The ’85 Bears walked in like a wrecking crew, all piss and vinegar, but by the fourth quarter, they were just another old prizefighter swinging at ghosts. Two games now, two leads pissed away like warm beer on a hot sidewalk.
Brock Purdy, looking more like some golden boy out of a superhero flick, tore ‘em apart—421 yards through the air, spreading the ball like a blackjack dealer on a heater. Samuel, Aiyuk, Kittle—he hit them all. Five different guys catching balls for big plays, moving chains, cutting through that so-called monster defense like a switchblade through cheap fabric.
McMahon and Payton did their damnedest. Walter ran hard—156 yards, trying to carry the whole damn city of Chicago on his back. McMahon slung it around, got 337 yards, found the end zone a couple times, but in the end, it was just another sermon to the football gods that didn’t get answered.
The 49ers got their breaks—McCloud taking a punt return 59 yards like he was shot out of a cannon, Moody drilling every kick he looked at. Defense swarmed, Warner and Hufanga sniffing out plays, making sure that last-minute Chicago hope got put down like a sick dog.
And when the dust settled? 44-38, 49ers.
Bears fans are saying ‘GTFOH’. That the ‘85 monsters wouldn’t lose to these new-age, high-flying boys. But the scoreboard don’t lie. An
d on this night, Purdy and the Niners walked out of the bar, flipped the lights off, and left the ‘85 Bears wondering what the hell just happened.