As I write this week’s column, I’m feeling contemplative about where we’ve been, how far we’ve come and where we’re going. By “we,” I mean the Chicago Bears and I — obviously.

Yes, I’m that guy you see walking about town in a Bears jacket or shirt (sometimes both) on any given day. No, I won’t apologize for my taste in teams. Like many “meatheads” in the Lower 48, I have an undeniable affection for football. I’m just like any other armchair quarterback, defensive coordinator or general manager. But for me, Chicago Bears football transcends the typical sporting noise; it’s woven into the fabric of my life.

I don’t have an eidetic memory, but I have a pretty good one. I discovered in my 30s that my very first memory of life occurred when I was just 2 years old, and it involves the Bears. For years, I thought it was a recurring dream. I finally described it to my dad one evening when I was in my mid-30s.

I told him about being a toddler in diapers, sitting on his lap while he rubbed his hand along my back as we watched a game. I mentioned the deep shag red carpet, the yellow walls and large floor console television. My dad looked at me, surprised, and told me it wasn’t a dream. It was a real moment from a brief period when we lived with my grandmother in Marion, Illinois. My 2-year-old memory was scarily accurate.

Throughout my life, regardless of what was happening — whether I was in trouble or not (and I often was) — the one thing that brought peace to my father and me was watching Bears football.

As a 9 year old, I watched with outrageous enthusiasm as the 1985 Bears dominated the league, right up until Dan Marino and the Dolphins ruined our perfect season. I watched with mounting frustration in the years that followed, and then I got the opportunity to be a dad myself.

At 22, I was married and my ex-wife’s son Wesley, who had just turned 2, decided for himself that I was his father. Like any good dad, I made sure he grew up hearing about the Monsters of the Midway. Wesley — or “Bub” — and I picked up right where my father and I left off. We watched every game together, dissecting every play and bad call. We bought the merchandise and even traveled to Chicago for the fan convention in 2006.

My father passed away 10 years ago. I won’t say a part of me died with him, but that specific spark of reaching out to him to discuss the football roster was gone. Fortunately, Bub and I still share that bond. We talk almost every day via text. He recently convinced me to download the latest Madden football game on my PlayStation so we can play each other online.

Football will always be just a game, and other teams will always be competitors. But for me, the Bears will always be family. They will be the same for my son and for any children he may have in the future.

I’m happy with our journey thus far. This season has offered plenty of encouragement, but even if the scoreboard doesn’t always go our way, I know what the future holds: more time spent with my son. I can’t think of a better future than that.