Ryan Poles describes similarities between Caleb Williams, Patrick Mahomes

The debate over whether or not Caleb Williams is a generational talent has been interesting to observe.

Lauded for his off-platform throws, improvised playmaking, game management and athleticism, there’s certainly a reason he’s projected by a landslide to be picked first in the 2024 NFL Draft.

On the other hand, there have been draft busts before, and there will be draft busts again. And the quarterback didn’t have a remarkable 2023 season at USC, with a loss to Notre Dame in which he threw for under 200 yards and three interceptions.

There’s one bit of discourse, though, that’s particularly hard to ignore.

He’s repeatedly been compared to two-time MVP Patrick Mahomes.

Bears general manager Ryan Poles, who was with the Kansas City Chiefs in 2017 when they scouted and drafted Mahomes, shared his own analysis of the lofty comparison.

“There’s pieces that are similar,” Poles told reporters in Indianapolis Tuesday. “Obviously, the one stands out to everyone is just different arm angles. That’s a unique trait, not a lot of guys can do that.”

Poles credited co-director of player personnel Jeff King for painting a picture of how to categorize quarterbacks.

“There’s artists, and then there’s surgeons,” he said.

He explained that Mahomes and Williams are artists due to their creativity and ability to “draw outside the lines.” Surgeons are more like Tom Brady and Payton Manning.

“That’s where they’re similar,” he said.

The Mahomes comparison understandably draws a wide variety of responses. Some see the USC star’s “Mahomes-like” traits as a reason to believe Williams will ascend to top-five quarterback status shortly after arriving in the NFL.

There are, of course, others who view the rhetoric as blasphemy — a heretical phrase that disrespects a three-time Super Bowl champion and oversets expectations for Williams.

And then there’s Justin Fields, who, at the very least, is a serviceable quarterback lacking the proper weapons — weapons that could be bought by trading away the No. 1 overall pick.

At this point, it’s about what the worst-case scenario would be. Justin Fields could turn out to be the quarterback the Bears hoped he would be with another team while Williams stumbles through his first few years in the league. Poles could roll with Fields and receive a big enough haul to make them NFC North contenders while Williams lights the league on fire in another city.

After passing on Mahomes once before, the latter sounds worse.

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THE KNOCKING IN THE CASCADESSeptember 2013 – Cascade Mountains, Pacific Northwest By the time the sun slid behind the jagged spine of the Cascade Mountains, the forest had begun to change its voice. Cicadas quieted. Birds vanished into shadow. Even the wind seemed to pull its breath inward. I shouldn’t be telling this story. For years, I promised myself I wouldn’t. But time has a way of eroding silence, and some truths grow heavier the longer you carry them alone. That evening, my logging crew and I had just finished clearing a small patch of forest—routine work, nothing unusual. Five men. Good men. Tough, experienced, reliable. We were packing up when we heard it. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound was deliberate. Wood striking wood. Like someone knocking on a tree with a heavy stick. At first, we laughed it off. Figured one of the guys was messing around. But then it came again—closer this time. Louder. And with it came a smell. Musky. Wet. Like soaked fur and something older, something wrong. I should have told the crew to pack up and leave. I didn’t. And that mistake followed me for the rest of my life. A Logger’s Life I’d been working these mountains for twenty-three years by then. Started logging at nineteen, fresh out of high school. The forest raised me as much as any parent ever did. You learn its moods. Its warnings. You learn when to listen. That season, my crew was small. Jimmy was the youngest—twenty-two, eager, still learning the trade. Carl was the oldest, a hunter who could read tracks like a book. Torres and Mike rounded us out—steady hands, quiet strength. We set up camp near an abandoned service road, forty miles from the nearest town. No cell service. Just canvas tents, a cooking tarp, and trees stretching endlessly in every direction. The morning of September 18th began like any other. Coffee from a thermos. Cold eggs reheated on a camp stove. Chainsaws humming to life. But beneath the noise, beneath the routine, something felt wrong. The forest felt like it was watching us. The First Warning By lunch, Carl kept glancing toward the treeline. “You good?” I asked. “Thought I heard something,” he said. “Bear,” I replied. “They’re getting ready for winter.” He nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. That night, after dinner, we sat around the fire. Someone turned on a radio, but all we got was static. Then—three knocks. Clear. Evenly spaced. Knock. Knock. Knock. No birds. No insects. Just silence. “That wasn’t a branch,” Carl said quietly. None of us argued. When the smell hit—strong and animal—I felt something inside me tighten. I went to bed telling myself it was nothing. I didn’t sleep. Footprints The next morning, Jimmy found the print. It was massive. Eighteen inches long. Five toes. Deep in the mud. “Bear?” Torres asked. Carl shook his head. “Not even close.” No one said the word out loud. But it hung between us. Bigfoot. We went back to work anyway. That was mistake number one. The Knocking Returns Rain moved in that afternoon. A steady drizzle. Then the knocking came again—this time in patterns. Three knocks. Pause. Two knocks. Pause. Three knocks. It was circling us. Then came the sound. Low. Guttural. Not a roar. Not a growl. Something else. Something that vibrated in your bones. “Pack it up,” I said. By the time we reached camp, fear sat openly among us. We built a larger fire. Stayed close. Listened to the knocking echo through the dark. Jimmy Disappears September 20th. Clear skies. Birds singing. Almost peaceful. We were nearly done when Jimmy vanished. One second he was cutting a Douglas fir. The next, his chainsaw lay running on the ground—alone. We found drag marks. Deep. Leading into the forest. Something had taken him. Search and rescue arrived that night. Dogs. Helicopters. Spotlights. Sheriff Martinez herself. The trail ended after a quarter mile. Jimmy was gone. The Truth Emerges Two days later, my phone rang. “We found him,” Martinez said. “Alive.” Jimmy had been sitting by a creek three miles away. No injuries. No explanation. At the hospital, he finally spoke. “It took me,” he whispered. “What did?” “Bigfoot.” He described it—eight feet tall. Covered in dark hair. Eyes disturbingly human. It carried him through the forest and set him down unharmed. Then it left. The Choice The official report said Jimmy got lost. Shock. Hypothermia. But Martinez pulled me aside. “My grandfather warned me about this,” she said. “Leave it alone.” I had proof. A video. Fifteen seconds. A shape at the treeline. I deleted it. Some things aren’t meant to be proven. Years Later I left logging. Became a safety inspector. Whenever reports came in—knocking, footprints, smells—I warned crews away. Jimmy moved on. Carl passed away. The knocking stayed with us all. Sometimes, late at night, I still hear it. Three soft knocks. A reminder. Some mysteries protect us by staying hidden. And some forests are not meant to be conquered—only respected.

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