Bears Give Caleb Williams Tour of QB Ring of Honor

Bears GM Ryan Poles strode confidently through Halas Hall, his gait bouncing with the practiced optimism of a man who’s spent years convincing himself this will all eventually work.

Flanking him was second year quarterback Caleb Williams who had requested a tour in hopes it would inspire him.

"You see, Caleb, this is a franchise built on legacy," Poles announced, gesturing to a long corridor lined with photos of snarling, bloodied linebackers. "Dick Butkus, Mike Singletary, Brian Urlacher... we breed monsters here."

He led him past the running backs wing, a shrine to the divine Walter Payton and the powerful Gale Sayers. "The greatest to ever do it have run the ball in Chicago," Poles said with reverence.

But then, the mood shifted.

They reached a tall, faded set of mahogany double doors tucked awkwardly between a janitor’s closet and what appeared to be an emergency exit. A plaque above simply read:

“Qwarterbacks.”

Poles paused, placed a cold clammy hand on Caleb’s shoulder.

“Now… this,” he said gravely, “is the fraternity you’re joining. The men who’ve shaped this team. The field generals. The icons.”

He pushed the doors.

Nothing happened.

Poles jiggled the handle. Still nothing. He chuckled awkwardly and gave it a shoulder. Then another. He began ramming it repeatedly as Caleb stood behind him, blinking.

Finally, with a wheeze of ancient hinges and a cough of dust, the door cracked open like a tomb. The smell hit immediately… a musky mildew blend. It smelled of disappointment. Of death.

The room was dark and claustrophobic, with the ambiance of a coal mine. Poles reached for a string hanging from the ceiling and yanked it. A single bulb flickered to life, swinging slightly, casting erratic shadows on the walls.

The room was… empty. Not minimalist. Not modern. Just void.

One wall featured a solitary black and white photo of a man in a leather helmet standing awkwardly.

“Who… who is that?” Caleb asked, squinting through the dust.

“Sid Luckman!” Poles replied with a forced grin. “Great, great player. Threw a ton of touchdowns… back in the, uh… Roosevelt administration. I want to say the third one.”

The rest of the room was unflinchingly barren. Display cases sat vacant. A single cobweb draped over what appeared to be a busted-up VHS copy of “QB1: The Cade McNown Years.”

Caleb took it all in, a sinking feeling brewing behind his eyes.

“So... after Sid?” he asked cautiously.

“Well,” Poles muttered, suddenly very interested in a nearby crack in the drywall, “there’s been... others.”

He gestured vaguely at the corner of the room, where a small laminated 5x7 photo of Jay Cutler hung crookedly. Cutler stared looking away from the camera mid drag.

Poles nodded. “Man… That Cutler could really sling it.”

Caleb scanned the empty room, brow furrowed. “So… it’s just Luck and Cutler?”

Poles hesitated, then pointed to the far corner. “Well… there’s also McMahon.”

Caleb turned and approached what Poles was gesturing towards at the far side of the room. He moved slowly, afraid of what he would see. Like he was approaching a dead body.

He saw what looked like a crumpled piece of notebook paper taped crookedly to the wall. In smudged ballpoint pen, it read simply: “McMan 85.”

Before he could process the sadness of it all, Poles appeared behind him like a specter, clapping him hard on the back. Caleb jolted at the touch... Startled as he had not heard Poles footsteps as he seemed to glide up behind him.

Poles grinned, seemingly unaware of the quarterback’s creeping sense of doom.

“Welcome home, Caleb,” he said cheerfully, a deep pain in his eyes as he seemed to look through him. His eyes had a glowing redness to them, almost as if a man possessed was being imprisoned there.

His mouth didn’t move and yet Caleb could hear his whisper that seemed to come from the dust in the room, "Pulvis sumus omnes, Caleb, et in pulverem reverterimus."

"What?" Caleb questioned, looking around the room to find the voice's source.

Poles broke the long, blank silence. His voice, a whisper so low and resonant, it chilled Caleb to the bone.

“No pressure, my boy.”