Ben Johnson marched into the week with a clipboard shaped like a restraining order and served Chicago a robust notice: football has rules, expectations, and occasionally touchdowns. The Bears stared at it like a cat reviewing algebra, then pawed the part about scoring.

The document reportedly arrived via certified mail, signature required from whoever is currently in charge of first quarters. It came with a pamphlet explaining that timeouts are not commemorative stamps and that third down is not a rumor.

Sources confirm the notice included diagrams labeled Winning, a concept the Bears have treated like a lighthouse: picturesque from afar, troubling up close. In a gesture of courtesy, Johnson marked the end zone on the map with an X and a kindly You Are Here, which was generous and wrong.

I reread the thing like a medieval scribe deciphering prophecy and found footnotes on field position, special teams, and the forgotten culture of tackling. If history is a coach, Chicago is auditing the class and borrowing the notes from a punter.

Fans coping in the stands attempted to attach feelings to stats and hope to a weather report. Many simply searched for team-logo emotional support poncho and decided windchill makes a fine metaphor for fourth-quarter decision-making.

Johnson, reportedly calm as a metronome, explained that notice is not a threat but a calendar invite with consequences. He even offered to color-code the play fates: green for competence, amber for chaos, and Chicago plaid for ritual punting.

At the press conference, he tugged on a coach's laminated play-call wristband big enough to double as a legal appendix. He pointed to a column titled Do Not Try This On 3rd And 7 Again, where the Bears have been collecting frequent-fail miles.

From the sideline’s vantage, the mechanics were obvious: the trench warfare looked like a bake sale where the cupcakes blitzed and the linemen were exact change. Cap sheets will tell you what they paid; the snaps will tell you what they are.

The Bears, unbothered by chronology, promised to start fast next week, preferably sometime in the third quarter. Their offensive script appears to have been printed in invisible ink, activated only by despair and late-game math.

One assistant reportedly taped the notice to the locker-room fridge with a magnet shaped like a turnover, which feels on-brand. Beneath it, someone posted a sign that said Ball Security Is A Love Language, which is both true and unfortunately aspirational.

Chicago’s rebuttal arrived in triplicate: a vow to simplify, an oath to execute, and a firm commitment to the emerging field of hoping. They also scheduled optional tackling after optional brunch, which historically yields optional wins.

As the lake wind folded the final page of the notice into a paper airplane, Johnson waved and smiled the way a coach smiles when the film already told the plot. The Bears signed for the delivery, then promptly tried to return to sender their entire September.