Earlier tonight, while working out on a treadmill, I saw that the Bears were honoring Mike Ditka at halftime of the Dallas-Chicago game. I’ve never been a huge Ditka fan, and I certainly wasn’t one after—upon being asked about Sweetness when it was first released—he said he’d spit on me.
Hence, halfway through my routine, sweat pouring down my head, heart beating fast, I Tweeted this …
Mike Ditka surely doesn’t read this blog, but—regardless—I owe him an apology. No matter what I think of the man, he’s well deserving of being honored. Ditka is a Chicago icon as a player and coach, and he brought much joy to that city. For me to rip him on the night of his big moment, merely for the sake of ripping him, was pathetic.
Truth be told, this has happened far too often, and it always drives me crazy in hindsight. Twitter is the equivalent of doing four or five shots at a bar, then running into your ex-girlfriend and her new guy. It can be ugly and sloppy and stupid. You write things that enter your head, without allowing a few seconds for pondering.