To my Bears on the eve of battle: Men, you face an invading barbarian hoard of marauders from the north, they possess not your discipline, nor your love of beauty nor of civilization, they seek only to burn that which makes us great. Stand fast, keep your line, trust your shield and your brother beside you, and know that your enemies will roar with passion, they will cry out in their godless tongue as they hurtle themselves toward your line, even as you cut them down. Put your faith in your captains, let your souls be still as you do your work and utter not a sound in exclamation until your victory is assured. Remember the noble words of Seneca, "that which fortune has not given, she cannot take away." and when the last of the heathen rabble has been disbursed, let your cry then go up: BEAR DOWN, CHICAGO VICTORE!