. Starring the Justin "The Jet" Fields Land and Air Show. 

Buckle up. This is gonna get way more fun, as hard as that may be to believe, given what we've already witnessed from this generational young talent thus far.

 

Sox no Secretariat - Just a Prize Thoroughbread Built to Last

By Tim Froehlig

 

When I flipped on last Sunday's White Sox game and saw they were trailing, 6-0, headed to their half of the 9th at home against the Anaheim Angels, I caught myself letting out an audible half-sigh, half-groan while I stood in my bedroom staring at the TV screen in disbelief.

 

It was the 12th time in the last 15 games they headed to the ninth inning with three runs or fewer on the scoreboard, to open the 2022 season.

 

And during that three-week living hell as an avid baseball fan, and former player, I'd about had my fill of watching this team forget how to play baseball. 

 

I briefly pondered switching my TV off. Instead, a few moments later, I plopped my behind lazily down in a $14 blue fold-up chair they sell at WalMart, complete with mesh drink holder, and forced myself to watch the beginning of the Bottom of the 9th.

I listened to Sox announcer Jason Benetti go off on his usual tangent about some old memory - he's a nostalgic sort of fella - while his sidekick, Steve Stone, sounded like a man who wanted to go home.

Even he's seen enough baseball to know a down-streak like this doesn't come but maybe once a season in a true, bonafied, contending team.

Heck, all we need to do is travel to last season to understand what a fickle, cruel monster Old Lady Baseball can be. 

 

Just last fall, the eventual World Champion Atlanta Braves played .500 ball for three-quarters of the season, then became nuclear red-hot the rest of the way, like the legendary horse Secretariat taunting his opponents to win the Triple Crown.

 

 

 

Secretariat's nickname was "Big Red," a fitting metaphor for the White Sox's collective glowing embarrassment for coming out of the gate so slowly in 2022.

 

But unlike these Pale Hose, there was no such thing as disappointment, or embarrassment, with that once in a lifetime animal.

While I am not comparing the Sox to Secretariat, which would have been the 2005 White Sox, let's remind ourselves that we do have a damn fine specimen of thoroughbred on our hands at the moment on the South Side. 

Don't let their 9-13 record deceive you.

This team's mission remains simple: World Series or bust, and they just endured about as bad a start out of the gate as any perennial contender can or should.

It had us all frightened. Had we oversold and overhyped this group?

 

Anyway, where was I? Let's regroup. Horse metaphors, slow starts ... oh yeah, the bottom of the 9th. Sox down six runs.

 

Shutout looming.

 

And then, it wasn't. And then the winning run was on base, with two outs, the Sox had batted around, and it was 6-5 Angels.

 

Holy crap. Are they gonna really pull this off?

 

I wanted to walk away, because I knew what was coming next. But I couldn't. 

 

Force yourself to keep watching, I told myself.

 

Still, I just knew, every one of those runs was about to be rendered meaningless.

 

When Gavin Sheets tapped a slow roller to the first baseman for the final out, ending any hopes of finishing off a miraculous comeback, Sheets turned to his left, tilted his head, and let out one of the most deflating sighs of disappointment I've ever seen.

 

The Sox were still mired in a Shit Happens world, neck deep. And despite this, here we are, starting May, with LaRussa's boys only 4.5 game out of first place. Not 8 games. Not 10. Not 15.

 

4.5

 

That's without your staff ace, Lance Lynn, out with an injury. 

 

 

 

That's without your 30 to 40 HR capable slugging LF, Eloy Jimenez, injured yet again, and so frequently, he may wish to borrow Frank Thomas's nickname, the Big Hurt.

 

Sorry Frank.

 

It's also 4.5 games back without mega star in the making Louis Robert for 7 of their first 22 games, who may yet be a generational five-tool player, ala Ken Griffey Jr. 

 

Anyone miss Yoan Moncada yet? He's missed the first month of the season, and was on base a career-best 37.5 percent of the time in 2021.

The Sox' hardest throwing lefty reliever hasn't been at their disposal, either, in Garrett Crochet.

 

And the best closer in the AL, Liam Hendriks, has allowed 19 baseruners in 9.1 innings.

 

If I may speak frankly, if there was dog poop on the ground in April, the Chicago White Sox found a new way to step in it every chance possible.

 

Yet here they are, just 4.5 games out, as if they pulled of some sort of magic trick or illusion you just cannot figure out.

 

The thing you all fail to realize is this.

 

All the times you had to see Leury Garcia out there, or Adam Engel, or Reese McGuire, or Jake Burger, or whatever platoon combo suited the Sox that day - well, that's the whole point.

 

You see, General Manager Rick Hahn was prepared for this. With role player after role player who all have one special skill that helps keep a sinking ship, well ... afloat, when necessary.

Which is all you can ask for in a time of crisis, which is what the first month of this season became.

 

As much as we rant about having to use the aforementioned players on a regular basis, it's why we added guys like A.J. Pollock to the roster, to bolster outfield depth. Or Kendall Graveman, who has been outstanding thus far as a setup guy. Or McGuire, who has proven already to be a stellar defensive catcher, which was sorely needed, given the fact Yasmani Grandal is an offense-first kind of dude, and this team was in the bottom third of the league in fielding percentage last year.

 

These role players all kept the Sox Battleship away from a titanic-sized April iceberg.

Only Tim Anderson is batting over .300 for this club. Just one player, Andrew Vaughn, had more than 8 RBIs in April. 

4.5 games.

In spite of all that downright clown car, insane adversity. 

 

And remember, there was only half of Spring Training, which certainly accounts for some of the Sox unfortunate injuries.

The day after the Sox lost that 6-5 miserable ending to the Angels, they shut the Angels out, 3-0.

They did so with the now lethal fastball-slider combo from Dylan Cease, who has the makings of a Cy Young candidate. And whose signature mustache now has me calling him "Officer Cease," but not only is he tough on hitters and first time offenders, he may yet lay down the law in the Cy Young race one day.

 

 

I say that with a straight face, too.

 

The Sox also have a healthy Lucas Giolito again, whom I neglected to mention missed several starts due to injury as well.

Robert is back in the lineup. Moncada returns this week. Sheets is heating up, getting on base. Lynn will pitch again this season, and right now, Cease, Giolito, Kopech looks as good as any three starters there are in the league.

 

How about that bullpen?

Matt Foster? 0.90 ERA in 10 games.

Tanner Banks? Oh, you haven't heard of him. Lefty. 14 innings. 1.29 ERA. Rick Hahn knew who he was.

Graveman, 1.46 ERA. Jose Ruiz, 2.35 ERA in nine outings.

Like I said before, the 2022 White Sox aren't Secretariat. They aren't going to wire to wire anyone.

But they are built to last, and every statistical model Hahn and his staff study tells them the White Sox horse is a power-packed thoroughbred that will wear you out over 162 games.

Every bit of my money's on the White Sox Pony to win, as it keeps a steady pace, closes in on you when it's ready, and blows past you down the stretch.

See you all in the Winner's Circle this Fall. Mark my words.

Baines' HOF Announcement a Stunner, But It Shouldn't Be

"Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far." - President Theodore Roosevelt, in a letter dated January 26, 1900

Few did this better that former White Sox designated hitter and right fielder Harold Baines.

Pay attention, kids. History class is in session.

I will be the first to admit that when I heard the news of Baines being elected to the Hall of Fame by the Veterans' Committee, I was as stunned as anyone. 

Not because I feel he isn't worthy of the Hall, but instead, because I'm likely in the minority when it comes to sports writers who feel he belongs. I never thought I'd see the day, at least not in my lifetime, where this happened.

Before I go any farther, be forewarned. I'm not going to turn this column into a silly referendum on what's right or wrong, or how this player or that player has been snubbed over the years. Or how guys who allegedly cheated the game belong.

 

That's not happening today.

Instead, my case for Baines is made up of Baines' numbers and Baines' numbers alone. They speak for themselves, even during an era where Internet math wizards and Millennials will throw sabermetrics in your face like a 96 MPH Nolan Ryan heater up and in.

And ironically, it was Baines' unique hitting style in which he was almost as far away from home plate in the batter's box as you can possibly be --- and miraculously was only hit by pitches 14 times in 11,092 plate appearances during his 22-year career --- that allowed him to thrive like few others before him.

Baines was an offensive beast. A hit machine as consistent as they came. During 22 seasons with the Sox, Orioles, Indians and A's, he racked up a whopping 2,866 hits. Only 45 players who have ever lived have accumulated more career hits in the Majors. And every single one of those 45, with a handful of exceptions, are in the Hall.

Their names are Adrian Beltre, Ichiro Suzuki, Derek Jeter, Alex Rodriguez and Albert Pujols, who aren't eligible yet. And Omar Vizquel, who is. The other three are Pete Rose, Barry Bonds and Rafael Palmiero, all three of whom have serious ethical question marks hovering over their respective careers. 

The list of Hall of Famers Baines has more hits than is a staggering one, as well. Harold has more hits than:

Ted Williams, Willie McCovey, Joe DiMaggio, Willie Stargell, Mike Schmidt, Enos Slaughter, Mickey Mantle, Kirby Puckett, Ryne Sandberg, Frank Thomas, Jim Thome, Ernie Banks, Reggie Jackson, Joe Morgan, Tim Raines, Lou Gehrig, Billy Williams, Chipper Jones, Andre Dawson, Luke Appling, Brooks Robinson, Roberto Alomar and Ken Griffey Jr. 

According to Baseball-Reference.com, 19,183 players have been in the Majors since 1871. At No. 46 all-time, Baines isn't just a 1-percenter. He's in the top TWO-TENTHS of the top one percent in career hits.

I know what everyone's argument against Baines will be. He was a designated hitter.

I don't care. Hitting a baseball is perhaps the single hardest thing an athlete can try to master. And Baines didn't make up the DH rule. He just played by that rule.

Consistency was Baines' trademark. No, he never had a 200-hit season or scored 100+ runs. Nor did he win a World Series ring, despite posting a career .324 postseason average and .378 on-base percentage in 113 plate appearances. But Baines was feared and respected by pitchers like few others, as evidenced by his 187 career intentional walks.

That's an average of 8.5 intentional passes a season. 

From ages 23-30, Baines had eight consecutive seasons with 72 or more RBIs. He was a career .289 hitter with a .356 OBP who hit better than .280 in 16 different seasons. And the lone reason he wasn't an all-star more than five times was because MLB didn't elect a DH to the all-star team until nine years after he retired.

Like a fine wine, Baines got better with age. From ages 32-40, he posted 63 or more RBIs seven times, including during the 1996 season, when he returned to the White Sox at age 37, and posted a .311 average and .399 OBP --- to go with his 22 homers and 95 RBIs. 

One of my fondest memories of Baines came back on May 8, 1984. I was only seven years old. But I remember it like it was yesterday. 

The White Sox were in the bottom of the 25th inning against the Milwaukee Brewers, and my father, who was in the Navy at the time, stood in our driveway repairing his car. He had the Sox game on the radio while cranking that heavy silver wrench back and forth under the hood with his right hand.

Baines cracked a walk-off game-winning homer in the eighth hour and sixth minute of the contest, which still marks the longest game in MLB history. My dad, a Sox fan, went absolutely berserk.

The other thing I recall about Baines, whom teams began scouting in Maryland at age 12, is that he rarely, if ever, talked. Hence my quote at the beginning of this column. 

One sunny afternoon about a decade ago, long after Baines had retired, I walked down toward the field behind home plate at then-U.S. Cellular Field, and attempted to take a photo of Baines when digital cameras were still all the rage.

Baines, who had sunglasses on and a scowl on his face, took his sunglasses off before I could snap a picture, then spoke to me for the first time ever.

"What the heck do you think you're doing?" Baines asked me. 

I was immediately taken aback, and completely caught off-guard, which almost never happens.

"Can I take your pic---," I said.

But before I could get the final word out, he interrupted me, then let out a smile that almost blinded me. I'm not sure who Baines' dentist is, but he or she should get a huge raise.

"I'm just messing with you, dude," Baines said. "Go ahead."

That joke connected in a huge way with me, much like his bat connected with the baseball countless times over the course of his 22-year career. Baines, you see, never struck out more than 67 times in a season during his final 11 years.

In an era of launch angles, and MLB executives always trying to find new and creative ways to measure a player's heart and talent to get a competitive edge, Baines just flat-out produced, routinely striking the ball crisply to the opposite field more than almost any player I've ever watched.

Even in today's game, I don't know of a better opposite-field hitter than Baines was.

It wasn't flashy. He didn't flip his bat when he crushed one of his 384 career longballs. He didn't tap his chest, flash peace signs or blow kisses to the crowd after homering under questionable circumstances, either.

Harold Baines was the epitome of what you'd want from a ballplayer in your dugout. Never mired in scandal. Never overwhelmed by the moment. He just let his play do the talking.

Frankly, this generation could use a few more Harold Baines' in their locker rooms.